Saving Private Abdul

So, it is that time of the week again. I currently float in a strange sort of limbo; partially handed-over to my replacement, and sort of lacking in things to actually fill my time with.



But, as promised, I owe an update. So, where I left of last week, we had just been wiped out by an angry mob of rioting Arabs in the French Algiers (Totally unprovoked, I swear!). The scene fades to black as the ship is overrun and the last brave Englishman falls.



The story resumes upon a balcony, overlooking a certain town in the French Algiers with a group of gentlemen and a lady sipping afternoon tea and staying under the awning out of the worst of the heat. Seems quite unassuming, until a man claiming to be a representative of the Society of Gentlemen Explorers sidles up and tries to pursuade us to do a little work for them. The job seems simple enough; a brisk walk through town to the docks, retrieve an 'eagle-like' statue from where is had been carelessly left behind, and then come back. Hell, we even get expenses, so how can we possibly say no?



We head up onto the roof to get a better view of things - and it quickly becomes quite obvious that the Town is in a state of uproar. In the street below, an oddly-familiar frenchman runs by, pursued by a large crowd of pitchfork-n-torch wielding locals. As he nears the end of the street, we see him pause, brandish a pair of nail clipper, turn, and chase off the crowd single-handedly. The procession vanishes from sight for a moment, and then reappears again, moving back in the other direction once again. The crowd first, pursued by the Frenchman; who is, in turn, pursued by an damp-looking camel.



Thank God we're British, or this might seem a little off!



So, we're on the roof, and I realise I have yet to introduce my present company:

- Sergeant Major Fairbrass (Me), late 20s, strapping young soldier sort. A proper patriot and gentleman.

- Nathaniel (Chris), British writer with a BA in English. Speaks the lingo, don'cha know?

- Steven (Pete), tall, gangly sort who appears to be horribly wasted and ill. Resides in a bath-chair and has to be wheeled around everywhere. (Yes... we have a cripple)

- Petra (Mark), the first 'Lady' - and I use the term with extreme care - to grace our presence. Upper class dilettante sort, whose main possession is a trunk containing 'dress for every season'.



A disgruntled Camel hurtles overhead, which Petra tries to take a photograph of. It is some time before we finally agree that it is time to be off, and then even longer before we manage to convince the representative to lend us a man to push Steven's bath-chair. Petra insists on bringing her trunk with her. So, without anyone to carry her case, Paul (our new best friend) loads the case onto Steven's lap and starts to wheel him down the stairs.



Bump. Bump. Bump.



Petra: "Oh, don't forget my things!"



Paul, caught off guard turns to hurry back up the stairs. The bath-chair - now unsupported - thunders down the remaining steps and Steven lands in a heap at the bottom.



Paul: "Where's your case, miss?"
Petra: "Oh, its on his lap."

We finally make it downstairs and we're mulling about in the lobby whilst the Society's representative tries to urge us on our way.

Steven: "Well, this is no environment for an impressionable young lady." He exclaims, trying to convince the man that this is no place for a lady.
Representative: "I don't know. Are you impressionable, young lady?" He asks in response, turning to Petra.

Petra: "Oh no... I don't do impressions."

When we had finally convinced her to leave the case behind (and only after she changed into a Blue German Cavalry Uniform, complete with split skirt, pickelhaube and pigtails) - we were finally ready to leave!

We got half way across the street, then things started to go downhill. Stumbling across a man in the street; face down and camel-trampled, Petra takes pity on the man. After some heated debate and translation of conversation from 'Loud English' to 'Damn Rag-head', we helped the man up... sort of. Petra then convinced Steven to give up his bath chair to the crippled Arab (Who introduced himself as Abdul Ben-Hamir) and we somehow ended up getting side-tracked into taking the guy to the nearest Mosque, via his house.

Why the hell do we let Mark lead...?

Well, you can imagine the scene. This town is in religious uproar; just about ready to tear apart any infidel that shows his face... and we are going... to... the... Mosque...

Come to think of it, this angry mob looks familiar...

So we're standing in the midst of a mob of zealous Arabs, pushing a guy in a bath-chair who exclaims to the Imam that he has brought them a gift. Now... I don't speak rag-head, but I know a bad situation when I see one, and I'm already gearing myself up to leg it. Its hardly surprising when it is declared that we are to be torn limb from limb. Petra and Nathaniel distract them long enough for us to start sidling out of the crowd - arguing that we saved one of their number from death and delivered him to his holy place. The Arabs concede, and then tell us that they will only kill two of us.

Well, thats still not a great deal. Petra and I leg it, in heroic fashion, whilst Nathaniel, Paul and Steven try to make an escape with the bath-chair. Well... its crowded, so they don't get all too far, and the Arabs start to jostle them and reach for weapons.

I get one of these 'here we go again' moments, stop running, turn and unsling my rifle - a .45 Martini-Henry rifle. In the crowd, I can't make out the bath-chair or its stubborn (stupid?) occupants, but I declare that I wait to hear any cries of pain before opening fire.

With Steven back in the chair, Paul and Nathaniel manage to push their way to the edge of the angry crowd. In their hurry, they run over someone's foot and there is a cry of pain.

Boom.

My one and only shot (I forgot to bring spare ammunition...) turns an Arab into paste (critical hit, woohoo), freeing the bath-chair from the crowd. Seeing this, and hearing the angry shouts of rage from the Arabs, Fairbrass decides it might be time to go and see where Petra has got to. It isn't so much a tactical withdrawal as a carry-on movie chase scene through the streets of an Algerian Town.

Ahead of the bath-chair and the mob by a fair way, the Sergeant Major attempts to catch up with Petra, but she is a fast girl and he can't keep up. Fortunately, he lucks out when she gets lost, runs into a market and is stopped dead by the urge to shop. Fairbrass catches up and hurries her on, but not before the market place explodes in bedlam as someone behind us shouts "Look out! Tuareg Fighting Camel coming this way!" (Thanks Chris...)

I hurry Petra on down the street, and pause to wait for the others to catch up. We find outselves stopped by - of all things - an exotic weapons stand. Having no more ammunition for my rifle, Petra buys an old musket and gives it to me to load; which I do. Then, with the others in tow and an angry mob on our heels, we flee (tactical withdrawal, sorry) yet again.

Eventually we duck into a grain warehouse. Inside we find a fat man fanning himself on a deck chair, and three labourers who all look at us in surprise as we burst in, breathless and wild-eyed. For some reason, Fairbrass listens when Petra tells him to shoot the fat man, and the slippery slope gets worse. The big guy is clipped by musket shot and manages to return fire - wounding Petra (Hey, I tried to jump in the way... but that was a spectacularly bad roll) before she finishes him off with her pistol.

The labourers turn on us with knives, and Sergeant Major Fairbrass steps up in front of Petra with a drawn sabre to defend the Lady. Unfortunately, due to an unfortunate rules malfunction, the expert sword-fighter forgets how to defend himself and is promptly stabbed twice by a middle-aged man with a dagger... and collapses (Ah, hello ground, my good old friend). The others make short work of the labourers with firearms. Petra makes a point of moving to the man that stabbed me, and, as he lies dying, steps on his throat with the sharp heel of her german jack-boots.

We realise we can't stay in the warehouse, and the others load my unconscious body into the bath-chair and flee. They promptly get lost and end up back at the ship; boarding quickly in an attempt to lose the crowd!