An Explosion On The Backstairs Front (1958-59)

"On the moth-time of that evening dim."-Keats.
THE peace and quiet of the room were broken by the short, jabbing notes of the alarm bell. In a flash Ingerson was out of his chair, had grabbed his gun, and turned to face the enemy's attacks. A few short, sharp bursts put the force to flight, leaving six of their number in the last death-throes on the floor.

Wearily Ingerson thought, "Will these moths never cease hostilities against my jerseys?" For three months now the airing cupboard had been under complete siege by the moths. It was a very explosive situation, and there was no foreserable end to the monotonous conflict. During that three months Ingerson and a picked band of companions had been holding the airing cupboard against innumerable hordes of moths, all of whom did not value their lives very highly and were eager to further the cause of mothdom. What was worse, the moth hordes seemed to be increasing in spite of the dreadful toll of lives taken by our men; yet rumour had it that two tank divisions, some artillery and five more regiments -including the 5th Blanketeers, the "Death or Glory" moths - could be expected within two days.

Against this force, half the strength of the Allied Moths, were seven men, as the roll call put it, under the inspiring leadership of L/Cpl. Ingerson, J.D. 

For three months these heroic and intrepid men had survived on six hundred and twenty-two tins of raw pork and beans, with only thirty tins left to last indefinitely. Luckily there was no shortage of ammunition, every night gallons of "Blotto", the insecticide with alcohol +, were pumped into the hot-water tank.

At a conference that night, called to discuss the problems facing the unit and the solutions (if any), Ingerson locked around to see how the men were carrying themselves under the strain. There was utter silence in the room, broken only by intermittent cries from the moths camp. Beads of sweat pearled on every furrowed brow, and ran down into the dark circles round the men's eyes. Several men looked feverish. Everyone knew what the others were thinking - "How much longer?" All knew of the dreadful fate that awaited a prisoner's trousers at the hands of the moths, and so the men had resolved long ago to fight to the last shred of clothing, but how long would the food last?

Suddenly several batteries of guns crashed out a derisive greeting to the gallant defenders; the moth reinforcements had arrived. Quick as lightning the men were at their posts, but they were too late; hordes of moths were pouring into the room through wide holes in the door. The men fought bravely, but for a lost cause. Slowly they watched their clothes disappear before their eyes. Battling bravely to the last, they were forced to flee from the dreadful holocaust.

Now there were only two men left, back to back, on top of the jerseys, determined that the moths should pay dearly for the victory. Fast and furiously they fought until both moth and man were exhausted.

Finally a fresh onslaught of moths swept up to the men. After a brief but spirited resistance, the two defenders were overwhelmed. by sheer numbers, and fled, clutching the last remnants of their clothes to them, but even as they fled you could see they were Britons to the backbone.

J. INGERSON, 4A