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Here it is! Took long enough, but with all the busyness of the elections and other events previous to it, it had to be put on hold for a little bit.

In this Chapter of the Celtic Chronicle, I'll present something a little different to what you might expect...dramatization. And what better event to focus on than the Shannon War, something certainly worth telling the grandkids and lecturing to those young political upstarts when you finally come to be regarded by the wise old status of the ancient Irish veteran. Yes, its that little incident everyone knows about (dubbed as “the most realistic training war” on the Admins’ Twitter site)...and in my opinion...so significant to our nation it deserves a this tribute. Its as politically unbiased as I could manage, though do be warned, I’ve taken a few creative liberties.



So, to begin.

----

Dublin.
7pm. June 17th.

A dark figure, clutching at his a thick hooded cloak, hurriedly stepped into the crowded tavern and shut the door quickly against the bitterly cold drizzle outside. He didn’t stop to remove his coat, despite it being considerably cozier inside the dimly lit establishment, nor did he seem interested in the bar, where nearly everyone else had gone to warm their throats. Lifting his eyes neither here nor there, he made straight for a table that seemed an almost predetermined destination, and took a seat.

“Is it the North?” Asked a man similarly dressed, sitting at the table.

“Alas, no.”

The inquirer grunted.

“Well...its still tonight, isn’t it?”

“But of course.”

----


The President, rigid and deep in thought, gazed at the streets below, basked in the pink glow of dawn, for any immediate sign of action. Nothing yet. Wouldn’t be long. He moved away from the tall window, threw a folder onto his desk, and sat exhaustedly. It was June 18th.

A short knock on the door.

“Coffee, sir?”

Nithraldur glanced up from his papers, not at all surprised at the on-the-dot punctuality of his expected visitor.

“Its been a long night, thanks, but there’s more than caffeine keeping me awake right now.”

His visitor nodded and laughed.

“Well don’t just stand there, Sev, come in!” Nithraldur gestured to the chair opposite him.

“They’re slow in picking up this morning’s paper today, aren’t they? The soldiers have been briefed.”

“The Prime Minister just telephoned.”

The Minister of Defence took a seat and smiled.

“We’ll be ready for them.”


----


“This is just ridiculous, O’Keefe.”

“What?”

“We’ve been briefed. Every Irishman and his mother knows the Shannon’s been hit. And we just stand here like bloody dolts.”

Standing rigid, arms by his side, as was everybody else rank-and-file, McGinnis looked straight ahead as he spoke quietly to the taller soldier standing to his right. His expression grew cold as Grainne Ni Mhaille, looking impeccably presentable in her Colonel’s uniform, strode past the division of officers, having just made her announcement.

“Damn the Brits. Bitch, lets go!” He whispered fiercely, more to satisfy is own intense anger at the situation than for the conversation with O’Keefe, and as a result, uttered just a little too loudly.

Grainne stopped in her tracks.

“Oh dear God.”

“McGinnis!” Boots resounding sharply on the barracks cobblestones, Grainne closed in on the soldier as quickly as a vicious predator would its cowering prey.

“Lord have mercy.” O'Keefe's brow glistened with nervous sweat. He'd watched this happen before.

Ten minutes later, the division hurriedly departed Dublin for the battlefield. Minus one.


----


Mr. Corkin hung up the phone, and slammed his newspaper onto the table, spilling his steaming coffee over his lap. In a fit of rage, he ran for a damp rag near the bathroom basin, made for the wardrobe and changed his slacks hurriedly.

“Whats all the ruckus dear!?” His wife called out to him from the kitchen.

“Its the Shannon! Invaded, I tell you, invaded!” He buckled up his belt.

“What on earth do ya mean?” Mrs. Corkin appeared in the doorway, her loosely-tied apron on and armsleeves rolled up.

“The British, they’ve screwed us over. The Dublin garrison is on their way. And...” Mr. Corkin rummaged through his drawers. “Where the hell did my gun safe keys go?”

“Umm I don’t know...”

His wife wrung her soapy hands nervously, and went to pick up the newspaper.

“Here they are. Alright love, I’ve gotta get down there. I’ve gotta fight. Our Taioseach said so. Where’s the box?! Our savings...I need everything I can take!” He grabbed his coat from the rack.

Mrs. Corkin shook her head and came back into the room, jabbing at the article.

“It says to leave your money at home!”

“Low on ammunition, dear.”

“Just bring what you have! It says so!”

“No! I am a patriot of this country! I will fight with everything I can lay hands on until I die!”

