War in the Morning

I was in bed, recovering from a late-ish binge at the Drones Club, when I was awakened by noises from without. I sat up, and at that precise inst., Jeeves shimmered into the room.

“Good morning, sir,” he said, handing me the morning brew.

“Morning, Jeeves,” I said, sipping at the tissue restorative.

“What’s that frightful row outside? Sounds like Boat Race Night run amok.”

“It is the war, sir.”

“War, Jeeves?”

“Yes, sir. It would seem that the Americans and the Iraqis have chosen to go to war.”

“I know I’m mentally negligible, Jeeves, but…didn’t they already go to war?”

“Quite correct, sir. Most astute of you to remember.”

I fawned at the compliment; it’s not often Jeeves chooses to give the young master the old oil.

“Well, yes, it seemed to ring a bell. What are they fighting about this time?”

“I would not venture to say, sir. And neither, sir, will they.”

“Ah…a bit of a mystery, eh, Jeeves? Like something out of Edgar Wallace or Erle Stanley Gardner.”

“Precisely, sir. How very perceptive of you.”

I thought on this for a tick.

“Seems to me, Jeeves, that it would’ve made a jolly sight more sense for them to find out what they’re fighting about before the shooting started.”

“I quite agree, sir. Shall I run your bath, sir?”

I debated this.

“Yes, Jeeves, please do. And then, I think…the grey suit with the wide blue stripe.”

Jeeves hesitated.

“If I may say so, sir, the soldiers in the street are wearing grey. It might be prudent not to be confused with one side by the other. The results might be...importune.”

I opened the window, peered out at the fighting, and considered this.

“Shooting at innocent bystanders, Jeeves? That’s not very sporting. A bit thick, in fact. Is that supposed to happen?”

“Indeed not, sir. In fact, sir, the poet Kipling says…”

I decided to stop this impending menace of the poet Kipling in its tracks just as I noticed a hand grenade fall in through the open window. Jeeves slid quietly across the room, retrieved the offending item, and dropped it outside. I crawled out from under the bed and took a firm stand with my valet.

“Never mind the poet Kipling, Jeeves.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t wish to hear of the poet Kipling.”

“Of course, sir.”

“There may be a time and a place for the poet Kipling, Jeeves, but not this a.m. I have a bit of a morning head, and I can listen to rot…but not to utter rot.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So you think the grey suit is inappropriate, then? If inappropriate is the word I’m looking for.”

“It is indeed, sir. I was thinking, perhaps the dark blue with the thin red stripe. Possibly worn with the red tie with tiny blue diamonds, sir.”

“You don’t think I should wear a uniform, then?”

“No, sir. Uniforms should be left, if I may say so, sir, to a class well beneath that of your own. The sturdy folk of the lower and lower middle classes are most ideally suited for war, sir.”

“If you say so, Jeeves. Let it be the blue suit with the thin red stripe, then." I stood still while Jeeves began securing my necktie.

"Who started this bally war, anyway?”

“The American president, sir, and several gentlemen in his administration, friends of yours from the New York chapter of the Drones, sir. A Mr. George Bush, a Mr. Richard Cheney, and a Mr. Donald Rumsfeld, sir.”

“Boozy Bush, Thick Cheney, and The Old Rummy, eh? They make even Barmy Fotheringay-Phipps look reasonably intelligent. What diabolical fiends put that gang of gawd-help-us's in charge?”

“The American people, sir. Or at least, sir, a certain select percentage of them.”

“Skullduggery at the voting booth, Jeeves?”

“There have been rumors in the Junior Ganymede Club to that effect, sir.”

“Democracy, Jeeves, is all very well and good, but should it be shared with the people?”

“It would not be my place to say, sir.”

“Nor mine, Jeeves. I believe I’ll breakfast at the Drones this morning, Jeeves. The dark grey hat with the red feather, I think.”

The honest fellow hesitated.

“Something, Jeeves? You disapprove of my dark grey hat?”

“Not at all, sir. It is a most proper hat for an English gentleman, sir. But, given the inclement circumstances outside, sir, I thought perhaps, the steel helmet.”

“The steel helmet, Jeeves?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll look the most frightful toff, Jeeves.”

“Regrettable, sir, but the fighting is said to be quite heavy in the neighborhood of the Drones, sir. The streets are rumored to be running with blood.”

“Pity, Jeeves.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Still, an English gentleman mustn’t let a little thing like a war interfere with his going to his club. Very well, the steel helmet it is.”

“Yes, sir. And, if I may say so, sir, that shows the proper attitude.”

“Stiff upper lip and all that rot, eh, Jeeves?”

“Most aptly phrased, sir. Your umbrella, sir.”

“Thank you, Jeeves. I believe I’ll dine in this evening, Jeeves, what with the street fighting and all.”

“Yes, sir. At seven o’clock, sir?”

“Eight, I think, Jeeves. All those tanks in the street may cause a spot of bother.”

“Yes, sir. Good day, sir.”

“Good day, Jeeves.”

THE END

©2003 David Gustafson