Private Watkins lit his cigarette, a real treat given recent rationing, and cast his eyes towards the coast.
He took a deep draft and filled his lungs; the air was still chill and he stamped his feet to keep warm despite his greatcoat.
He paused, yes he could hear engine noise...Christ, was the rumour of the Royalist fleet moving up the coast from Bristol true after all...he strained his eyes through the early morning fog...a shape emerged...he pulled the bolt on his .303 back and rammed the round into the chamber, then raised the stock to his shoulder and paused... a few lone seconds later, Dai Williams' fishing boat chugged into view through the wisps of white....Dai grinned up at him and shouted something about Watkins 'looking pale'...pale he thought...not pale, s******g m'self more like...the cigarette finished, he turned and headed back to the sailing club; another day waiting for the hammer to strike he thought....
Note : the thoughts of a lonely sentry on the coastline of West Wales, courtesy of Umpire Roo. One day, the Assault on Newquay will take place....
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