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from The Trogs       The Green Jackets (all three of them – or four if one counted Holbus) left the wood and set out across open fields.       Furry faces wanted to turn to the sun, but there were bandits out here. They needed to be careful.        Looking back, on the edge of the wood was a dead tree. And on one of its pale, almost bone-like branches perched a big brown and white bird with a hooked beak and sharp talons. This was a Buzzard. And its eyes were following them. Each one opened and closed like the shutter of a camera, taking pictures.       So they hurried across that first field. And now they were passing solitary trees, like green castles.       One of these was full of Crows, several of which swooped down on night-black wings.       ‘Where ya goin’, then?’ asked the gang’s leader.       ‘Mind your own business,’ replied Sergeant Trog.       Yet the Crow and his mates continued hopping alongside them.       ‘What ya got in there, then?’       With the tip of a wing, the Crow pointed at the senior Trog’s knapsack.       ‘We’re collecting Crows for Crow Pie,’ lied the Sergeant.       Though even that wasn’t enough to shake off these birds.       It was only when they looked up and noticed that there was a tall, scraggy figure looming over them that they finally hopped off the ground and stayed off it.        ‘Ark! Ark!’ they cried, flapping all the way back to Crow Castle.       ‘They fall for it every time,’ said Sergeant Trog, patting the scarecrow’s knee, and laughing.       The Green Jackets continued on their way, and were just about to reach the end of a hedgerow when a shiny black Raven sprang out in front of them.        Close up, it seemed huge.       ‘Maybe I can be of assistance,’ it said swankily, as it strutted alongside them.       Because if Crows were small-time crooks, then Ravens were big-time gangsters. Or they liked to think they were.       ‘And you can get lost too,’ replied Sergeant Trog.       ‘I beg your pardon?’        ‘Hop off!’       ‘Who shook your tree?’ sneered the Raven.        Yet he did as he was told. And left alone, it wasn’t long before Sergeant Trog and his soldiers came to the edge of Cowpat Farm.       It was just the other side of a stile set in an archway if trees.       The Sergeant made it over without any trouble. But Corporal Willow and Private Dribble decided to race each other over, and the latter got one of his oversized boots stuck fast between two planks of wood.       ‘Do you want a hand with that foot?’ asked the Corporal, pausing, and reaching to help, whereupon Private Dribble parted company with his boot and they both fell over the stile, laughing.        ‘Get up, the pair of you!’ demanded Sergeant Trog.       And as soon as Private Dribble had retrieved his boot, they were off again, across more fields.        Many of these were inhabited. Not that anyone seemed to mind. The Sheep had swapped their woolly jumpers for T- shirts and the Cows were chewing gum.       All the Trogs had to worry about was the fact that some of the fields containing the latter were a bit of a minefield. They walked in single file, in order of decreasing size. And every now and then Sergeant Trog would shout from the front, ‘Cowpat!’       Trailing along at the back, Dribble Nose was beginning to wonder whether he’d made the right choice in joining the Green Jackets. His hay fever had started up. His nose was streaming. And as if that wasn’t enough, his legs had gone all rubbery. Yet over and over he had to break into a run just to keep up.       ‘It’s not fair,’ he complained to Holbus. ‘It’s not our fault we’ve got little legs.’       Having boots several sizes too big didn’t help much, either.        As he saw it, he had to walk twice as far as everyone else. Because he had to take one step along the ground, and then another step inside his boot.       ‘Private Holbus thinks we should stop for a rest,’ he shouted out.       ‘We don’t stop until we drop!’ Sergeant Trog shouted back.       The only thing keeping Dribble Nose going was food. Or rather, the thought of food. Because he didn’t have any in his stomach. He had it on the brain.       He stared up at a fried-egg sun, and fluffy mashed- potato clouds. Even the lush green grass looked good enough to eat – as he scoured the ground for a mushroom, a dandelion, anything.       All of a sudden he bumped into Corporal Willow.        ‘Private Dribble!’ exclaimed Sergeant Trog. ‘I ordered the company to halt!’       ‘Sorry, Dad. Er, I mean “sir”. I didn’t hear you.’       They’d stopped at the edge of a light green field, where a row of dark green fir trees brushed a watercolour-blue sky.       Dribble Nose had glimpsed the redbrick farmhouse, and wooden barns, from further back. So he knew there was just one last field to cross. Yet they couldn’t enter it until they’d checked that it was clear.       His sister volunteered to go and have a look.       ‘All right,’ agreed Sergeant Trog. ‘Just remember what I told you: use the landscape.’       ‘All clear,’ reported the Corporal, upon her return. ‘Just some bulls. A few big ‘uns and a lot of littl’uns.’       Private Dribble didn’t like the sound of this.       ‘Holbus wants to know if we can go back,’ he said.       ‘No!’ snapped Sergeant Trog.       ‘But Holbus is hungry,’ moaned Dribble Nose.        ‘Quiet in the ranks!’ barked the Sergeant. ‘Or have you forgotten why we’re out here?’       ‘Um...’       ‘We are here to liberate captive fruit and vegetables from Cowpat Farm. Got it?’       ‘Yes, sir.’       Private Dribble wished he’d stayed in Stream Wood with Mother Trog and Newton, because Father Trog’s character had changed with his clothes.       The Sergeant even added, ‘You’re a horrible little Trog. What are you?’       ‘I’m a horrible little Trog, sir,’ repeated Dribble Nose, trying not to cry.

© Mark Kirkbride

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