100 Words: The Physical

When I joined the army I got a physical examination right at the start- we all did, all the new privates lined up together and displayed their own privates for inspection.  Not much fun but one thing did happen to lighten the mood.

The guy next to me had quite a large one and the doctor, upon seeing this, took out his pencil and lifted it for examination, clearly amazed at the size.

“Blimey,” he said, “I bet this fella’s been out of his cage a few times.”

“Aye,” replied the recruit, “But he’s never been on a perch before.”

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Written for 100 Word Challenge #403 on Velvet Verbosity; the prompt was the word Perched.

≤140 Characters, or Tweet Repeat: 18

The Dark Warrior's Triangle of Darkness strategem was flawless. Endless troops hot from the Underearth gave him invincibility in numbers.

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Note: I stole the Triangle of Darkness idea from the Second World War- more specifically from an IWM Interview that I catalogued (see Content Description).

250 Words: Book immersion

I get lost continuously in the worlds created in my mind by the shapes made by ink on paper.  Like Alice crawling down the rabbit hole I enter wonderland after wonderland immersing myself wholly in these strange new worlds.

Even when I have marked and closed the books, my brain carries on, pretending I’m doing something like wandering around a misty moor dressed like it’s more than a hundred years ago or walking the streets of Victorian London dodging pickpockets and shady characters.

I go too far, though, the emotional cost draining me entirely so that it is some time before I can carry on to another book and put myself through the mill again, the issues rolling through my mind and not letting me get on with my own life as I worry about the characters and what will happen to them next.  I even changed my name to Jane hoping Mr Rochester would come to call.

Escaping from Vienna, distanced from my family by space and age, it is probably not surprising I opt for this bubble existence, these escapist fantasies; especially in these beautiful surroundings that cause the mind to dream.  Real life keeps letting me down, after all, while books can’t let me down, they can only transport me to places still full of trials and tribulations, but ones that are normally resolved and don’t drag on with no end in sight.  Even if these worlds do stay with me too long they still complete me.

250 Words (x2): Memories of Sergeant Lucas

It’s difficult to forget him- a very queer man indeed.  We’re out in the jungle facing death daily and all he could think of was, well… I suppose I was jealous of the man- he had such perfect ways of escaping the war.

The rest of us spoke constantly of home, missing food, of the next rest period; rotated round and around the same subjects.  Lucas was always off creating his own private world to live in.  Where Tolkein had Middle Earth, our Sergeant had religion and his hobby.

His Bible was with Lucas throughout his service and he read a section of it every day.  Most us felt we were getting too close to our maker as it was without embracing religion when at rest, whether or not it had been with us before.  To try and get closer seemed insane.  Still, such belief must have been comforting in the face of the stories we heard about the enemy.  As must have been a true belief when the bullets were flying rather than the knee jerk religion I acquired.

Mostly, though, we did find it weird for someone to read The Bible in such surroundings.  I can remember avoiding the Padre at all costs on a Sunday.  Of course, just before an action I was always made a hypocrite, running straight to him looking for divine protection or comfort in death.  It was just.. jealousy, as I said, and wanting to escape further from the war in that respect.

And there was his hobby.  Back home Lucas was a collector of insects.  Presumably somewhere in his home were great wooden cases with tray after tray of creatures carefully pinned and labelled.

When he found out where we were posted he must have burned brightly inside.  Wherever we went I’m sure he’d have had a field day but.. well, the jungle must’ve been a richer mine than the desert or Europe.  Certainly he was in his element once out in the tropics.  Everywhere he looked his eyes would light up as he saw specimens that would be new additions to his collection.  (Much like myself and my children with cigarette cards and my grandchildren with their sticker albums).  Forward he would step with purpose and meaning otherwise unseen, a jar in his hand, ready to trap, freeze and send the poor devils home.  Whatever we were doing and however close to danger, that canny NCO always seemed to have an eye out for his next find.  Not that he could always capture- often he would just store the memory for when he could.

Again, most of us already felt too close to these things.  Every night we were woken by some bastard thing on us.  The idea of sticking them in jars as souvenirs was horrific.  And it wasn’t just butterflies and beetles- blooming hornets and other dangerous things to mess with were caught.  A madder man I have never met: Sergeant Lucas was one mighty queer bugger, believe me.

250 Words: Photographic reminiscences

I know what you mean, Adrian.  When we were children we were the same but with photographs.  We used to love opening the big brown drawers and remove the Kodak yellow and the Boots black envelopes, each filled with a film’s worth.  Or the large school photographs.  Or the album with the couple walking on a beach at sunset.

We had seen every single one before, always knew what was coming up, whether it be baby photos, family holidays or back garden snaps.  We would sit in a line on the sofa, the initiator at one end removing each set of photographs and passing them down, followed by the envelope for their safe return.  And we would marvel at whatever was in each picture- remarking, maybe, on me in a pink coat at Hastings, or Sarah (possibly David) dressed as Mr Sneeze, or Rachel in David’s arms with me and Sarah all sat on the bed (on which I was born) or Dad’s long hair or the bell bottoms Mum cursed every time- almost as if viewing them for the first time.  

