The teenaged farmhand peered over the sea of mud. The floods overwhelming much of southern England had subsided, now he must get to work putting life back into the field.
As he climbed aboard his machine he saw a leather glove in the sludge, its fingers pointing at the leaden sky.
Its weight surprised him. It was squashy and he thought it must be full of heavy straw. Then he saw the decayed bones of a hand.
Eighty-four years previously: a sunny day, an air alarm shrieked. Algernon Crompton-Smythe, straight out of Charterhouse, cursed his hangover while he, with a dozen others from Eton, Harrow and some of the best grammar schools, rushed across the field. ‘Come on chums, let’s give the Bosch a caning,’ someone called. Then, chocks-away and the first Spitfire chugged over uneven ground. Then a second, followed by the rest.
The autumn sun glinted off the metal fuselages as the boys headed south. Seconds later they encountered German Messerschmitts. Quickly, out-gunned by three to one. The air was thick with the smell of burning fuel.
Algernon didn’t see him coming. He heard a rattling machinegun. He didn’t feel a thing, just a sharp ping as the bullet tore out his throat. Farmers below looked up at the distant smoke trail marking the path of the fallen.
History called them ‘The Few.’ You might think that’s because there were so few who fought and won the Battle of Britain: in fact, it’s because so few came back.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 