Mr. Corkin stuffed the satchel into this pocket, grabbed his gun and hat, and roared as he crashed through the door and onto the streets. His wife watched from the front door.

“When will you be back!?”

“When we are free!” He bellowed fiercely, firing his gun into the air as he tore up the street.


----


“That was most helpful. Yes. I certainly shall. Again, much appreciated.”

Drummond hung up the phone, and cursed. Slipping his notes into his jacket pocket, he left his house, locked the door, and made for the small coffee shop two streets down. It was a homely little place...served good food, but had a sort of professional air to it, a fitting enough setting to discuss business. Well, this business had just taken a dramatic turn.

Drummond’s acquaintance was already standing at the counter, ordering his lunch.

“Sorry I’m late.”

His friend turned.

“Well hello! Don’t worry about it, just began to feel a bit peckish, was all. Ballymaloe pickle sandwich. Will you be having something?”

“Ah no, actually. Where were you sitting?”

The Congressman paid for his order, and showed Drummond to the table. “A funny thing, this war.” He took a seat and unfolded his napkin.

“I’d wager most of us aren’t finding it too humorous...” observed Drummond.

“Aye. But do admit...your business thrives in these times.”

“It does indeed. As does new competition.”

“Oh?”

“The UK Prime Minister. Sold up his companies, one of them an Ape Ammunition establishment here in Dublin. Quite well known.” Drummond glanced at his wristwatch.

“Yes I’ve had a little to do with them. Is it now locally operated?”

“Indeed. Well, it was originally sold to an investment group here in the city, but not a day later was purchased by a Lord something-or-other. Rhindon Arms Trading, I believe its now known as.”

“I see. Good for the markets, I suppose.”

“I suppose. Not that it really concerns me much. There’s plenty of customers to share. We’re fiesty lot, we Irish...guns never seem to be of short demand.” Drummond leaned forward. “But I’m here to talk about something far more critical, and I don’t have a great deal of time...shall we?”

“Of course.”

“The war. Its staged.”


----


“Dreadful, this. We were deceived.”

Pip Kelly muttered as they broke from the group, finding himself walking alongside O’Shea, who had also been present at the meeting. Word had been slower in reaching the camps near the frontline, but reach them it had, and several of the politicians who had abandoned their various duties to assist in the army were not exactly pleased about it.

“That’s how you see it?” O’Shea challenged.

“Why shouldn’t I? We were misled, no good’ll come of it.”

An armed Irishman pushed past the two as they walked, hurriedly attempting to fit on his helmet as he went. O’Shea noticed the weapon he grasped in one hand.

“Well sir, that’s a good looking rifle you have.”

Mr. Corkin turned and beamed.

“Tis true! Its as new as yesterday morning!”

Off he hurried, still grinning with patriotic pride. They noticed him!
O’Shea shook his head.

“Completely disregarded the orders.”

“I can’t blame him.”

Mr. Corkin, still grinning but now a fair way in the distance, risked a glance over his shoulder...are they still watching? Yes! Oh golly goodness, yes they are! Wait until the missus finds out about this. Hero of the day! Patriot of the land...warrior of the ages!

“Well you seem to have gotten him excited.” Pip Kelly chuckled.

“You think?” O’Shea sighed. “The success of this operation depends upon how well we can follow direction...I’m sure he won’t be the only one getting ‘excited’.”

“A risk our President shouldn’t have taken?”

“Or, a challenge Ireland needs?”

---

And as most of you know - this event split the country (which probably means in Ireland, a mild disagreement at the pub ending in free beer and great night out) - one Congressman went so far as to propose the impeachment of the President, though this move was defeated.

The reasons the President gave was that it was to test our military readiness and the diplomatic dependability of our allies - the government had warned citizens not to spend much on the battle.

Those opposed to the idea felt the British and Irish governments had instigated a hoax, causing some diplomatic confusion, unrest and what they believed to be unnecessary military agitation.

Then there were the ‘Mr. Corkins’, who spent truckloads of gold defending their country, despite being warned not to in ‘that particular battle’, but who’s passion may or may not have been out of place - depending upon which side you shared opinion with.

Whatever the case, and whichever opinion you might personally share, the facts of the matter stan😛 the operation was initiated out of concern for the country, and opposition to it was gathered out of concern for the country. If this period of time represents a moment when our nation experienced some internal friction, we have a long, long way to fall, as we were firmly united in one crucial respect. The safety, ability and freedom of Eirin, our Fair Isle.

Lord Rhindon
Gentleman of Ireland
Ex-MoI