Guest Posted 5 May , 2009 Share Posted 5 May , 2009 I sort of had an idea, so continued on. So Part One and Part two. "The Estaminet." The oil lamps sent smoky tendrils towards the low beams of the blackened ceiling. Across the back wall, a faded tapestry of the Last Supper hung, sagging with the weight of years. Small recessed windows of coloured glass, the hand carved wood that held the panes, chipped and shrunken, so one might think that a strong wind would cause the glass to fall and shatter, lined the front wall, giving room only to a door crafted as a barn door might be made. Two sections, each able to be bolted of their own accord, so as on a summer day, the chickens and geese be kept out of the house by the lower door, while allowing the gentle breezes to waft through the top half. In the fourth wall was the heart of the house, the fire and hearth. From the side of the fire place, a large cast iron pot hung from the metal arm, suspended over the coals; coals from wood gathered from the shelled houses that surrounded the house. On a three legged stool, an woman sat, the firelight kind to her aging face, the black ill fitting dress disguising the thinness of her frame as she busied herself winding a confusion of fresh spun wool from a woven basket at her feet, into a skein of order and conformity with those that lay in a box beside her. Now and then she would put the wool aside, reach over and with a poker, pull the metal arm towards her, then stir the contents of the huge pot, stabbing at its contents with a long wooden spoon to test the tenderness of the potatoes and turnips. The sound of tinkling glass caused her to pause and turn, knowing, before seeing, that this would be Suzanne bringing the freshly washed glasses to the tables. She sighed, pushed the pot back over the fire, and took up her wool again. ‘What have we come to, that we have to have many men in our house, just to survive?’ her thoughts were dark and bitter. 'I…, I that held the esteem of our town as the Maire’s wife, my daughter the most sought after debutante, am reduced to cooking for the Anglais and worse, the L'Australien. Ah, those L'Australiens. They that drink all our wine, demand more and more food, and turn my house into a gambling parlour!’ A piece of wood, once the beam of a ceiling in a house that held her neighbors, fell forward onto the hearth. “Here Mama, let me.” Her daughter reached for the poker and, balancing the wood carefully upon the poker, lifted the wood back into the fire. The wood crackled and flames licked upwards. “Hurry, Suzanne, they will be here soon, with their loudness and their hunger,” the mother chastised her daughter. “Mama, how can you be so hard on the poor soldiers that fight to help us. They are fighting the Boche and dying. They come here for our good food, and to relax for awhile.” “And to gamble and ogle you! How do you think I feel to have strangers in my house? To sit where your father and brother sat, and ate?” Suzanne lowered her head, and brushing her hands against her dress, she knelt beside her mother. “Mama, these soldiers are all that are between us and hunger. Between us and the Boche. They are dying and they are being crippled, so that we may keep our country. Some have are far from home, from their mothers and family. Is it not our duty to give them a place to feel good?” “Duty! Duty!” the elder women spat. “Your cousins and brother and father did their duty and are no longer. They have been taken from us, and we are reduced to having foreigners in our house!” Suzanne bit her bottom lip, holding back the hard words of truth that she longed to cry at her mother. Staring into the fire, her thoughts chased around as did the flames that she stared at. ‘You can take their money, while you still reject their help, their sacrifices for our country, our lives. I know what has made you so bitter, Mama? But the dead are dead, and we have to get on, get on the best we can. I have lost all the men I have loved. Papa, Nicholas, Cousin Henri. I hurt too. But these men from other lands are dying so that we can live, so that France can live, and they are not French, they are from all parts of the world. What do they owe us? Nothing. But we owe them everything.’ The older woman let the wool fall to her lap, her head drooping. “Suzanne,” she whispered. “ Suz, you are young. You have your life ahead of you. Now that the Boche are being forced back, you will see a new life, a husband, a baby, a new France. But, I, ………. I having nothing left. My husband, my son, my family, all but you, gone. My friends gone, killed by the Germans.” She raised her hands to her face, her heaving shoulders the only sign of her silent sobbing. “Mama,” Suzanne raised herself on her knees and pushed back a lock of hair that had escaped the old woman’s bun. “Mama, I am here.” The old woman lifted her face from her hands and stared at her daughter, her only living relation. “Yes, Suzanne, you are here. It is for you and my grand children to come, that I allow these strangers into my house, that I cook and become a servant. Yes, I take their money, and if I seem to be ungrateful, I am not. It is just so hard to see their liveliness, their good spirits, while our men are dead. It is for you, that I do so.” Suzanne rose from the hearth, smoothed down her dress and lifted her chin. “Well then Mama, I had better get on with preparing the house for the men who need us, and our food and wine. They who need a place to forget for just awhile, that they may end up like Papa and Nicci.” The door burst open and a slouch hatted, khaki clad mass spilled into the house. “Bon-sure Madam, Hello, Suzanne,” they laughed, and touched the brim of their hats. The men lounged and sprawled on the chairs and chaises, the sweat and dirt from their bodies invading the enclosed space of the front room. The old woman snorted and turned back to the fire, while Suzanne smacked adventurous hands as she poured beer from the earthen ware pitcher. Her smile was quick, and her eyes shone as she swirled among the men, laughing at their aliveness, avoiding their outstretched limbs, as they settled in and relaxed. “Donny, where’s the kip. I’ve the pennies. Let’s get the game started. Johnny, you’re the cocky!” yelled Corp. Johnny looked up from his beer, disappointment on his face. “I was cocky the other night, Corp. Let some other ****** be it.” Corp smiled an indulgent big brother smile. “Now, Johnny, you know that you gotta earn things in this man’s army, and I don’t wanna tell your Mam that you was a gambler. Now git.” Leaning over the table, Johnny grabbed his beer and stalked towards the door, cursing at being the youngest of the company. He pulled the door open, only to have half a door come to him. Kicking at the lower door, his ears ringing with the laughter of the men, he then jerked the lower door open. The glass of beer that he carried hit the stone floor with a splintering sloshing sound that carried over the raucous noise of the men’s carousing. Slowly, as if the breaking glass was a bugler’s command, the house became hushed as all eyes turned towards the door. In the lamp lit doorway, a small brown and white terrier sat, ears pricked, tail wagging, nose up, staring at Johnny. Slowly, one step at a time, Johnny backed into the room, his lips quivering, his hands held up in front of him. “No, no… You’re dead. We saw you. We all saw …” His voice rose higher as he backed away, his hands warding away this apparition. In the room the only sound to be heard was the crackling of the fire as the men sat rigid, their eyes fastened on the creature that sat in the doorway. The tail stopped wagging, and the little head with soulful brown eyes bent sideways as it stared at the room full of soldiers. It did not understand the fear that emanated from the room, the confusion, the rejection. He stood up and stretched, and trotted purposefully towards the fire, stared at it, bent his head around to chew at his behind, then after looking about again, lay with his head on his paws, staring out at the room full of men. Suzanne went forward to the dog, shushing at him. “No, no .. no dogs in the house.” A hand reached out and caught her skirt, pulling her back. She turned to brush away the offence, and in doing so, saw the face of the man who had grasped her skirt. His stony eyes filled a grey face that had a moment ago been ruddy with the glow of beer and the promise of song and cheer. Stepping back a pace, Suzanne glanced about, the sudden silence sinking into her conscience, the frozen looks of the men as they all stared at the little terrier that warmed himself in front of the fire. “What is this dog?” she asked the men. “He must be put outside. We do not allow animals in our house!” The sudden force of voices drove her back against the wall. “No! He stays!” “He is not here!” “He is dead!” “That was two months ago. Way back down there!” Shaking her head, Suzanne gestured towards the dog, “But he is