The Daily British Chicken Count The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and morning mist as John, Canadian soldier in England, leaned against the wooden fence, eyeing the little farmhouse across the way. “I’m not sure what to make of these British folk,” he muttered, shaking his head as his army buddy Mike walked over to him. “Seem fine to me.” John let out a dry chuckle. “Every morning, we greet the farmer just across the way…” He gestured toward the weathered old man who was currently standing watching, having just come out of his cottage, boots heavy with mud. “And every morning, he looks at us with a frown, doesn’t say a word … then he counts his chickens.” Mike smirked. “And if the tally’s, right?” John snorted. “Then, and only then, he breaks out into a wide grin followed by ‘Good morning, boys!’ Like he’s relieved we didn’t make off with one of his precious hens in the dead of night.” Mike chuckled. “Can you blame him?” John sighed wistfully, watching the plump birds pecking at the ground. “Suppose not… but if I could get my hands on one of those chickens.” His eyes gleamed with longing. “Just the thought of hot roast chicken…” Mike gave him a pointed look, shaking his head. “Good thing he doesn’t have daughters.” With that, he turned and walked away, leaving John sputtering in protest while the farmer finished his morning count, one last glance before flashing a toothy grin and a “Good Morning”.

This story was created from a script dialogue of a Wartime Heritage, stage production.