Snappers left his office with something of a furtive air about him. He was about to indulge himself in his daily selfish pleasure session. During the afternoon heat, a lot of the base-wallahs were kipping on their charpoys and Snapcase felt this the best time of the day for his guilty secret. He was going to have a dekko at Genevieve! He was wont to give Genevieve a good buffing with plenty of elbow grease whenever he could find the time. As he bimbled in the heat of the Indian summer, he imagined himself polishing her silver-plated radiator, bringing a lovely sheen to her glossy black mud guards and running boards and finally, polishing that beautiful plum coloured bodywork to a fine finish. At Genevieve’s wheel, Snappers had won the annual London to Brighton Run in 1910. Genevieve had been delivered to Snapcase Hall, Much-Piddling by none other than Charles Rolls himself, an old family friend. Charles popped in with the new automobile on his way to a flying display in Bournemouth.
Rounding the back of the cook house and heading towards his bungalow, he beheld a rather odd sight, at first thought, a mirage? Maybe one or two many pinks gins in the Mess?
There appeared to be a junkyard on wheels parked outside his bungalow! Not only that, but there appeared to be a performing troupe of grease-monkeys swarming all over said junkyard.
“What the devil…” he spluttered, lost for words. “It can’t be…”, but it was!
The transport-johnny at Peshawar, Aggers had as we have seen, been collecting any available vehicles for the beano to Jhamjarhistan. Snapcase had thought Genevieve a secret but Aggers had seen him sneaking off at odd times of the day and had discovered his secret. Under orders to collect every available vehicle from Kenwood-Chef, Aggers had put three of his Royal Army Service Corps (known to the rest of the Army as Run Away, Someone’s Coming) bods onto preparing the Snapcase Roller for it’s trip to Djelibad.
Accordingly, Driver Jerry Clarkson, who resembled nothing more than a large orangutan was hanging off the running board sighting his SMLE. The diminutive form of Driver Dickie Hammond was squeezed into the back seat, sandwiched between two oil drums clutching a Lewis gun almost as big as himself. Lance Corporal Jimmy May had bagged the front seat and the only attractive thing left about this dismaying spectacle was the driver, Flight Sergeant Fi Bruce of the WRAF.
Never had Snapcase felt that his flabber had been so gasted! Gone was lovingly polished glossy plum bodywork. Even his black running boards had been lavishly covered in sand coloured paint. Genevieve was a mess and there was nothing he could do about it. Back to the Mess for a few stiff ones, he thought with a heavy heart.
To be continued...