here. Look, he is content in front of the fire. He is a beautiful little dog.” The scrapping of a chair caused her to look into the room. Corp stood, his hands twitching by his side as he stared at the brown and white creature curled on the hearth. His voice soft, broken, he lifted his eyes towards Suzanne, then past her, seeing another place, another time. “Little Mate……….,” he said. The dog jumped to its feet, ears pricked eyes on Corp, and as one, the soldiers drew breath. The room quivered. The hair on the back of her neck prickled as Suzanne looked about, first to the little dog, seeing his gaze fixed upon the Corp, and then she looked over to the men. Grown men who seemed to be stricken at the sight of a mere dog. She shook her head, and lifting her arms, stretching out her hands, she asked, “What? Why? He is just a little dog.” The man that the men called Corp shook himself, as if shaking off a bad dream, a bad thought. He wiped his hands over his face and then dropped his arms by his side. Corp stepped back and lifted his glass to take a sip, trying to get himself under control. It was then that the little dog tipped his head on the side, pricked his ears and stared at Corp, as if waiting; waiting for Corp to answer. Corp coughed, and lifting his hand to his mouth he forced another cough, trying to get his voice. Staring at the dog, be began and his voice had the pitch of a choirboy. “We had a lad. We knew he was young, but what with them that was going west, and he was there and he stepped up and you didn’t remember he was so young. He had this thing with the animals. When we were billeted in some barn out from Pozieres, he chatted with the cows, for Christs sake! And the cats curled up with him!” There was a whisper in the room, as the men murmered and remembered. The high sing song voice continued. “Then we moved into the front line, and the little ****** had birds that would come down and eat from his hand.” Corp raised his glass and swung it around. “We’re in a bloody trench and this boy had bloody birds eating from his hand!” He paused, grasping for the next words. The room was still, the only movement, the wagging tail of the little dog. “He was a boy. He found a dog. A terrier that some Scots had bought over as a mascot. They were all dead. Gone over and all killed, but this little dog was still there in the trenches. And young Jimmy, he took to the dog, and fed him and the little dog took to young Jimmy, was always with him, even when we went up to the lines.” Corp's eyes stared up at the blackened ceiling, his mind leaving the room. “That little dog, he didn’t give a damn who we were, he was Jimmy’s dog. He slept with him, he kept the rats from him, he let no one near Jimmy’s gear. Then, we got orders. We marched to another place, another line, and we went over,” Corp’s high sing song voice paused, and he cleared his throat. Softly, in a whisper, he continued, “ We always tried to have Jimmy stay behind, come later, but he never would. He’d come storming through. The Captain caught it this day, and later, after we had been beaten back, and the Captain was out there in the mud, Jimmy went out, and picked him up. How, I’ll never know, him a slip of a lad, but he just got up and out he went. The Boche, they was waiting and when Jimmy picked up the Captain and was carrying him back, they starting shooting, and Jimmy must of taken bullet after bullet before he went down. ……He was a good lad.” As one, the men sighed, and the scrape of glasses across the wooden tables as they raised them in tribute, sounded loud in the still room. Corp dragged his eyes from the ceiling, down to the dog that lay on the hearth. “Little Mate, is what he called the dog.” The dog sprung up again at the sound of the familiar name, his eyes fixed on Corp. “As the Boche fired at Jimmy, and he went down, the dog jumped out over the parapet, and ran to Jimmy. He jumped all over him, and grabbed his shirt, trying to drag him back to the trench. But… the bloody Huns, they…” Corp’s voice broke, and he stopped, gulping air, but forced on by his emotion he tried again. “They took aim at the dog, and must have been six or seven rifles firing at the dog. We knew it was hit when it jumped and yelped and ran. But then it stopped and it crawled on its belly, back to Jimmy, and we saw it licking Jimmy’s face and then the Hun had another go and….” Suzanne walked towards the Corp, her hands reaching for his face. “Please, no more. You and your men, no