Tanks of the YWRSL

The vehicle ground towards them on squealing tracks, it's engine roaring in effort of carrying the weight of armour plates bolted onto it. It was an odd-looking thing, with a mismatched drum-shaped turret sat atop it like a top hat. Alf could hardly believe it was built on the guts of a tractor, but he couldn't deny it was impressive.

A voice piped up at his side.

"Ere Alf, what's that then?"

 

He sighed.

"It's a tank, lad, you know, for fighting in".

"Giovver, I know that, I mean them letters on the front!"

"YWRSL? That's us, remember? York and West Riding Socialist League."

"Oh."

Ee, but the lad were daft. Martin Curneen, umpteenth child of an Catholic family, and they'd clearly run out of brains by the time they reached him. He could have had his head splattered by a fascisti and he'd still go on his merry way like headless chickens did at the circus. Alf Dawson though, he prided himself as being an educated working man. He'd read Das Kapital - or rather - attended readings of it at the Methodist hall, and that was close enough - and he knew a thing or two about working class struggle. Between his brains and his workmate's brawn, he'd like to see the Blackshirt that could get past them two.

He nudged the lad in the ribs and leaned his head towards him conspiratorially.

"Now look here Martin, listen up. Committee says driver's name is Battie. When Comrade Battie gets out, just don't say owt, right?"

"What do you mean Alf?"

"You'll see. Just remember, these is modern times and we're all equals now"

The tank ground to a stop, and after a few moments and significant muffled curses, there was an almighty clunk, and the turret popped open. The driver emerged, overalls grimy with engine grease and a  bandit mask of clean skin where goggles had kept them clean. Their voice was slow and drawling - a Wessie, Leeds, or maybe Wakefield.

"I see you two are t'welcome committee. 'Op up, you can give us directions to t'depot".

To Alf's horror, Martin raised a finger to point directly at the driver, and before he could stop him, perhaps stove the bugger's head in, the lad shouted.

"Ere Alf! That tank's bin drivven by a lass!"