His job was important. He knew it was. Nobody had ever said
otherwise. That, and his little ‘episodes’,
as his mother called them, meant that there was no chance of him going away to
fight. He was to stay here in the fields
forever. Never leaving the county that
he was born in, or the people who knew him.
His mother was grateful. At least
one of her sons would survive it all, and not be remembered on the town
memorial like her Father had been.
Although there was always the chance that an episode would lead to a
bang on the head or a fall into the river.
But despite all this he would like to see some action, something more
than the back end of a horse and a neatly ploughed field.
Dusk brought the drone of
the bombers, heading out to the sea. As
the last of the light drained out of the sky he turned out of the field and
stepped into the lane. A new sound
replaced the heavy hum from the sky.
More waspish, angry. A
dogfight. He stood and gazed at the two
planes as they wheeled around each other and cackled gunfire, like a pair of
giddy gulls. Finally, a blast of smoke,
a new engine pitch and a graceful dive into the estuary. He didn’t know about planes, he didn’t know
if it was one of theirs or one of ours.
Just another body to be washed up on the beach and another name on some
town’s memorial.
He walked on into the unlit village
and found the blacked-out back door of his mother’s cottage.
‘Did you see the dogfight?’
she asked, as she carefully sliced the last of his cheese ration.
He nodded ‘Right over my
head, mother, could’ve crashed into Top Field, easily.’
‘I’m glad you’re safe.’ She said ‘Glad you’re home.’
