A Blackdown Encounter – Ken Cooper

 I should have gone straight home, I know. But I’d picked up my new car only the previous evening, and I thought I’d take the long way home from the office. After all, it was the first brand new car I’d ever owned. It had that new car smell that I’d only experienced in the few hire cars I’d driven from time to time. But this one was mine!

I was taking the Trull road out of Taunton, heading towards the Blackdown Hills.  A typical December night, if there is such a thing anymore – a slight drizzle, a bit of patchy fog. The new windscreen wipers, with their four intermittent settings were performing well. I’d just passed Staplehay when visibility suddenly dropped to just a few yards and I had to slow to a crawl. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Would it get worse as I climbed the hill? Should I turn round and go back to my usual route home? Even that option held its own dangers. I ploughed on.

After about a mile I reckon - distances were difficult to estimate - I caught sight of a man thumbing a lift. He was standing in a sort of lay-by, and I guessed I was near Sellick’s Green. I pulled over and lowered the window on the passenger side. He leant over and said “Hi Buddy!” American, I thought. He was wearing a uniform and a cap, like someone in an American war film – a bit like Glenn Miller.

“Where y’heading?” I said, and felt slightly embarrassed at how Texan that sounded.

“Dunkeswell,” he said, “You going my way?”

“Not really,” I said, “Turning off at the top of Blagdon Hill, to the east - opposite direction.” Then I thought, “What the hell.”

“Get in,” I said, and I leant a little further to open the passenger door.

“Thanks, Buddy,” he said, “I’m grateful. The name’s Ted Ross.”

“Pete Taylor,” I said in response.

Then he explained, “I’d arranged to meet my buddies here, but I guess I must’ve missed ‘em in the fog.”

I was waiting for him to fasten his seat belt, but he was busy studying the interior of the car. I flicked the switch on my arm rest and the passenger window slid shut.

“Say, what kind of a car is this?”

“A Seat,” I said, “Made in Spain.”

“Looks like something Buck Rodgers would be flying,” he said with a half laugh.  He pointed to the small screen sitting on my dashboard. “What’s that?”

“Sat Nav,” I said.

“What?”

“Satellite Navigation.” Surely they’ve got these in the States, I thought.

He ran his hands over the dashboard with its array of red, yellow and white LEDs. Then he noticed the matrix of buttons on the steering wheel. “There’s more controls and dials here than in my Liberator!” I assumed he was referring to some make of American car.

“What’s this?” he said, pointing to the heater dial.

“Heater.”

“Heater? In a car?” He was fingering some more buttons. “Air conditioning,” I said.

“What the… I don’t believe it.” His eyes were almost popping out of his head. “I didn’t know Franco’s boys made such things.” He was scanning the console now, as if trying to find the answer to a question he couldn’t quite formulate. I pressed a button to switch on the CD player. A message displayed: “CD Loading… Track 4”. Suddenly Bob Marley and Reggae hit us from four corners, and I saw Ted’s jaw drop until it almost rested on his chest.

“Who, who are you?” he stammered, “I don’t get it.”

Just then I heard the sound of a lorry coming from behind. It was struggling with the ascent, and the driver was having trouble finding a lower gear. It passed us and pulled in just ahead. It was an old army truck, with a canvas top and an open back. Several uniformed men were standing, holding onto the tail board.

“Hey,” said Ted, “That’s my platoon!” He found the door handle and scrambled out. “Thanks, Pete. Nice meeting you. I think!” He ran over to the lorry, and two of his mates hauled him up into the back. He turned to look at me and raised his hand to his cap in a typical American sloppy salute. But his hand stayed up. The look on his face showed he still hadn’t found the answer to his riddle.

The truck pulled out into the road to continue its grinding climb. I pulled out behind it. I couldn’t have gone much faster even if the truck had not been in front. I hit upon the idea that these guys must be heading for Dunkeswell airport – some sort of weekend display of World War Two vehicles. I’d been to one once – never again. Two whole days where grown men looked admiringly at camouflaged Jeeps, auxiliary vehicles, and fire trucks – there was even a Sherman tank at the one I attended. One hour was enough for me, but, well, each to his own, I suppose.

I was keeping an eye out for my turning, as well as making sure I didn’t run into the back of them. That wasn’t easy – the truck’s rear lights were appalling.  Then it happened. The truck just melted away. At first I thought it was something to do with the mist, atmospherics, or something. Then I realised the fog had cleared. I’d often met this type of low cloud on the Blackdowns – you start off clear, hit some mist and fog and eventually surface out of the top of it. Now my headlights showed the road ahead clearly. There was no sign of the truck - neither sight nor sound. It couldn’t possible have got away from me. It just wasn’t there anymore.

“Geez, Sam. Where’d he go?”

“I, I don’t know, Ted. He just sort of faded away.”

“That Limey had a space ship, I tell you – something out of the twenty-fifth century.”

…ooOoo…