more…” Corp stared at the woman in front of him, felt her hands on his cheeks. He stared at her, his eyes wide and unyielding. “No, … I saw the Hun’s bullets hit the dog. I saw it! I saw the dog die beside Jimmy.” He pushed her hands away and slowly walked towards the dog. Kneeling down, he stretched his hand out. The terrier reached forward, his tongue darting out to lick the hand that came forward, then he rolled on his back, his belly exposed for a rub from a known friend. The room heard the intake of Corp’s breath as he saw the healing wounds of bullet grazes, the missing piece of flesh on the inside of the near hind leg. His hands smoothed over the dog’s head and felt a deep furrow along the terrier’s scalp. “Little Mate?” he asked. A wag of the tail and a lick told him. His eyes lifted from the dog and looked around slowly, answering each soldier’s eyes. “We left the little ****** for dead! He must of crawled off and somehow?…..He’s survived and followed us. Followed us all this way?” The man reached over and lifted the dog into his arms. Little Mate swiped a tongue up Corp’s cheek and looked around the familiar soldiers for Jimmy. Kneeling down beside Corp, Suzanne took the little dog’s face in her hands. She looked into the eyes that wanted to see only one soldier. “Mon Brave, Chien. “ Kim Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
bruce Posted 5 May , 2009 Share Posted 5 May , 2009 Kim...do you work for Kleenex? If so...are you on commission? That is terrific! Bruce Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
salesie Posted 5 May , 2009 Share Posted 5 May , 2009 Kim, PartII is story-telling at its best and I'll let the words of another sum up your achievement. Taken from: The PROFILE OF VALERIO MANFREDI. NOVELS OF ANCIENT HISTORY, Writing Magazine, June-July 2004, p. 68 “Valerio Manfredi is probably best known for his Alexander trilogy, which has been translated in 24 languages throughout 38 countries. At home in Italy, Valerio is professor of classical archaeology at Milan's Bocconi University as well as being a novelist. Writing a novel, he says, is totally different to writing articles in historical journals. In a novel, "you really need the human dimension. Certainly you have to be respectful of what we know for sure, of the known historical facts, but you can also use your imagination. (…) So what I am writing is imaginative – not fantasy, but imagination around what we know for sure. (…) Once I start a writing session, I write very fast and just keep going on and on. My grandfather was a storyteller, and that is what I am doing. I remember listening to him, and his techniques for capturing the interest of his audience come back to me. It is important that you write for your readers. Most important of all, you have to create emotion. Creating emotion is what makes you an artist (…) You can learn things like vocabulary, syntax, even how to interpret your sources. But you need an instinct that tells you how to pick up scenes that will talk directly to your audience and which will touch the human heart. Writing should not be the cerebral product of putting words together. Too many critics think that the word is the end object of writing. But really words are just the vehicle for emotion, and you should never forget that."” In this piece your words are a vehicle for emotion, Kim - Cracking! Cheers-salesie. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest Posted 5 May , 2009 Share Posted 5 May , 2009 Bruce, No financial interests, I need some kleenex now and then, reading this forum though. Ta Salasie, .............your words give me hope , (and if I am truthful, made me feel that what I try to write means something) And, helps me to keep hearing the music, as do the words and efforts of others of GWMAT. Thank you Kim Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest Posted 9 May , 2009 Share Posted 9 May , 2009 He won't go away. Part 1,2 and now 3. The Estaminet." The oil lamps sent smoky tendrils towards the low beams of the blackened ceiling. Across the back wall, a faded tapestry of the Last Supper hung, sagging with the weight of years. Small recessed windows of coloured glass, the hand carved wood that held the panes, chipped and shrunken, so one might think that a strong wind would cause the glass to fall and shatter, lined the front wall, giving room only to a door crafted as a barn door might be made. Two sections, each able to be bolted of their own accord, so as on a summer