The letter written in pencil on the back of complicated military form having something to do with travel.
Dear Pilgrims,
Sorry to bother you, but I could do with a spot of rescuing. But only the right type of rescuing -- I'm sorry to say that the wrong sort of rescuing could be worse than not being rescued at all.
It all started when me and my mates were all drafted for the big war with Eastasia. The business was none of our idea, but no one asked us. So anyway, they run us through basic training and in no time we're standing on sky docks, in a bleeding gale, every man-jack of us carrying fifty pounds of equipment and an unloaded gun ('cause they didn't trust us not to shoot the bloody officers). There we are, standing in the rain, hungry, tired and soaked to the skin, with the cavalry behind us making sure we don't desert like sensible fellows, waiting for the gale to die down so we can board the skyships, when some lets out a shout and suddenly there these giant birds swooping down from the sky.
Well, we sensibly enough tried to run, but we'd been packed together so tight that most of us had nowhere to go. Before I knew what had happened, I was grabbed by the claws of the biggest damn eagle I'd ever seem in my life. The eagle screamed louder than a fire siren, and then leapt into the air, beating its wings like anything. At which point, like any reasonable fellow, I passed out.
When I came to, I was in the biggest bird's nest you ever did see with five other guys from my unit. Several them were still out cold, but a couple of them were awake and looking over the edge of the nest. I joined them and looked down. We were in the branches of the biggest tree you (or anyone) had ever seen, and it was a long, long way down to the ground. If there was any ground.
We discussed the situation, and agreed we had been the victims of an Eastasian secret weapon. We also figured our chances of being rescued were pretty slim, because face it, the army didn't give a fig for about what happened to us.
Soon, the eagle came back, or rather, two eagles. And they were holding in their mouths something that squirmed kind of oddly. When they landed we could see that they held was worms. Live worms, longer than a man was tall and thicker than a strong man's arm. Which they proceeded to drop at our feet. Then the eagles moved back a bit and eyed us expectantly.
One of the other men -- a fellow named Benson -- broke into laugher. "They must think we're chicks," he said, "they're feeding us!" At which point, one of the eagles made a very loud cheeping sound, and pushed the (still squirming) worm toward us with its (her?) beak. Well, there was nothing else I could do, so I killed it with my trench knife and began to slice it up.
The other fellows stared at me in surprised horror. "You ain't plannin' on eatin' that, are you?" A fellow named Michaels said, "Not raw?"
I shook me head. "No, not raw," I said, "I got stuff to cook with in my back, and I aim to fry this stuff up." And so I did. And you know, it was actually kind of tasty -- sort of a bit like chicken.
Life hasn't been half bad since then. We lounge around, talk, play cards and sleep, and the birds feed us regularly. We all agree that it’s a lot better life than being in the army. The only thing is, is that we're afraid that at some point the birds are going to decide to teach us all how to fly, and we suspect that might not go so well.
So, if you could send us some pilgrims to rescue us, that'd be really nice. However, I don't think we want to go back to Oceania -- they'd likely only put us in the army again, and none of us want that!
Best regards,
Nikolas Smith,
PS: We'll make this message into a paper glider and throw it off the side of the nest. That ought to get it to you nicely.
This is based on the Rudyard Kipling poem, "Birds of Prey" March, who's second verse goes:
Cheer! An' we'll never march to victory. Cheer! An' we'll never live to 'ear the cannon roar! The Large Birds o' Prey They will carry us away, An' you'll never see your soldiers any more!