harrytheheid
A Fixture
The Battle of ‘Gloster Hill’ during the Spring of 1951 was one of the most significant and heroic engagements fought during the Korean War. The following brief account has been adapted from various on-line articles.
Alarmed when United Nations Forces carried out a successful amphibious landing at Inchon and subsequently approached the Chinese border, Beijing had ordered units of the PLA to enter the conflict in support of Kim Il-Sung in the North Korean capital, P'yongyang.
In April 1951, the Chinese Spring Offensive attacked the strategic route to Seoul along the Imjin River, aiming to capture the South Korean capital and thus knock the South out of the war. The key objective of the communist offensive was a series of isolated hilltops on the banks of the Imjin, defended by the British 29th Brigade with support from a Belgian battalion.
British patrols reported “huge communist forces” pouring across the river around midnight on April 22, 1951 – an entire division of Chinese troops were about to assault vastly outnumbered UN forces, including 650 men from the 1st Battalion of The Gloucestershire Regiment who were defending Hill 235.
Days of fighting off human-wave attacks now followed, but with no sign of relieving UN troops the surviving Glosters were ordered to fall back on their own initiative in attempting to reach American positions a few miles away. Only about forty of them escaped to safety, with the remainder eventually forced to surrender.
Because of the efforts of the Glosters and other UN units, the Chinese offensive ground to a halt and the US 8th Army counter-attacked, again pushing the communist forces back beyond the 38th parallel, which has been the de facto border between North and South Korea ever since.
For outstanding courage in the face of crushing odds, the Glosters were awarded two of the seven Victoria Crosses that have been awarded to members of the regiment throughout their long history. The regiment was also recognized by the United States, who awarded them the Distinguished Unit Citation for their heroic last stand against overwhelming enemy forces.
Okay folks, so that’s the boring bit out the way, because by startling coincidence a brand-new satirical cinematic epic relating efforts to relieve the stranded British troops on the Imjin is set to hit the bargain DVD bins at Wallmart any day now.
So, movie fans, get down to your local Fortnum & Mason’s superstore and buy in some supplies, (in a superb price-cutting move, 8-packs of ‘Ace SuperLager’ are on special offer this week at only £1.49 a pop). Having loaded up the SUV with essentials, hurry home and get that beer into the fridge, throw the frozen pizza in the microwave, rip open that bag of Dorito’s and pop the lid off the jar of spicy jalapeno cheese dip, then strap yourselves into the sofa for a slice of …
Full Jacket Platoon Korean Zombie Aussie Apocalypse
British troops have been urgently sent from the Pusan Pocket to relieve overwhelming pressure on UN forces at the Imjin river, but it’s hard-going on the narrow single-track road, against stiffening communist resistance. In consequence a long column of British tanks has ground to a halt while trying to negotiate causeways that crisscross the waterlogged countryside just north of Seoul.
Sensing what’s bound to be some splendid free entertainment, Billy Connolly lookalike, Old Uncle Ho Lee-Kow tells Momma Ho to get rigged out in her Sunday best, then saddles up the family transport and takes her and the Kids down to his rice paddy to watch the sheer pantomime these Foreign Devils get up to with their Mechanical Monsters.
Covering the conflict in Korea for her international-news editor at The Orange County Times, is trainee photographer, Daphne Barton, who for some curious reason was named after English socialite and wife of slippery Lieutenant-General, Sir Frederick 'Boy' Browning, Daphne du Maurier – the author of best-selling creepy novel ‘Rebecca’.
Seething with righteous anger and unceremoniously pushing past the tank crews, Miss Barton now confronts the troop commander.
Indicating the solid-gold Rolex Oyster that Daddy gave her on the occasion of her twenty-first, she vents, “Oh my gosh. What’s the matter with you guys, why ain’t you moving? Those are British boys fighting off tens of thousands of commies up there on the Imjin, an’ they’re hurting bad. You're only five miles away and after getting this far, you’re not gonna just stop and sit around ... and … and … drink tea?”
