We buried him yesterday under a louring sky, the vicar saying the service over his coffin as we lowered him into the earth.
The tears were because we will miss his humour, his energy, his sense of fun. His silly hats. Mostly, we’ll miss his exaggerated tales of his war, the adventures told with comedy which made us laugh. He loved to talk about it, all his long life. How he was dropped into enemy lines in France and – according to him – he pretty much won the war single-handed, through a series of public school type larks as he called them.
As a kid I drank it in – Pops, a hero. But I never heard him speak a word of French and he always refused to visit there. Doubts crept in. No medals either. Surely he deserved medals for his heroic exploits.
He said, once only when the grandkids pestered him about it, that things happened he didn’t want to be reminded of, that he only wanted to hold the memories of the good stuff, and being there, in the towns, in the villages, in the woods, would release demons he’d returned to the hell where they belonged. I silenced my doubts and never pushed it after that.
But yesterday, when the vicar talked about Pops’ life – the life of John Peter White – as one well-lived, and his sacrifice for others, those doubts wriggled their way out of their cage and wove themselves around my heart.
I shrugged them off, and said thank you to the mourners, including the man in the black suit who came to me in the line and told me I should be proud. He pressed a small box into my hand, saying open it when you get home. I put it in my coat pocket and forgot about it. This morning, I put the coat on to go to work and felt the box in my pocket. Pulling it out, I went into the kitchen to open the sealed edges with a sharp knife.
And smiled through the utter weirdness of it. Nestling inside was a tiny folded French flag, and below that, a medal bearing a cross of Lorraine. The name of the recipient: Jean Pierre Blanc.
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Love the surprise ending. Here’s mine:
He well remembered it like yesterday. How could he ever forget?
Beneath a louring sky, the battlefield was a mass of writhing, heaving bodies – each trying to best another – here and there a raised flag denoting a particular battalion or brigade.
Knowing his troops were hopelessly outnumbered, the commanding general had given the order to march on the enemy – a manoeuvre that would surely mean certain death to all.
Fred was a young lieutenant with D company and his men had fixed bayonets as they advanced, rifles at the ready.
The deep, treacherous mud didn’t help. They had left the comparative safety of their trench to transverse open fields, knowing full well they just presented an easy target.
At first it was the searing sound of exploding artillery shells followed by deadly machine gun chatter that could simply destroy everything in their path.
Past that, hand to hand combat – and Fred and those of his company who had survived such an onslaught were now engaged in a struggle where no quarter would be asked or given.
Against overwhelming odds, they had emerged victorious – the enemy finally turning and fleeing the conflict.
But, what a cost. Wherever he looked, Fred could see dead bodies, many at grotesque angles as they writhed in their last breaths.
Why did human beings want to do this to each other, he wondered, angrily kicking a nearby table.
Fred blamed the generals and the stupid politicians who listened to their advice about war being the only solution to safeguard peaceful co-existence.
We should just stick them in a room and let them fight it out amongst themselves, he thought.
“Bet there wouldn’t be any wars, then,” he mused out loud, looking once more at the stump of his left arm hanging by his side.