Guns arrive to the VBCW

 The arrival of the guns

The van turned into the side road alongside the shops and was waved into the high walled yard behind them by a man in shirt, trousers, waistcoat and flat cap who held the gate.

As the old vehicle ticked, crunched and squeaked to a stop the gate was closed and bolted. There was decorative barring at around head height but for the most part they were now not visible to the world at large.

“Here y'go then Bri, your van back safe and sound and with your delivery included”.

“Ah cheers Joe. Good trip?” Brian asked as he went over and opened the back door.

“Oh you know how it goes…”

“How it goes, yes. How you go though I don't think anyone ever fully… underst… Joe?” he said opening his van and looking into the interior.

“Yes mate?”

“Now, I don't want to seem like I'm ungrateful to you for going all the way to wherever it was and still getting back before opening time today but where's the kit?”

Joe was straightening his hat and reestablishing his perennial but often unlit fag as he made his cocksure stroll to the back doors.

“In there,” he said confidently.

Brian pointed into the echoingly empty body. “In there?”

“Yep” Joe replied lifting a plank of the flooring to reveal the hidden cache.

“Blimey! How much did you get?”

“Oh, about four inches.”

Brian stopped. He wasn't the most educated man in town but he knew enough to know that inches was not an expected value to be given when asking about a shipment of guns and ammunition.

Joe continued moving planks back to reveal the delivery as Brian worked that one through.

“Four inches?” was the best he managed in response.

“Yeah, once I loaded it up the van was about four inches lower”.

“Oh I see. That makes a bit more sens - my suspension!” he shouted, cutting himself off and stepping back to look.

“Don't worry about it! Besides what's your suspension next to the cause?”

“Quite a bit if I can't do the jobs that need doing because my cab is sitting on the tyres!”

“Ok, that could be a point.” Joe conceded. “Especially after those pot holes.”

“What pot ‘oles!”

"Nah, I'm only pulling yer leg! It was a smooth drive all the way."

Brian frowned slightly and took off his cap as he came back to inspect the delivery.

About a third of the flooring was now up and as best could be seen the entire base was filled from wheel arch to wheel arch with weapons. Joe was looking particularly pleased with himself.

"What have we got here then?"

"Guns!" exclaimed Joe, positively beaming and starting to manually sort through them. "More specifically rifles, machine guns, a box of apples, ammunition and -"

"A box of apples?"

"Could be grenades, it was dark. And some handguns."

"I see… Dare I ask where they're from?"

"France!" Joe declared proudly.

"How did you manage to get this lot then?"

"From a bloke in Birmingham."

"And where did he get them?"

"From a chap in Bristol."

"And where did he get them?"

"Yes!"

Brian was stopped again. "Alright then. Are they at least the same caliber as our guns?"

"Definitely. Seeing as how these are now our guns."

"No, I mean can these use British rounds?"

"Uh… yeah." Joe said lifting out a rifle and looking at the barrel. "Looks about the same size hole to me."

Brian patted his friend slowly on the shoulder. "So what do we do when we run out of ammo?"

"Easy, reload."

"Re… reload ‘e says…"

Just as Brian was contemplating the value of one good volley and then having his new armoury gain the same military application as a cricket bat there came a call from his upstairs window.

“Oi, Bri! ‘Eads down, Moira's coming!”

“Cheers Dave.”

“Who's Moira?” asked Joe moving to close up the van if necessary.

“No one to worry about. She's about half the total brains of our operation. He dad was a Scotsman in the guards, her mother was an Irish woman and she grew up in Wales - pit head pin up of the year once y'know? And you will know if you talk to her for 10 minutes because she'll tell you! She's equal parts Douglas Haig, Florence Nightingale and Ghengis Khan.” Brian explained moving over to the gate.

“I see. How'd she end up here then?”

“Married Steve from down the social. Rumour has it he even had a choice in the matter but I don't listen to gossip.”

Just then the gate rattled as someone knocked on it with a “delicate” touch.

“Brian! A’ ye gottem?”

At the decorative bars of the gate the top third of a head covered in rollers and a scarf popped up into view with eyebrows raised up to their full extent as wide eyes glared into the yard.

Brian put his cap on and unbolted the gate for her.

“Course I have. You think I'd fail in our time of need? When all liberty loving people gather to-”

“Aye.” she said cutting off his dramatic presentation and stepping through the half open gate. Brian smiled. There she stood, wearing her thick coat, head scarf and wielding a large handbag that was less of a feminine accoutrement and more of a flail. To Joe's eye she didn't have the look of a classic pin up but instead that of a traditional housebrick.

“They are French models but there's a lot of ‘em” said Brian gesturing towards Joe and the rifles.

“French?” she asked with narrowed eyes.

“Yeah, but don't worry, they still shoot - they do shoot don't they, Joe?” he asked suddenly concerned.

“Oh absolutely” Joe said out loud before muttering “probably…” looking down at the barrel again.

“Aye… well, I'll tell Steve. G'mornin”. With that she spun on her heel and clomped off on her determined way.

As Brian rebolted the gate Joe put the butt of the gun he was holding on the ground so he could lean on the other end.

“Pit head pin up you say? That one? I notice you didn't say what year.”

“The year doesn't matter mate,” the gate now shut up again. “Ultimately it's dark in them mines.”

“You don't want to upset her either. One night down the King and Country Charlie said something she didn't like so she ‘ad him over the ‘ead with that handbag of hers and I tell you no word of a lie he's three inches shorter now than he ever was before. Never spilled his pint though.” Brian added in quiet admiration.

“Anyway, the fascists are getting on altogether too well in Bromsgrove and our local force is only around 100 strong so how close are we to getting everyone armed with this lot?”

Joe raised a finger in mild excitement and turned back to his trove.

“Well Moira's got her handbag and you've got your cutting wit so that's only 98 left to go! And… back… here…” he said straining, stretching and jostling something metallic from between what appeared to Brian to be important parts of his van, “we have… this!” Joe pulled out a metal square.

“Uh… ok.”

“Don't you know what this is?”

“No, but if it's an important part of my van I won't be pleased.”

“No, no, no! It's a baseplate for a mortar!”

“Is the rest of it in there as well?”

“If it isn't I've got a very solid but ridiculously short case for my snooker cue.”

“Good enough. What about the actual mortars though, how many of them did you ‘av away?”

“‘Av away? I'll have you know my contact in Kent is as honest as the day is long.”

“I thought it was Bristol.” 

“Ten bangers, three smoke.” Joe replied ignoring the implication.

“Lovely. Does it come with instructions?”

“Wouldn't matter if it did, they'd be in French.”

Brian was pulling up a larger gun from under the floor as he spoke.

“Fair point. I'll ask Fred down the road if he knows anything. He was in the trenches during the great one and as well if his wife is still making those puddings of hers we'll never run out of ammo. ‘Ere, what's this big one then?”

“That's a maschinengewehr."

“I thought you said this lot was French?”

“It is.”

“But that's German!”

“Is it?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.” Joe thought for a second.

“Then it must be le Maschinegewehr.”

Brian blinked twice. Opened his mouth to speak, closed it again, blinked once more and finally said “come on, let's get this all inside.”