The rather glib officer shrugs, “Well ma’am, we have actually managed to evacuate some of the wounded Gloucestershire’s and MacArthur’s staff are already calling 235 by its new name, ‘Gloster Hill’, but I’m afraid that’s about the size of it while we wait for our missing Australian infantry support to appear. Without the infantry, our tanks will be sitting ducks for commie artillery and shoulder-fired rocket grenades if we swan up this road before those ANZAC chappie’s show up.”
“No doubt they’ll be the usual insolent and undisciplined riff-raff, but it seems one must pander to the colonials these days. Still, it’s small mercy’s and all that rot, but at least they’re not insolent and undisciplined Scottish riff-raff. Look over there, we’ve even hung a welcome sign for them.”
The suave allure of this smooth-talking sleaze-bag turns the plight of those hurting British boys into an instantly forgotten non-issue and with that endearing sculpture of international television star, Skippy the Bush Kangaroo, eliciting a squeak of delight, the now mollified camera-jockey murmurs, “Wow, that sign’s simply astonishing,” and with a flutter of those equally simple and astonishing azure eyes, softly adds, “Umm…Peter, isn’t it?”
“Indeed, it’s Peter ma’am. Major, Lord Peter Carrington, 6th Baron Carrington of Upton actually; and might I say how much I appreciate your frank admiration – err, for our welcome sign of course,” replies the brazen con-merchant, who has an entirely deserved reputation in the mess as being something of a female-magnet.
“By all accounts some talented chap from Anatolia fashioned that marsupial statuette from the melted remains of a knocked-out North Korean T-34 tank,” he continues. Smugly adding, “Painting the greeting in Antipodean vernacular was my idea, of course.”
“Err… you don’t think the Australians will mind too much do you? Him being a Turk and all, I mean.”
“Oh, I don’t believe they’ll mind at all Peter,” assures the flushed young lady, now distracted by a series of delicious notions and musing to herself, “Mmm, and, oh my gosh, I sure wouldn’t mind either.”
“After all, the only English troops I’ve met over here so far were a platoon of hygienically-challenged enlisted men from somewhere called Glasgow. An’ that Cpl Julie dame told me it’s an appalling slum an’ nowhere near London. So, where exactly is the dump anyway? Must be on that huge island that England owns, I guess. Or is that Dublin? Well I sure don’t know, an’ it’s not like I care anyway. But, oh my gosh, no-one warned me how incredibly charming these English officers are. An’ just to help bait the hook, they’re probably all rich as Crassus as well!”
Authors Note: Perhaps Miss Barton’s far more experienced Mom, the veteran war-correspondent Victoria Camberwell, ought to have given her utterly-spoilt daughter a word to the wise about that one.
The abrasive young photographer may well be the result of an alleged brief fling that Vicky embarked upon while she was reporting on the Italian invasion of Ethiopia in 1936 for The New York Post. The story goes that she fell for an impoverished ex-British Army Major and, (huge clue here folks), favorite nephew of Ms du Maurier, one Gareth Swales.
For a thrilling page-turning account of Vicky’s exciting adventures in the Horn of Africa alongside the penniless ex-Major Swales and some engineer called Jake, (whom she eventually married when he came into a huge pocketful of loot with his innovative ‘Barton Engine’), see her authorized biography, “Cry Wolf”, written by celebrated popular historian, Wilbur Smith.
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Cry-Wolf-Wilbur-Smith/dp/0330537261
Getting back to the subject of infantry support; while Daphne and Carrington were having their cozy little chat, who should be turning up but a mixed bag of hard-bitten Diggers – and they’ve got a dirty great Vickers heavy machine gun that the parsimonious Australian War Office must’ve appropriated when the recent WW1 exhibition at the Sydney Opera House was closed down.
To mild jeers and good-natured catcalls from the cheerful British lads welcoming these new arrivals in warm-hearted fashion, they slope into camp to inoffensive banter about their thieving convict forefathers and with harmless enquiries ringing in their ears as to whether they’re finally turning up because all the bars in Pusan had run out of grog.