Long afternoons in school holidays ran in this way (and occasional bonus sessions when relatives were around).  Even then there was a need for memory and nostalgia, to look backwards at what once was to ensure it was real and not a dream or false memory.

So, yeah Adrian, forty years may have passed between our childhoods but not a great deal changes in the lives of children.

250 Words: Fred’s Tea Shop

I will always remember this among the lighter memories from those sweaty days in
the jungles of Burma, along with the self-heating soup can exploding on me and the
look on my corporal’s face every morning when he took the nasty salt tablets. All
the little things that helped get us away from the memory of the Japs running at us
screaming, “Banzai,” with a look straight from hell in their eyes. A look we always
returned with bullets and bayonets. No doubt a similar look in our eyes.

Whenever anyone went out on patrol through the thick jungle one by one, nerves
on end, shirts drenched, rifles loaded and bayonets fixed and ready to pierce along
paths well trodden, eyes constantly looking into the green dazzle keenly looking for
anything not part of the pattern. The ears similar, filtering any noise for anything as
unnatural as us. And through villages hoping to meet with friendly Burmese and not
the retreating enemy with one up the spout and aimed at us. Our nerves always on
end, our fingers always itching: scared enough but not too much.

Anyway, whenever anyone returned from patrol they would always find Fred grinning
and ready with a brew: that little piece of home that was always with us. He would
be sitting down with his funny little cardboard sign reading, “Fred’s Tea Shop.” And
he would hand us a mug to refresh us. “Get that down you, make you feel better.
You’re home now, son.”

250 Words: Sophia Scholl

We knew about the Jews, the mentally ill, what is happening on every front.  And our conscience wouldn’t allow it, wouldn’t allow us to sit quiet and obedient.  Bloodshed opened our eyes to the madness we exist in and that we must rise to sweep away. 

We, the youth, must end the old guard’s day and start again.  Clean the buildings they have tarnished and cultivate the soil they have spoiled. 

We fought with words, with paper and ink.  Using trains and stamps to spread them out and fight the tyranny of fists and guns; the perpetrators of war.

We fought with an idea.  An idea opposed to that which rules us and our people, this faction of symbols and camps, and for a return to a world of freedom and peace.

We fought with our youth, maybe wasting it with foolish acts, but words and vigour were all we had and, underneath the blade, I regret nothing: only pray that our thoughts are preserved from harm and still rain down over Germany, that some root of our movement will remain and flourish.  Somebody, after all, had to make a start.  What we wrote and said is also believed by many others.  They just do not dare express themselves as we did.  Righteousness can only prevail if people are willing.

Such a fine, sunny day, and I have to go, but what does my death matter, if through us, thousands are awakened and stirred to action?

Es lebe die Freiheit!

250 Words: The two queues

Covered in bloodstains, sand and sweat we left the frontline very weary and dreading the long journey back east to Egypt.  Thankfully, we had a welcome rest in Tripoli first.  Where a very memorable event occurred.

In the centre of the city I was somewhat surprised to see a branch of Barclay's Bank.  A most unexpected mark of home.  Locals taking selling egg and chips I was used to but the blue eagle was a first.

Outside it formed a queue of troops clearly eager to take advantage and withdraw some money with which to have some fun.  And Lord did they deserve it!  Stranded beyond that anti-tank ditch I think we all felt it could have been over for us.  Many others we saw get put in the bag or shot down- some even ground into the sand under tank tracks.  But all that was behind us and we were back in a respite situation, free to relax.

I couldn't help noticing, though, a curious expression on the faces of the men outside the bank.  And the way they were shuffling about from foot to foot impatiently like children outside a sweet shop.  All were nervous and excited; none wore the expression of men who were soon to drink.  I didn't need to ponder the reason why for long as many of them kept glancing furtively across the road where a second queue led each man to the brothel area and the embrace of something unavailable in the frontline.

250 Words: Durban

The lady in white sings the boys in and out of harbour; welcoming them to our city, telling them we want to give them one last taste of what they are fighting for.  To show how proud we are of them and the risk they are taking for the whole of the free world.  

She greets every ship with her voice and never misses a single one.  Reminding them of the civilisation they are will protect in the desert or the jungle.  She believes in the war and gives something to those who will man the front line thousands of miles away from this island of peace she represents.  She welcomes the men on their long voyage to relax and enjoy the delights of Durban.

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She’s a siren, the first part of the charm offensive.  She sees only white faces, the potential for new seed to fill the streets.  Colour is the issue in these parts and keeping them separated into neat boxes of different sizes and quality.

The soldiers are told where they can go and who they can talk to, the colours they are able to mix with in a way that creates no spots.  Civilians welcome them with open arms inviting them to dinner: afterwards indirectly reading them the manifesto.  

The lady in white sings them out of harbour, into the Indian Ocean and over the horizon.  Filling their heads with her song as a reminder of Durban so that, if they survive, perhaps they might return.