The following is an extract from a torn and battered journal,
made by private MacPherson, renowned as a poet, of the Shropshire light Infantry

Corporal Lesley Loveday, known to his mates as Laughing Lez,
had such a reputation when in service of the British Army, he was allowed to wear a fez.

He bought it from a native in a house of ill repute,
who claimed it was blessed by Allah, a claim the squaddie dismissed.
‘How could a hat protect me from a spear?’ He asked.
'I respect your belief, but I was reared as a devout Methodist.’

Then a boy, the son of a fallen woman, threw a lance at him which mysteriously
swerved and hit a badmash (or bandit), who was about to slit  Lez's throat.

He was so shocked and overwhelmed with gratitude,
he felt compelled to rescue the woman and her son,
who praised him for saving them from a house of ill repute.

The fez saw him through a bloody campaign in Afghanistan,
where he stood firm in the infantry square when all about him ran.
But shortly after arriving in the British colony of Natal,
he found himself on a hill in Zululand,
looking down on 1,000s of warriors in King Cetewayo’s kraal.

Les returned from his scouting mission,
reporting that the Zulu army was more than ‘A bunch of savages’,
to quote the generally-held military opinion.

Alas, his warning went unheeded, but though the Zulus
achieved a stunning first victory, the result of the war was never in doubt.

Though he lost many friends, the spears couldn’t penetrate his cheery exterior,
and Les earned the Victoria Cross for his part in defending a bloody redoubt. 

But, ashamed over his part in the destruction of a proud native people,
he unburdened himself in a brothel to a disgraced mother superior,
and deserted when his regiment returned to Aldershot.

He was often to be seen around Durban, his sanguine face
topped by the battered fez, which the native kids threw stones at.

‘Go away!’ he grumpily shouted.

But they replied, ‘We’ve been disenfranchised by British imperialism.
We had our human rights, which you so openly flouted.'

He stopped and reluctantly concurred, ‘Indeed.
Where did you learn to talk so intellectually?’

‘We attended a school run by an Irish nun, Mother Superior Rosin.
She was kicked out for being critical of British policy.

'They didn’t like her singing Revenge For Skibereen,
which apparently is an Irish rebel song.’

Les was amazed at this lucidity from those so young.

‘Thank you,’ they responded to his compliment.
‘We are told you fought well in the war,
for Cetewayo's impis were taught well how to fight.

‘But we should not be regarded as second-class citizens.
Our only sin is being born black instead of white.’

Les bowed. ‘Well, I have met said lady and, though impressed,
was shocked by her admission, that being a Catholic she was
not a devotee of the Bible.’

But though I was brought up by a Methodist minister,
I had more in common with her than him,
even though her dad was an Irish rebel.’

Les paused for breath, ‘I haven’t talked as much since
I made a speech after knocking out Fists O’Flaherty for
the army featherweight boxing title.

'You have pointed out my sins, of which I am ready to confess.
I have done great wrong to your kind, little Zulu,
so you can have my trusted fez.’

The children danced with glee, and when a certain Irish lady appeared,
they all chorused, ‘Hello Rosin!’

Who declared, ‘This reminds me of when I was
a young nun teaching at the mission.

'But I have left the religious life, and Les, I must ask, can I be your wife?'

The surprised ex-squaddie replied, ‘You bet!’

‘Great, and If you’re worried about my chastity,
I escaped from the knocking shop where we met.
It was my first day, and you were such a gentleman.

‘What I am trying to say is, I am still virgo intacto.’

So after marrying, the couple expressed a wish to
help the dispossessed of Zululand.
With the help of warriors loyal to King Cetewayo,
they built a hospital-cum orphanage.

Life was tough, but Les used his sharp-shooting skills and ability to forage.
In return she taught him Gaelic history, of Finn MaCcool
and the scourge of Cromwell, reminding the old soldier that Lord Wellington,
who defeated Bonaparte at Waterloo, was born in Dublin.

‘Indeed he was, my love.
'So grab a drop of gin and raise a glass to Lord Wellington, Zulus,
disgraced nuns and rebels of every kind,
and damnation to imperialist rhetoric.

'Throw away our rifles and spears, and let’s shed no more wasted tears.'

Roisin agreed, ‘Oh that’s quite poetic.

'Alas, though our union has not brought forth offspring,
I do have a strong man to comfort me in my dotage,
and I content myself that I am a mother to lots of children,
in our little hospital-cum orphanage.

‘But you are getting a beer belly, dear husband.

So please pay little heed to the call of John Barleycorn,
which is an English allegorical name for beer
(I learned that from a publican).
And due to not marching you are not regular.’

‘Indeed,’ he concurred. ‘John Barleycorn is a well-known ballad.
So to stop your nagging, I’ll go into the garden and pick some salad.’

But as he bent to pick up a lettuce, a voice called, ‘Hello, Mr Les!’

He looked up to see a native, who declared,
‘When I was a boy, you gave me your magical fez,
I believed it would give me a charmed life.

‘Alas, I discovered it only works for imperialist white men,
with rifles versus spears, like against the Zulu.

After all, that war wasn’t like taking on the Russians at Balaclava,
or the French at Waterloo.’

Les lifted his eyebrows. ‘Are you a devotee of Karl Marx?’

‘No, just a former pupil of your missus.
By the way, she told me to tell you not to forget the onions,
or you’ll be washing the dishes.’

‘Oh, thanks for reminding me, you certainly know yours.
By the way, I was at Balaclava and it wasn’t a walk in the park.’ 

The native nodded. ‘I respect your courage.
Now apparently, you have become a bit of a journalist.’

Les blushed, ‘Since the wife taught me proper grammar
I like to express my views, which may have some influence, me being a former soldier.’

This elicited a smile, ‘Indeed, you have stirred up a
veritable hornet’s nest, with your article condemning white rule.

I think you will need help once the Boers have read the Durban Bugle.
So have this with my blessing, and regards to Mrs Les.’

The old soldier beamed at him, and said, Why thank you. It’s my lucky fez!’

Postscript
An article, Victorian Heroes, appeared in the magazine History Makers, highlighting the story of a deserter, Corporal Lesley Loveday, known colloquially as Laughing Les with the fez, an awardee of the Victoria Cross.
It described his role as a humanitarian in the former British colony of Natal, and concluded that his name should be reinstated on the roll of honour of the Shropshire light Infantry.