Taking a cynical glance at the hastily painted welcome sign so thoughtfully nailed-up by Major Carrington, (next to the faded one that everyone ignores ordering the troops to always wear their steel helmets), Pte ‘Pretty Boy’ sneers, “Hey cobbers, why are we lugging this antique around while everyone else gets to play with the latest Yank M2’s? And how come it’s always us has to get the ruddy Poms out of a jam anyway? Sooner we’re a republic the better.”
“Blimey, listen up mates, this is awesome whinging.” laughs Bluey.
Habitual pot-stirrer, Bazz-o, calls to the rest of the section, “He’s on his usual rant again cobbers; how much he hates the Poms. An’ it’s all cos Grandad an’ his mate Archie copped it at Gallipoli while running around ANZAC Cove like a couple of headless chooks.”
“An’ then to make matters worse, some Pom from Birmingham got his Aunt Mabel in the family way back in 1944 – before he ran off to join the Chindits in Burma, cos he reckoned fighting the Nips in the bush was a ruddy sight less dangerous than showing up at a shotgun wedding in Melbourne.
Joining in the ribbing, Snowy adds, “Not just that mates, but some Pommy gunner gave Pretty Boy’s Uncle Freddie a ruddy good hiding at some bar in Brisbane for trying to claim Gordon Bennett didn’t run out on the Pom’s mates at Singapore.”
Loud laughter from the rest of the section, although any mention of Gallipoli, or Singapore, etcetera, etcetera, will always be sore points in Oz; and woe betide anyone from Great Britain who dares deride folk-hero Ned Kelly; (a dumb mistake your narrator made while attending Australia Day celebrations during a visit to Perth, Western Australia, back in 2001).
“By the way PB,” says the section’s Senior NCO, the grizzled Sgt Ed Evarage, “Those Poms put up that bonzer welcome sign. Plus, they’ve thrown some tucker on the barbie and got the char brewed-up at this ruddy awful billabong.”
“Maybe so, but fried spam fritters and boiled bully-beef curry is hardly true-blue tucker, is it sarge?”
Well, that’s as may be, but they happen to be our UN Allies – and not what you just called them”.
PB innocently replies, “But sarge, I only called them a useless bunch of Pommy tankers.”
“Hmm, I might be an old Desert Rat these days, but there’s nothing wrong with my hearing Pretty Boy.”
Meanwhile, utilizing animated sign-language he learned from listening to the education channel on Forces Radio, Lieutenant Robert Shaw explains to Old Uncle Ho the tactical necessities behind tearing up his paddy field with a column of tanks, while Momma Ho enjoys the dubious attentions of the strange, indeed sinister, pipe-smoking Captain Anthony Hopkins, who keeps peering at her over Shaw’s shoulder.
“Crickey,” exclaims Snowy, “take a look at that poor cobber an’ his mate what’s waiting for those Sheila’s to finish their smoke-o an’ take ‘em to be fixed-up at the nearest MASH Unit.”
“I reckon if you run off that big mouth of yours around these blokes PB, then you’ll end up looking even more crook than they do – or your Uncle Freddie in Brisbane.”
“Wait,” gasps Cpl Jack-o, the section’s LMG gunner who’s pushing his mates out the way to get in front of Sgt Evarage, “What’s the story on that fair-dinkum one who’s doing all the waving? Any of you cobbers know her?”
Bluey squints a bit, then declares, “Blimey, I could swear I’ve seen that blonde bint before.”
“Not in the dives you’ve been frequenting in Pusan matey,” retorts Snowy with a knowing grin.
But screwing up his eyes in concentration, Bluey adds, “Hold on cobbers, wasn’t she in that recent ‘Road to Messina’ film about the Yanks in Sicily – and isn’t her Dad that Pom what does all those comedy films?”
Pte Brucie, who’s a champion surfer from Bondi Beach and inevitably a bit slow on the uptake, asks, “Who’s that then Bluey? Norman Wisdom?”
