I’m compelled to return to this cliff top constantly, but it’s a jolly steep climb from the beach with all my gear. You can see clear across to France.
I just saw Lamb walking the path. Cutlet we called him when he was my fag at Winchester. Still as blond and cherubic as ever. I waved heartily. He returned a rather terrified stare and ran full pelt back down the path.
I’ve been watching the small boats on the beach. Something’s not quite right. These aren’t pleasure steamers and fishing boats; the gallant little ships that took our men off Dunkirk. These are packed with exhausted people – women and children also – and not a Tommy among them.
After dark I meet the other chaps. There are two Polskies who don’t have three words of English between them, nice people though.
Then the planes come. Big ones, small ones. Our planes, their planes. Across the Channel, over the cliffs onto the Downs. Bang! Bang! Whirring! Stinks of fuel. Gunfire. Smoke. Screeching. It’s hot, so hot! Scorching. Archie screaming. The smell of roast pork. Engine’s out. Tailspin. Can’t see! Blinded. Blood everywhere. Can’t breathe. The noise! Head bursts. Mother! … Ma! … Mummy! Oh, Sweet Jesus!
All is calm now and I hear Winnie speaking on the wireless: ‘Never in the field of human conflict has so much been owed by so many to so few.’
I pull my leather jacket across my open chest. ‘You’re very welcome, sir,’ I say shyly.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 