The Memory: we that are left
(From The Red Hat Stories, by Pauline O'Connor. Published 2024.)
Third of September 2014.
The date was everywhere. Screened in bright lights on the departure board. Printed on the newspaper that lay on the train seat in front of him. Does no one else see it?, he wondered. Does no one else remember?
That morning, the radio announcer hadn’t paused after reading out the date. They had just carried on with the headlines, as if the date didn't matter.
A nudge from someone brushing past caused the old man to grasp for a handhold. The transgressor, a young woman, tossed a belated “excuse me” over her shoulder. The train started to move. The man picked up the paper, and lowered himself into the seat.
Seventy-five years ago today it had started. The day Chamberlain announced the news they all feared: "this country is at war with Germany”. Surely people would remember the date. It wasn’t the worst day of his life. But it led directly to the one that was, as surely as death follows life.
An announcement interrupted his thoughts, and he listened carefully. The monotone voice confirmed he was on the correct train. Reassured, he felt his leg stop shaking. He was on his way and had secured a seat.
When had catching a train become such a trial? He couldn’t say, but it didn't used to be so hard. He hadn’t always woken early to check the route umpteen times. Maybe his granddaughter was right. Maybe ninety was too old to be travelling on his own.
Simply checking the running times is harder these days. How to work the Internet, or write a text to get departure times? You used to pick up a printed timetable and the trains ran at those times. You could set your watch by them. Now the station was full of announcements and screens covered with confusing messages. There was no one around to help any more.
He was old, of course. Hearing aids and walking sticks had replaced the bravado of his youth. But that didn’t seem enough to account for all the changes. No, people have changed too. That young woman who had pushed past, for example. People used to have manners, and would wait rather than shove along. That woman wouldn’t help anyone.
It wasn’t just her; no one seemed to have manners any more. It was as if they were all locked in their own little world, not noticing the others around them. Not remembering what some had given. When was the last time anyone had said “thank you”? He couldn’t seem to remember that either.
Not remembering what some had given
As he watched the woman, the train went into a tunnel. The lights flickered as the wheels screamed over the points. The woman’s red hat seemed to come alive as yellow light skittered across it. The man’s breath caught and his pulse quickened. The screaming of the metal grew unbearable, and so like those twisted engines. Blackness encroached, and he was lost to that hectic night once more.
It was supposed to be a routine flight. A night raid on a suspected bomb factory in northern Germany. Straight flights, keep in formation, deliver the payload and back in time for bacon & eggs. Until that cold February night.
The target was sighted and the bomb dropped. Not a direct hit, but effective enough. Evans had been improving in the last couple of raids. The captain ordered the run home and had just promised another round in the airfield bar.
A massive impact came with no warning. The plane was smashed sideways, and he was thrown against the fuselage. There was a terrible screech of metal, the engines roared and sputtered. The plane started to spin downwards, always down.
He was shouting into the radio, god knows what he was saying. Whatever had been drilled into him during training. The floor flew up to meet him, and his world exploded into darkness.
Coming up out of the void, he heard a roar of flames and the pinging of hot metal. Someone was shouting and someone else screaming. There was something on his temple, and a stabbing pain which nearly knocked him out again. The terrible screams stopped, and he could hear now that the shouts were edged with terror. Slowly, unwillingly, he formed the noise into words. They were shouting his name. He forced his eyes to open.
The world was still black, but edged with flickering light. High above him, shadows swirled against the stars. There were brief flares of explosions. The shouts stopped, and the view above was blocked by a familiar face. “Thank god you’re awake. The captain is bad, but Bexley and Hunter didn’t make it. We thought you wouldn’t either, but you must have a thick skull under there.”
Evans thrust a canteen into his hand and disappeared. After a sip, he lay back. The last he remembered was hitting his head. He felt gingerly around the throbbing pain. There was a bandage, which didn’t seem to be doing much to stop the blood. His blood.
He took a deep breath and sat up. The world swam, but he gritted his teeth and waited for it to settle. He had been pulled free from the blazing hulk of metal which used to be the plane. Over to the right, where the screams had come from, were two disturbing shapes. He caught his breath as the world threatened to go black again.
Bexley and Hunter didn’t make it
Bexley and Hunter didn’t make it. He couldn’t think of that now. Needed to keep himself together. We were on a mission. We got the target. Bexley and Hunter didn’t make it.
We were headed home. We were shot down. Bexley and Hunter didn’t make it.
We were still over Germany. Bexley and Hunter didn’t make it.
We are still in Germany. Bexley and Hunter didn’t make it.
We are still in Germany.
We have to move.
I have to move.
I have to get up.
Now!
The old man jerked to his feet and lost his balance. Disorientated from the vivid memory, he realised he was in a train carriage, but couldn’t remember why. He was leaning against a young woman who had caught his fall. She was looking at him, asking if he was OK.
“Yes” he croaked. Then he cleared his throat and assured the woman that he was fine. They sat down again. The woman offered him some water, which he gratefully accepted. The old man recovered his breath and composure while the train rumbled on. The woman returned to her book, losing herself into the story.
Bexley wouldn’t have sat here watching her. He’d have been straight over. Never lost a chance to talk to the ladies, did Bexley. With so many on the go, he’d never managed to keep a lady either. Hunter and Evans teased him about that. Well, teased and admired him for it. Bexley would grin back. “It’s a gift lads, what can I say?”
The woman smiled as she read something amusing. I was wrong about you, he thought. The lads would like you, too. You’d probably like them, you’d like their jokes. Well, maybe not Hunter’s jokes. No one liked those.
But the lads are all gone now. You won’t know them, or what they did. I wish you knew them. I’d like to tell you about them.
The train jostled into a station and the young woman stood. She nodded at him, then turned and left the train. Her red hat bobbed past the window and was gone. The old man sighed: “They shall not grow old”.
They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old
From The Red Hat Stories, by Pauline O'Connor. Published 2024.
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