“Naa ya drongo, I bet her Dad’s that actor, Alistair What’s-His-Name, and she’s the Sheila what was in that war-film with John-o Mills? The one about when the Poms just sit back and let Jerry take Tobruk, and then some cobbers hijack an Ambo so’s they can head off to Alexandria for a few cold tinnie’s of Fosters?”
“Strewth Bluey, Sylvia Sims isn’t Alistair Sim’s daughter, and that’s not her anyway,” corrects Snowy. “It’s blonde bombshell Diana Dors, the up and coming young starlet of Ealing Studios. I read that she’s taking over from Barbara Windsor in the Carry-On franchise, seeing as Babs has packed in the film business to run a pub down the East End for the BBC. It was in the Daily Mail, so it must be true.”
“I suppose she’s here on a morale-raising visit, or something. Looks like she’s not getting enough sleep though, or maybe she just found a bar in Pusan that still has some grog hidden under the counter.”
“Well, whoever she is, she won’t be interested in ‘Pretty Boy’ Gibson then, will she?”, quips Jack-o, and to raucous laughter from the other section members adds, “He was born in America, so he’s really a Yank anyway – and his Mum must’ve really, really, wanted a daughter – that’ll be why she went an’ called him Melanie”.
Author’s Note: Man, you just gotta love the Aussies.
It would appear to be a toss of the coin between the evil Jocks and the wicked Cobbers as to which country in the whole wide world has the most cutting, and funny, sense of humor.
As usual with my dioramas, the 1:35 scale plastic, resin and white metal figures are from several different manufacturers and most have been converted in various ways to suit the story.
The Churchill Mk7 is from Tamiya. The Centurion Mk3 from AFV Club and the Jeep is an Italeri item.
Skippy the Bush Kangaroo is adapted from a brass lapel badge, that was kindly provided by Mrs Heid although I’ve no idea where she found it. The weathering I applied will be easily removed if she ever decides she wants it back.
Old Uncle Ho Lee-Kow’s paddy field was planted by myself before pouring in some clear resin.
Cheers
H
Alarmed when United Nations Forces carried out a successful amphibious landing at Inchon and subsequently approached the Chinese border, Beijing had ordered units of the PLA to enter the conflict in support of Kim Il-Sung in the North Korean capital, P'yongyang.
In April 1951, the Chinese Spring Offensive attacked the strategic route to Seoul along the Imjin River, aiming to capture the South Korean capital and thus knock the South out of the war. The key objective of the communist offensive was a series of isolated hilltops on the banks of the Imjin, defended by the British 29th Brigade with support from a Belgian battalion.
British patrols reported “huge communist forces” pouring across the river around midnight on April 22, 1951 – an entire division of Chinese troops were about to assault vastly outnumbered UN forces, including 650 men from the 1st Battalion of The Gloucestershire Regiment who were defending Hill 235.
Days of fighting off human-wave attacks now followed, but with no sign of relieving UN troops the surviving Glosters were ordered to fall back on their own initiative in attempting to reach American positions a few miles away. Only about forty of them escaped to safety, with the remainder eventually forced to surrender.
Because of the efforts of the Glosters and other UN units, the Chinese offensive ground to a halt and the US 8th Army counter-attacked, again pushing the communist forces back beyond the 38th parallel, which has been the de facto border between North and South Korea ever since.
For outstanding courage in the face of crushing odds, the Glosters were awarded two of the seven Victoria Crosses that have been awarded to members of the regiment throughout their long history. The regiment was also recognized by the United States, who awarded them the Distinguished Unit Citation for their heroic last stand against overwhelming enemy forces.
Okay folks, so that’s the boring bit out the way, because by startling coincidence a brand-new satirical cinematic epic relating efforts to relieve the stranded British troops on the Imjin is set to hit the bargain DVD bins at Wallmart any day now.