day, the chickens and geese be kept out of the house by the lower door, while allowing the gentle breezes to waft through the top half. In the fourth wall was the heart of the house, the fire and hearth. From the side of the fire place, a large cast iron pot hung from the metal arm, suspended over the coals; coals from wood gathered from the shelled houses that surrounded the house. On a three legged stool, an woman sat, the firelight kind to her aging face, the black ill fitting dress disguising the thinness of her frame as she busied herself winding a confusion of fresh spun wool from a woven basket at her feet, into a skein of order and conformity with those that lay in a box beside her. Now and then she would put the wool aside, reach over and with a poker, pull the metal arm towards her, then stir the contents of the huge pot, stabbing at its contents with a long wooden spoon to test the tenderness of the potatoes and turnips. The sound of tinkling glass caused her to pause and turn, knowing, before seeing, that this would be Suzanne bringing the freshly washed glasses to the tables. She sighed, pushed the pot back over the fire, and took up her wool again. ‘What have we come to, that we have to have many men in our house, just to survive?’ her thoughts were dark and bitter. 'I…, I that held the esteem of our town as the Maire’s wife, my daughter the most sought after debutante, am reduced to cooking for the Anglais and worse, the L'Australien. Ah, those L'Australiens. They that drink all our wine, demand more and more food, and turn my house into a gambling parlour!’ A piece of wood, once the beam of a ceiling in a house that held her neighbors, fell forward onto the hearth. “Here Mama, let me.” Her daughter reached for the poker and, balancing the wood carefully upon the poker, lifted the wood back into the fire. The wood crackled and flames licked upwards. “Hurry, Suzanne, they will be here soon, with their loudness and their hunger,” the mother chastised her daughter. “Mama, how can you be so hard on the poor soldiers that fight to help us. They are fighting the Boche and dying. They come here for our good food, and to relax for awhile.” “And to gamble and ogle you! How do you think I feel to have strangers in my house? To sit where your father and brother sat, and ate?” Suzanne lowered her head, and brushing her hands against her dress, she knelt beside her mother. “Mama, these soldiers are all that are between us and hunger. Between us and the Boche. They are dying and they are being crippled, so that we may keep our country. Some have are far from home, from their mothers and family. Is it not our duty to give them a place to feel good?” “Duty! Duty!” the elder women spat. “Your cousins and brother and father did their duty and are no longer. They have been taken from us, and we are reduced to having foreigners in our house!” Suzanne bit her bottom lip, holding back the hard words of truth that she longed to cry at her mother. Staring into the fire, her thoughts chased around as did the flames that she stared at. ‘You can take their money, while you still reject their help, their sacrifices for our country, our lives. I know what has made you so bitter, Mama? But the dead are dead, and we have to get on, get on the best we can. I have lost all the men I have loved. Papa, Nicholas, Cousin Henri. I hurt too. But these men from other lands are dying so that we can live, so that France can live, and they are not French, they are from all parts of the world. What do they owe us? Nothing. But we owe them everything.’ The older woman let the wool fall to her lap, her head drooping. “Suzanne,” she whispered. “ Suz, you are young. You have your life ahead of you. Now that the Boche are being forced back, you will see a new life, a husband, a baby, a new France. But, I, ………. I having nothing left. My husband, my son, my family, all but you, gone. My friends gone, killed by the Germans.” She raised her hands to her face, her heaving shoulders the only sign of her silent sobbing. “Mama,” Suzanne raised herself on her knees and pushed back a lock of hair that had escaped the old woman’s bun. “Mama, I am here.” The old woman lifted her face from her hands and stared at her daughter, her only living relation. “Yes, Suzanne, you are here. It is for you and my grand children to come, that I allow these strangers into my house, that I cook and become a servant. Yes, I take their money, and if I seem to be ungrateful, I am not. It