We are a commune of inquiring, skeptical, politically centrist, capitalist, anglophile, traditionalist New England Yankee humans, humanoids, and animals with many interests beyond and above politics. Each of us has had a high-school education (or GED), but all had ADD so didn't pay attention very well, especially the dogs. Each one of us does "try my best to be just like I am," and none of us enjoys working for others, including for Maggie, from whom we receive neither a nickel nor a dime. Freedom from nags, cranks, government, do-gooders, control-freaks and idiots is all that we ask for.
There was a formula for the password, which always consisted of a seven-letter word, Victory, for example. In theory, the patrol, when challenged, the patrol would prove its bona fides by responding with whichever letter of Victory corresponded with the day of the week using the Morse alphabet. Thus, if it was Sunday, the correct reply was the first letter of Victory, which was Victor. If Monday, Ink, if Tuesday, Charlie, and so on. Who thought this up, I don't know. But if he could have heard Grandarse who seldom knew what day it was at the best of times and couldn't spell anything longer than "pint" trying to persuade Forster that he was not a Japanese White Tiger, he would have thought of something less sophisticated. You may imagine the exchange:
Grandarse: (hoarsely from the dark): Is that thoo, Marra? It's me.
Forster (being awkward): Victory.
Grandarse: Ye wa'at? Awm shit, aye...Victory. Haud on, noo. (to a fellow patroller) 'Eym Wattie, w'at day is't? Thoorsdeh - awreddy? Girraway! Aye, weel, let's see...Moondeh, Choosdeh, Wensdeh, Thoorsdeh - v....i...c...aye, t, that'll be reet! Tock! 'Ey, thoo on stag, Ah'm sayin' Tock! Are ye theer?
Forster (knowing it was Thursday when the patrol left, but that midnight has passed): Booger off, yer a fifth columist!
Grandarse: Bloody 'ell! Whee the 'ell's that? Thoo, Forster, ye git! W'at ye playin' at? It's me, sayin' Tock!
Forster (relenting): It's Friday, ye daft sod!
Grandarse: Ah, the hell! W'at is't then? Orange?
Forster: Awreet, bollock-brain. Coom in if yer feet's clean.
I recently finished reading all 12 of Fraser's "Flashman" novels and highly recommend them. They're hilarious and very, very politically incorrect. They are also a treasure trove of fascinating history from the Victorian era, meticulously researched and footnoted by Fraser.
For those not familiar with the series, Flashman is a bully, a coward and an inveterate womanizer who gets involved in just about every major battle of the 19th century, and always comes out looking like a hero and winning an absurd string of awards and accolades. Hooray for Flashy!
"Quartered safe out here" is a gem. I miss Fraser already, and he still has books in the pipeline.
YOU may talk o' gin and beer
When you're quartered safe out here,
And you're sent to penny-fights and Aldershot it,
But when it comes to slaughter,
You will do your work on water,
And you'll lick the bloomin' boots o' them that's got it.