So, movie fans, get down to your local Fortnum & Mason’s superstore and buy in some supplies, (in a superb price-cutting move, 8-packs of ‘Ace SuperLager’ are on special offer this week at only £1.49 a pop). Having loaded up the SUV with essentials, hurry home and get that beer into the fridge, throw the frozen pizza in the microwave, rip open that bag of Dorito’s and pop the lid off the jar of spicy jalapeno cheese dip, then strap yourselves into the sofa for a slice of …
Full Jacket Platoon Korean Zombie Aussie Apocalypse
British troops have been urgently sent from the Pusan Pocket to relieve overwhelming pressure on UN forces at the Imjin river, but it’s hard-going on the narrow single-track road, against stiffening communist resistance. In consequence a long column of British tanks has ground to a halt while trying to negotiate causeways that crisscross the waterlogged countryside just north of Seoul.
Sensing what’s bound to be some splendid free entertainment, Billy Connolly lookalike, Old Uncle Ho Lee-Kow tells Momma Ho to get rigged out in her Sunday best, then saddles up the family transport and takes her and the Kids down to his rice paddy to watch the sheer pantomime these Foreign Devils get up to with their Mechanical Monsters.
Covering the conflict in Korea for her international-news editor at The Orange County Times, is trainee photographer, Daphne Barton, who for some curious reason was named after English socialite and wife of slippery Lieutenant-General, Sir Frederick 'Boy' Browning, Daphne du Maurier – the author of best-selling creepy novel ‘Rebecca’.
Seething with righteous anger and unceremoniously pushing past the tank crews, Miss Barton now confronts the troop commander.
Indicating the solid-gold Rolex Oyster that Daddy gave her on the occasion of her twenty-first, she vents, “Oh my gosh. What’s the matter with you guys, why ain’t you moving? Those are British boys fighting off tens of thousands of commies up there on the Imjin, an’ they’re hurting bad. You're only five miles away and after getting this far, you’re not gonna just stop and sit around ... and … and … drink tea?”
The rather glib officer shrugs, “Well ma’am, we have actually managed to evacuate some of the wounded Gloucestershire’s and MacArthur’s staff are already calling 235 by its new name, ‘Gloster Hill’, but I’m afraid that’s about the size of it while we wait for our missing Australian infantry support to appear. Without the infantry, our tanks will be sitting ducks for commie artillery and shoulder-fired rocket grenades if we swan up this road before those ANZAC chappie’s show up.”
“No doubt they’ll be the usual insolent and undisciplined riff-raff, but it seems one must pander to the colonials these days. Still, it’s small mercy’s and all that rot, but at least they’re not insolent and undisciplined Scottish riff-raff. Look over there, we’ve even hung a welcome sign for them.”
The suave allure of this smooth-talking sleaze-bag turns the plight of those hurting British boys into an instantly forgotten non-issue and with that endearing sculpture of international television star, Skippy the Bush Kangaroo, eliciting a squeak of delight, the now mollified camera-jockey murmurs, “Wow, that sign’s simply astonishing,” and with a flutter of those equally simple and astonishing azure eyes, softly adds, “Umm…Peter, isn’t it?”
“Indeed, it’s Peter ma’am. Major, Lord Peter Carrington, 6th Baron Carrington of Upton actually; and might I say how much I appreciate your frank admiration – err, for our welcome sign of course,” replies the brazen con-merchant, who has an entirely deserved reputation in the mess as being something of a female-magnet.
“By all accounts some talented chap from Anatolia fashioned that marsupial statuette from the melted remains of a knocked-out North Korean T-34 tank,” he continues. Smugly adding, “Painting the greeting in Antipodean vernacular was my idea, of course.”
“Err… you don’t think the Australians will mind too much do you? Him being a Turk and all, I mean.”
“Oh, I don’t believe they’ll mind at all Peter,” assures the flushed young lady, now distracted by a series of delicious notions and musing to herself, “Mmm, and, oh my gosh, I sure wouldn’t mind either.”