is just so hard to see their liveliness, their good spirits, while our men are dead. It is for you, that I do so.” Suzanne rose from the hearth, smoothed down her dress and lifted her chin. “Well then Mama, I had better get on with preparing the house for the men who need us, and our food and wine. They who need a place to forget for just awhile, that they may end up like Papa and Nicci.” The door burst open and a slouch hatted, khaki clad mass spilled into the house. “Bon-sure Madam, Hello, Suzanne,” they laughed, and touched the brim of their hats. The men lounged and sprawled on the chairs and chaises, the sweat and dirt from their bodies invading the enclosed space of the front room. The old woman snorted and turned back to the fire, while Suzanne smacked adventurous hands as she poured beer from the earthen ware pitcher. Her smile was quick, and her eyes shone as she swirled among the men, laughing at their aliveness, avoiding their outstretched limbs, as they settled in and relaxed. “Donny, where’s the kip. I’ve the pennies. Let’s get the game started. Johnny, you’re the cocky!” yelled Corp. Johnny looked up from his beer, disappointment on his face. “I was cocky the other night, Corp. Let some other ****** be it.” Corp smiled an indulgent big brother smile. “Now, Johnny, you know that you gotta earn things in this man’s army, and I don’t wanna tell your Mam that you was a gambler. Now git.” Leaning over the table, Johnny grabbed his beer and stalked towards the door, cursing at being the youngest of the company. He pulled the door open, only to have half a door come to him. Kicking at the lower door, his ears ringing with the laughter of the men, he then jerked the lower door open. The glass of beer that he carried hit the stone floor with a splintering sloshing sound that carried over the raucous noise of the men’s carousing. Slowly, as if the breaking glass was a bugler’s command, the house became hushed as all eyes turned towards the door. In the lamp lit doorway, a small brown and white terrier sat, ears pricked, tail wagging, nose up, staring at Johnny. Slowly, one step at a time, Johnny backed into the room, his lips quivering, his hands held up in front of him. “No, no… You’re dead. We saw you. We all saw …” His voice rose higher as he backed away, his hands warding away this apparition. In the room the only sound to be heard was the crackling of the fire as the men sat rigid, their eyes fastened on the creature that sat in the doorway. The tail stopped wagging, and the little head with soulful brown eyes bent sideways as it stared at the room full of soldiers. It did not understand the fear that emanated from the room, the confusion, the rejection. He stood up and stretched, and trotted purposefully towards the fire, stared at it, bent his head around to chew at his behind, then after looking about again, lay with his head on his paws, staring out at the room full of men. Suzanne went forward to the dog, shushing at him. “No, no .. no dogs in the house.” A hand reached out and caught her skirt, pulling her back. She turned to brush away the offence, and in doing so, saw the face of the man who had grasped her skirt. His stony eyes filled a grey face that had a moment ago been ruddy with the glow of beer and the promise of song and cheer. Stepping back a pace, Suzanne glanced about, the sudden silence sinking into her conscience, the frozen looks of the men as they all stared at the little terrier that warmed himself in front of the fire. “What is this dog?” she asked the men. “He must be put outside. We do not allow animals in our house!” The sudden force of voices drove her back against the wall. “No! He stays!” “He is not here!” “He is dead!” “That was two months ago. Way back down there!” Shaking her head, Suzanne gestured towards the dog, “But he is here. Look, he is content in front of the fire. He is a beautiful little dog.” The scrapping of a chair caused her to look into the room. Corp stood, his hands twitching by his side as he stared at the brown and white creature curled on the hearth. His voice soft, broken, he lifted his eyes towards Suzanne, then past her, seeing another place, another time. “Little Mate……….,” he said. The dog jumped to its feet, ears pricked eyes on Corp, and as one, the soldiers drew breath. The room quivered. The hair on the back of her neck prickled as Suzanne looked about, first to the little dog, seeing his gaze fixed upon the Corp, and then she looked over to the men. Grown