The visit of the Queen and Prince Philip to South Shields in the early 1960s, to open something or other*, caused a mild ripple of interest in the populace, not least on our estate, as they were to drive down King George Road, en route from Sunderland.
Britain wasn't as security conscious then, and so the timing of the Queen's visit and the drive past were well known in advance. About half an hour beforehand, small groups of adults and children began crossing the dual carriageway of King George Road, dutifully clutching little cloth and paper Union Jacks on wooden sticks.
King George Road swept down the hill from Cleadon Village and bordered the whole western length of our housing estate. It was a broad, concrete thoroughfare, with its south and north-bound carriageways separated by a wide 'central reservation' consisting of a dense expanse of trees and shrubbery.
It was the intention of our small group of boys to also cross the road in order to wave to the Queen. However, for some inexplicable reason, we only made half the crossing and then found ourselves up to our knees in a swamp and enveloped in the mosquito-infested, leech-sucking and beetle-scuttling world of the Burmese jungle, surrounded by murderous Japanese soldiers.
Our jungle was narrow yet very long, perhaps as much as 400 yards. The two-lane carriageways either side transformed into a treacherous fast-flowing river on one side and a deadly minefield on the other. To run from the jungle meant to risk death, in both the real and imaginary worlds.
You would think that, with three on each side, the conflict wouldn't last long before victory for one group or the other. However, in that dank and malevolent place, dark and Satanic forces were at work. Quite often, the dead would be resurrected and re-appear as combatants. This would cause obvious consternation:
'Hey, you're dead. I killed you back there.'
'Yeah, but now I'm another one, and you're dead now.'
In this way, the rapid cycle of death and re-birth would ensure that each 'army' was replenished and the game could go on endlessly.
The real world would, momentarily, flash into view, as we ran full tilt from one part of the shrubbery, yelling gutteral death threats in English and mock Japanese, across a grassed area where the flag-waving crowds were visible (across the river on the opposite bank) and crashed back into the jungle on the other side of the 'clearing', oblivious to the stunned, staring faces of the witnessing Royalists.
Our noisy war startled the starlings and frightened the fruit bats from their perches and they flew raucously over the jungle canopy. We had to watch out for the fruit bats particularly because they were vampire fruit bats, not averse to sucking human blood before moving on to dessert.
Weaponry
Both sides had an array of impressive weapons, including pop guns (which fired cork bullets, lethal at a range of up to three feet), plastic swords and knives, a long-barelled Wyatt Earp Buntline Special cap gun (my prize possession, a present from my brother, Tom), plastic, noisy sub-machine guns, catapults and pea shooters (for despatching deadly, rapid-onset-of-death poison darts). We also carried life-saving Tizer in plastic water cans. However, the Chindits' deadliest enemy was Alfie Agnew, who leaped out of the thickest and thorniest bushes and smothered his victims in his woolly jumper, a martial arts technique little known outside of the Shetland Islands. Alfie was a psychotic killer, feared even by his own side.
Both sides had an array of impressive weapons, including pop guns (which fired cork bullets, lethal at a range of up to three feet), plastic swords and knives, a long-barelled Wyatt Earp Buntline Special cap gun (my prize possession, a present from my brother, Tom), plastic, noisy sub-machine guns, catapults and pea shooters (for despatching deadly, rapid-onset-of-death poison darts). We also carried life-saving Tizer in plastic water cans. However, the Chindits' deadliest enemy was Alfie Agnew, who leaped out of the thickest and thorniest bushes and smothered his victims in his woolly jumper, a martial arts technique little known outside of the Shetland Islands. Alfie was a psychotic killer, feared even by his own side.
We played for hours and, when we emerged from the jungle, sweating, muddy, cut and bruised, both the crowds and the Queen had long departed. We shrugged our shoulders resignedly and all tramped home. Well, I say 'all'. Actually, only five of us emerged. Alfie was nowhere to be seen. I never saw him again - his family did a 'moonlight flit' a few days later because (it was said) they owed the rent. But maybe, just maybe, Alfie is still there, in the jungle, living off berries and beetles, and hoping to smother one last Englishman for the honour of the Emperor.
BANZAI!
* Footnote
I suppose it's part of the myth-making and choreography of monarchy that the members of the Royal Family are always linked with the new, the innovative and the hope that these bring. Hence they are always invited and appear to open something new. It is a form of continual renewal of the sovereign institution by association. Perhaps it's too much to hope that they could reflect the 'down' side of life too, and turn up to close things, like factories, schools and old persons' homes.
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