“After all, the only English troops I’ve met over here so far were a platoon of hygienically-challenged enlisted men from somewhere called Glasgow. An’ that Cpl Julie dame told me it’s an appalling slum an’ nowhere near London. So, where exactly is the dump anyway? Must be on that huge island that England owns, I guess. Or is that Dublin? Well I sure don’t know, an’ it’s not like I care anyway. But, oh my gosh, no-one warned me how incredibly charming these English officers are. An’ just to help bait the hook, they’re probably all rich as Crassus as well!”
Authors Note: Perhaps Miss Barton’s far more experienced Mom, the veteran war-correspondent Victoria Camberwell, ought to have given her utterly-spoilt daughter a word to the wise about that one.
The abrasive young photographer may well be the result of an alleged brief fling that Vicky embarked upon while she was reporting on the Italian invasion of Ethiopia in 1936 for The New York Post. The story goes that she fell for an impoverished ex-British Army Major and, (huge clue here folks), favorite nephew of Ms du Maurier, one Gareth Swales.
For a thrilling page-turning account of Vicky’s exciting adventures in the Horn of Africa alongside the penniless ex-Major Swales and some engineer called Jake, (whom she eventually married when he came into a huge pocketful of loot with his innovative ‘Barton Engine’), see her authorized biography, “Cry Wolf”, written by celebrated popular historian, Wilbur Smith.
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Cry-Wolf-Wilbur-Smith/dp/0330537261
Getting back to the subject of infantry support; while Daphne and Carrington were having their cozy little chat, who should be turning up but a mixed bag of hard-bitten Diggers – and they’ve got a dirty great Vickers heavy machine gun that the parsimonious Australian War Office must’ve appropriated when the recent WW1 exhibition at the Sydney Opera House was closed down.
To mild jeers and good-natured catcalls from the cheerful British lads welcoming these new arrivals in warm-hearted fashion, they slope into camp to inoffensive banter about their thieving convict forefathers and with harmless enquiries ringing in their ears as to whether they’re finally turning up because all the bars in Pusan had run out of grog.
Taking a cynical glance at the hastily painted welcome sign so thoughtfully nailed-up by Major Carrington, (next to the faded one that everyone ignores ordering the troops to always wear their steel helmets), Pte ‘Pretty Boy’ sneers, “Hey cobbers, why are we lugging this antique around while everyone else gets to play with the latest Yank M2’s? And how come it’s always us has to get the ruddy Poms out of a jam anyway? Sooner we’re a republic the better.”
“Blimey, listen up mates, this is awesome whinging.” laughs Bluey.
Habitual pot-stirrer, Bazz-o, calls to the rest of the section, “He’s on his usual rant again cobbers; how much he hates the Poms. An’ it’s all cos Grandad an’ his mate Archie copped it at Gallipoli while running around ANZAC Cove like a couple of headless chooks.”
“An’ then to make matters worse, some Pom from Birmingham got his Aunt Mabel in the family way back in 1944 – before he ran off to join the Chindits in Burma, cos he reckoned fighting the Nips in the bush was a ruddy sight less dangerous than showing up at a shotgun wedding in Melbourne.
Joining in the ribbing, Snowy adds, “Not just that mates, but some Pommy gunner gave Pretty Boy’s Uncle Freddie a ruddy good hiding at some bar in Brisbane for trying to claim Gordon Bennett didn’t run out on the Pom’s mates at Singapore.”
Loud laughter from the rest of the section, although any mention of Gallipoli, or Singapore, etcetera, etcetera, will always be sore points in Oz; and woe betide anyone from Great Britain who dares deride folk-hero Ned Kelly; (a dumb mistake your narrator made while attending Australia Day celebrations during a visit to Perth, Western Australia, back in 2001).
“By the way PB,” says the section’s Senior NCO, the grizzled Sgt Ed Evarage, “Those Poms put up that bonzer welcome sign. Plus, they’ve thrown some tucker on the barbie and got the char brewed-up at this ruddy awful billabong.”
“Maybe so, but fried spam fritters and boiled bully-beef curry is hardly true-blue tucker, is it sarge?”