men who seemed to be stricken at the sight of a mere dog. She shook her head, and lifting her arms, stretching out her hands, she asked, “What? Why? He is just a little dog.” The man that the men called Corp shook himself, as if shaking off a bad dream, a bad thought. He wiped his hands over his face and then dropped his arms by his side. Corp stepped back and lifted his glass to take a sip, trying to get himself under control. It was then that the little dog tipped his head on the side, pricked his ears and stared at Corp, as if waiting; waiting for Corp to answer. Corp coughed, and lifting his hand to his mouth he forced another cough, trying to get his voice. Staring at the dog, be began and his voice had the pitch of a choirboy. “We had a lad. We knew he was young, but what with them that was going west, and he was there and he stepped up and you didn’t remember he was so young. He had this thing with the animals. When we were billeted in some barn out from Pozieres, he chatted with the cows, for Christs sake! And the cats curled up with him!” There was a whisper in the room, as the men murmered and remembered. The high sing song voice continued. “Then we moved into the front line, and the little ****** had birds that would come down and eat from his hand.” Corp raised his glass and swung it around. “We’re in a bloody trench and this boy had bloody birds eating from his hand!” He paused, grasping for the next words. The room was still, the only movement, the wagging tail of the little dog. “He was a boy. He found a dog. A terrier that some Scots had bought over as a mascot. They were all dead. Gone over and all killed, but this little dog was still there in the trenches. And young Jimmy, he took to the dog, and fed him and the little dog took to young Jimmy, was always with him, even when we went up to the lines.” Corp's eyes stared up at the blackened ceiling, his mind leaving the room. “That little dog, he didn’t give a damn who we were, he was Jimmy’s dog. He slept with him, he kept the rats from him, he let no one near Jimmy’s gear. Then, we got orders. We marched to another place, another line, and we went over,” Corp’s high sing song voice paused, and he cleared his throat. Softly, in a whisper, he continued, “ We always tried to have Jimmy stay behind, come later, but he never would. He’d come storming through. The Captain caught it this day, and later, after we had been beaten back, and the Captain was out there in the mud, Jimmy went out, and picked him up. How, I’ll never know, him a slip of a lad, but he just got up and out he went. The Boche, they was waiting and when Jimmy picked up the Captain and was carrying him back, they starting shooting, and Jimmy must of taken bullet after bullet before he went down. ……He was a good lad.” As one, the men sighed, and the scrape of glasses across the wooden tables as they raised them in tribute, sounded loud in the still room. Corp dragged his eyes from the ceiling, down to the dog that lay on the hearth. “Little Mate, is what he called the dog.” The dog sprung up again at the sound of the familiar name, his eyes fixed on Corp. “As the Boche fired at Jimmy, and he went down, the dog jumped out over the parapet, and ran to Jimmy. He jumped all over him, and grabbed his shirt, trying to drag him back to the trench. But… the bloody Huns, they…” Corp’s voice broke, and he stopped, gulping air, but forced on by his emotion he tried again. “They took aim at the dog, and must have been six or seven rifles firing at the dog. We knew it was hit when it jumped and yelped and ran. But then it stopped and it crawled on its belly, back to Jimmy, and we saw it licking Jimmy’s face and then the Hun had another go and….” Suzanne walked towards the Corp, her hands reaching for his face. “Please, no more. You and your men, no more…” Corp stared at the woman in front of him, felt her hands on his cheeks. He stared at her, his eyes wide and unyielding. “No, … I saw the Hun’s bullets hit the dog. I saw it! I saw the dog die beside Jimmy.” He pushed her hands away and slowly walked towards the dog. Kneeling down, he stretched his hand out. The terrier reached forward, his tongue darting out to lick the hand that came forward, then he rolled on his back, his belly exposed for a rub from a known friend. The room heard the intake of Corp’s breath as he saw the healing wounds of bullet grazes, the missing piece of flesh on the inside of the near hind leg. His hands smoothed over the dog’s head and felt a deep furrow along the terrier’s scalp. “Little Mate?” he asked. A wag of the tail and a lick told him. His eyes lifted from the dog and looked around slowly, answering each soldier’s eyes. “We left the little ****** for dead! He must of crawled off and somehow?