Dad had been quiet ever since he came back from the front. He used to sit there in his chair by the fire place for long periods just staring out into who knows where. Occasionally we would get a word out of him, a please and a thank you when he was offered a cup of tea but in the main he was just silent. He had not been the same since the ice-cream wars.
He was in shock. Even now after all these years he would fall to his knees and cower at the sound of the chimes outside in the street. The memories were too much for him to bear.
But today was different. He’d started quietly, almost whispering. At first we hadn’t noticed the words that spilled from his mouth but one by one we fell silent and listened intently to the stories he was telling. It was as if something had happened inside him and he needed to tell of those dreadful days.
And we were fascinated, spell bound by the tales of the battles between Mr Whippy’s fascist ranks and the armies of the left under the command of Mr Softee. It was a war that raged for six long years with hand to hand combat through the narrow streets of the old town.
He told how the air had been filled with the discordant tinny chimes of the opposing troop carriers and the smell of sweet, sickly emulsified cream substitute. Cones were flying everywhere. Waffle cones, sugar cones, single and double scoops with or without flakes. Men lay injured and dying propped up against the tenement walls with strawberry sauce smeared upon their dismembered corpses. It was a frozen hell on earth.
His voice had grown louder as the story became more and more intense. He was building to a crescendo when he suddenly stopped. Tears welled up in his eyes and we waited in silence for him to come to the climax of his story. His lips moved, trying to form the words he had not been able to speak, the dreadful words that had held him a prisoner since the war had ended. This is what he had wanted to tell.
Finally he plucked up the courage to speak of the most dreadful weapon to be unleashed, the Oyster with its hard shell that burst open on impact, erupting ice cold cream onto the stricken victim and marshmallow that stuck to the flesh and made it impossible to get rid of the desiccated coconut payload.
The relief on his face was palpable. A weight had been lifted from him and he had finally let go of the burden he had been carrying.
Only the few could survive such a weapon. The allies had threatened to use it but everyone believed that they never would. It was going to be the ice-cream to end all wars and it has for now. All the vans carry a box of Oysters and an uneasy peace has been forged around the ultimate deterrent. Never again.
Thoughts from a Guerrilla Worker 