Well, that’s as may be, but they happen to be our UN Allies – and not what you just called them”.
PB innocently replies, “But sarge, I only called them a useless bunch of Pommy tankers.”
“Hmm, I might be an old Desert Rat these days, but there’s nothing wrong with my hearing Pretty Boy.”
Meanwhile, utilizing animated sign-language he learned from listening to the education channel on Forces Radio, Lieutenant Robert Shaw explains to Old Uncle Ho the tactical necessities behind tearing up his paddy field with a column of tanks, while Momma Ho enjoys the dubious attentions of the strange, indeed sinister, pipe-smoking Captain Anthony Hopkins, who keeps peering at her over Shaw’s shoulder.
“Crickey,” exclaims Snowy, “take a look at that poor cobber an’ his mate what’s waiting for those Sheila’s to finish their smoke-o an’ take ‘em to be fixed-up at the nearest MASH Unit.”
“I reckon if you run off that big mouth of yours around these blokes PB, then you’ll end up looking even more crook than they do – or your Uncle Freddie in Brisbane.”
“Wait,” gasps Cpl Jack-o, the section’s LMG gunner who’s pushing his mates out the way to get in front of Sgt Evarage, “What’s the story on that fair-dinkum one who’s doing all the waving? Any of you cobbers know her?”
Bluey squints a bit, then declares, “Blimey, I could swear I’ve seen that blonde bint before.”
“Not in the dives you’ve been frequenting in Pusan matey,” retorts Snowy with a knowing grin.
But screwing up his eyes in concentration, Bluey adds, “Hold on cobbers, wasn’t she in that recent ‘Road to Messina’ film about the Yanks in Sicily – and isn’t her Dad that Pom what does all those comedy films?”
Pte Brucie, who’s a champion surfer from Bondi Beach and inevitably a bit slow on the uptake, asks, “Who’s that then Bluey? Norman Wisdom?”
“Naa ya drongo, I bet her Dad’s that actor, Alistair What’s-His-Name, and she’s the Sheila what was in that war-film with John-o Mills? The one about when the Poms just sit back and let Jerry take Tobruk, and then some cobbers hijack an Ambo so’s they can head off to Alexandria for a few cold tinnie’s of Fosters?”
“Strewth Bluey, Sylvia Sims isn’t Alistair Sim’s daughter, and that’s not her anyway,” corrects Snowy. “It’s blonde bombshell Diana Dors, the up and coming young starlet of Ealing Studios. I read that she’s taking over from Barbara Windsor in the Carry-On franchise, seeing as Babs has packed in the film business to run a pub down the East End for the BBC. It was in the Daily Mail, so it must be true.”
“I suppose she’s here on a morale-raising visit, or something. Looks like she’s not getting enough sleep though, or maybe she just found a bar in Pusan that still has some grog hidden under the counter.”
“Well, whoever she is, she won’t be interested in ‘Pretty Boy’ Gibson then, will she?”, quips Jack-o, and to raucous laughter from the other section members adds, “He was born in America, so he’s really a Yank anyway – and his Mum must’ve really, really, wanted a daughter – that’ll be why she went an’ called him Melanie”.
Author’s Note: Man, you just gotta love the Aussies.
It would appear to be a toss of the coin between the evil Jocks and the wicked Cobbers as to which country in the whole wide world has the most cutting, and funny, sense of humor.
As usual with my dioramas, the 1:35 scale plastic, resin and white metal figures are from several different manufacturers and most have been converted in various ways to suit the story.
The Churchill Mk7 is from Tamiya. The Centurion Mk3 from AFV Club and the Jeep is an Italeri item.
Skippy the Bush Kangaroo is adapted from a brass lapel badge, that was kindly provided by Mrs Heid although I’ve no idea where she found it. The weathering I applied will be easily removed if she ever decides she wants it back.
Old Uncle Ho Lee-Kow’s paddy field was planted by myself before pouring in some clear resin.
Cheers
H
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