Calamari Ferrari Pt.1

August 16th 1843. It was with quite considerable consternation that I was given my first overseas assignment. Having served with the Household Cavalry for some two years I had yet to be given the opportunity to 'see the world', as is the case with most soldiers of the Her Majesty (Gentlemen, The Queen). Rising through the ranks to Captain (with a quite considerable monetary greasing) I was given the most honoured position of overseeing the defence of the Hellenic Islands against the incursion of the Turk. Although I had not left these green and pleasant lands before (Oh! Jerusalem, bring me my arrows of burning desire!) I was well versed in the ancient wisdom from that antediluvian Cycladic culture. My lofty time at Harrow and the dreaming spires of Cambridge were spent immersed in the elegant works of Homer, Plato and Zorba. I read Archaic Greek as a matter of course and could recite large chunks of the Iliad in it's original tongue. I was ready for the grandest of great tours.

The Temple of Apollo Creed

It came as quite a shock to step ashore from my packet steamer in that island called Santorini. From my garret room in Magdalene college, Ancient Thira had held a special charm for me, being, as it was, the end of Minoan rule through climactic catastrophe. However this was not the land of culture, the mythical locale of Socrates and Stavros. No this was (G__ forgive me for using such vulgarity) a den of the utmost inequity. A motley collection of ne'er-do-wells, twerps and vagabonds greeted me that first day, each advertising a flesh pot of greater depravity than the last. Swarthy features and dark eyes peered about my person, each looking for a weakness that they could exploit. This was not the only foulness to beset me at my first posting. The damnable heat and flies bore their individual burden upon my body. I assumed that this heat was the reason for the locals baring as much flesh as they did. Most walked around brazenly in what appeared to be little more than loin-cloths. Even the during the most heathen heights of Sodom and Gomorrah had not such wanton crudeness in the display of the human form been realised. I for one was red faced ashamed at the exhibition and was glad to have brought my stiffest of starched collars within my travelling bag.

A hive of scum and villainy

It was amongst this scene of licentiousness that I first met my compatriot for the task that lay ahead of me. Striding through the crowd, swinging his billy-club at the locals, came Lord Roberts of the Royal Welsh Fusiliers. An uncouth man, it must be said, a Gentleman of low learning, like many of his native country-folk. Lord Roberts could not bear what he termed 'culture' and a man with little or no time to learn the ways of the Hellenic Aboriginal. I feared that my time in this country would be a most depressing misfortune on my part. These doubts were soon swayed when I saw the swift way with which he dispatched a particularly foul inhabitant by dashing said beasts brains on the walkway. A manly handshake from a black burnt hand further assured me that no harm would come to either of us during this time.

Transit infrastructure in place

Lord Roberts was there in body as an engineer attached to the project and we wasted no time in establishing a rail-head. He knew the land better than the locals, having braved the areas they avoided due to long held superstitions of ghosts and other supranormal phenomena. In no time we had a working transit system that was the envy of the island chain. It was from this establishment that we launched our first punitive expedition...