"The Battle of Alphabet Ridge” (A tribute to Graham Chapman and Co.)

This is war by way of afternoon tea and thesaurus—equal parts farce and fire mission, where the sharpest weapon may be diction. For fans of: Blackadder Goes Forth, Dr. Strangelove, and anyone who thinks “bdelygmia” deserves a battle ribbon.

Prologue: At the beginning of the Second World War, with radio transmissions on the battlefield a relatively new appearance, phonetic alphabets for spelling out words and coordinates were far from standardised. The Royal Navy and Air Force, as well as the Americans had their generally preferred systems, but all in all, it was up to each man to figure out how he was going to make himself clearly understood though the static and din of early radio communications on the field of battle.

Setting: A muddy, chaotic battlefield trench. Two extremely posh English soldiers, Major Alistair Poshley-Hyphen and Lieutenant Reginald Fancy-Breeches, sit primly under their field tent, next to a small table set for tea, doilies and all, amidst the sound of explosions and bits of dirt raining down on the tent.

Major: Lieutenant Fancy-Breeches, do be a good man and hand me the wireless.

Lieutenant: Of course, Major Poshly-Hyphen. Tea?

Major: With a cloud of milk, please, but in due course, Lieutenant; once we have resolved this inconvenient German shelling. (Calmly, amidst deafening explosions) Headquarters, come in, this is unit Q-A-C-B Quay-Aubergine-Cue-Bdellium. Over.

Radio (Cockney accent): Wot? Who's this now?

Major: (rolling eyes) I said, Headquarters, this is Unit Q-A-C-B Quay-Aubergine-Cue-Bdellium. Over.

Radio: 'Ere, why ain't you usin' Able-Baker like every other Tom, Dick an' 'Arry?

Lieutenant: (snatching the transmitter) Absolutely not! That Yankee Able-Baker nonsense is the work of American rustics, still clinging to their backwater colonial traditions.

Major: Precisely! Baking indeed. Probably biscuits with gravy, utterly uncivilised.

Radio: Look, mate, yer needin' urgent support, right? Use RAF or Navy phonetics then!

Major: RAF? Those sky-bound dandies? I'd sooner trust a pigeon to deliver my messages.

Lieutenant: And as for the Navy, what sort of gentleman willingly spends his time bobbing around like a cork in brine?

Radio: You lot have completely lost it! Yer company’s being blown to pieces!

Lieutenant: (exasperatedly) Yes, precisely! Enemy coordinates are R-P-T-Z Rye-Urine-Tsar-Zhou!

Radio: Blimey! Did yer say Urine?

Major: (haughtily) Of course! Yes, Urine, as in P, man! A normal bodily function. Far more appropriate than ‘Papa’ and ‘Peter’, I must say. Reeks rather obviously of early childhood trauma and family secrets, doesn't it? Shan't be using that.

Radio: Are you 'avin' me on? Use the standard phonetics!

Lieutenant: (outraged) Standard? You mean that primitive drivel? "Able, Baker, Charlie?" We might as well be standing on a butte in Montana communicating via smoke signals!

Major: (dismissively) Quite. One would think they'd never heard of healthful baked goods or Russian royalty.

Radio: Russian royalty? Is this code or summat?

Major: No, you pleb! Rye, as in quality bread; Urine - discussed previously; Tsar, as in a proper monarchy; Zhou, as in the former Chinese dynasty whose demise we will certainly follow if you continue to insist on your mouthbreathing disregard for clear communication!

Radio: I'm gettin' the Air Force involved!

Lieutenant: (aghast) The Air Force?! They'll have to land for tea first. We'll all be dead by elevenses!

Major: (resigned) Well, at least the RAF is a rather better bred lot, if regrettably airy-fairy.

Radio (RAF voice, posh but exaggerated): Squadron Leader Crispin Hargreaves-Smythe here. Please confirm your position, over.

Major: Our coordinates are P-H-C-J-K Psoriasis-Heir-Chthonphagia-Juan-Potassium.

RAF Radio: Juan Potassium? Good heavens, are you on about?

Lieutenant: (furious) Could I not be more clear, Squadron Leader? "Juan" like the incomparable sommelier at the Hohenlohe's Finca Santa Margarita in Marbella, obviously. And "Potassium" for K, naturally, from the Latin Kalium. Have you flying fairies forgotten your Latin for all the buggering?

RAF Radio: Right, enough of that! I'm kicking this over to the Navy to deal with!

Major: (disgusted) The Navy? I'd rather ask a codfish for assistance!

(Radio crackles with naval Scottish voice, overly hearty)

Navy Radio::* HMS Indefatigable here, what seems to be the bother, lads? Can you relay position in Royal Navy phonetics, please?

Major: Absolutely not! Enemy coordinates remain Rye-Urine-Tsar-Zhou!

Navy Radio: Are you landlubbers taking the mickey?

Lieutenant: Good grief, no! We use this alphabet for its clarity and obvious linguistic superiority! (Under breath) Bloody subliterate Paddys!

Navy Radio: I'll leave you to it then, chaps. Enjoy your obvious linguistic superiority to the sound of Jerry's whizzbangs!

(Explosion nearby.)

Lieutenant: (grimly) Well, Major, it appears our insistence on maintaining the dignity of the English language may be our downfall.

Major: (calmly adjusting monocle) Nonsense, Reginald. A gentleman dies as he lives - utterly misunderstood.

(Suddenly a white flag appears from the enemy trench, a German officer cautiously approaches.)

German Officer: Meine Herren, forgive me. But your transmissions... Any culture capable of such madness will clearly know no limits to the atrocities they will engage in to prevail. We surrender.

Major: (raising an eyebrow) Well, Lieutenant, it appears our dogged insistence on le mot juste has won the war.

Lieutenant: (dryly) Precisely, Major. But do you suppose these oiks will comprehend "Bdelygmia" at the peace talks?

Major: (with genuine sadness) Doubtful, Lieutenant. But one must always hope for progress.

© 2025 Mark Harrison