…..He’s survived and followed us. Followed us all this way?” The man reached over and lifted the dog into his arms. Little Mate swiped a tongue up Corp’s cheek and looked around the familiar soldiers for Jimmy. Kneeling down beside Corp, Suzanne took the little dog’s face in her hands. She looked into the eyes that wanted to see only one soldier. “Mon Brave, Chien. “ The men took their leave, subdued, not as gay as usual on leaving an Estaminet. The little brown and white dog foremost in their minds. “How did he find us?” “What did he come through?” “How the hell did he survive?” The questions lay about them, chasing everything else from their minds. That last few moments in the place, of Corp acknowledging that it was indeed Jimmy’s Little Mate, and Suzanne, paying respect to the dog’s loyalty, haunted them. Even those that had never had the comfort of a dog, known the loyalty of a dog, shivered as they pictured in their mind’s eye, the dangerous and exhausting route that Little Mate had taken to find his master’s mates. Sammy put it bluntly, his curiosity and disbelief overriding the natural instinct of the men to bury what they could not grasp. “How’d the little ******* know? How’d he track us here? He was dead! We all saw that!” Not a man answered. “Well? Nobody got nothin’ to say? Jimmy was special, we knows that. But why did that dog follow us?” A voice growled, “Shut up, Sammy. It don’t bear thinkin’ bout.” Sammy kicked at the brick wall he was passing. “I don’t know, but here we is, fighting and killing, and this little dog tries to save Jimmy. Jimmy’s gone west, for Christ’s sake. We leave the dog for dead and it turns up, well, it’s enough to make you think!” He turned and looked at his mates in the lamplight, and he was struck dumb by the expressions on their faces. Some were pale, one had his rosary out, the beads flying through his fingers. Others stared about them, trying to ignore his words. “Well? Why?” Heavy steps on the cobblestones behind them drew their attention, and as one they turned to see Corp coming towards them. Sammy stepped forward, his chest thrust forward, panting. “Well, Corp? What did you do with the little mongrel?” Corp paused and looked at each man. He knew that the night’s doings had caused them some questions. It made them remember Jimmy. It made them ask how a small creature of God could survive what their mates had not. It made them wonder at their lack of care that they had not made sure Little Mate was dead, that they had let an innocent creature die in agony, and had not put it out of its misery. It had not died , and this haunted them. The yellow lamps showed each man’s worn face, the sallow, hungry look of men who had seen too much, suffered too much. “Suzanne promised to look after him, men. He has a hearth to lie on, and good food, and a gorgeous new owner. He has done his time, and now he will be happy.” The men stamped and murmured their agreement. Yes, this was the best way, the little one would be cared for. Better he stay in the village than follow them to what knows what hell! The men tramped down the cobblestones towards their billet, the wine that they had drank feeling like a dead weight in their veins; not giving them the pleasant glow that they were used to. The morning bugle came not too soon for some of them. They had laid in the hay, their legs and arms twitching as their dreams took them through the battles of the last months, the deaths of their mates and the horror of the battlefields; all re-lived in the darkness of sleep. They wakened cursing, cursing the little dog that had bought back the memories, and then they bit their lips, as they remembered its bravery in trying to save Jimmy, and the lonely death that they had left it to. They rose and washed in the trough at the front of the stables, the water icy cold, bringing them awake, and back to reality. The reality that they were to march up to the front line. Again. After sipping petrol scented tea, and coughing over a last smoke, they dragged their packs onto their shoulders, lifted their rifles, and formed up. The Corp did not have to say a word, as the men fell into formation, and as one body, moved forward. The dust sprung up in tendrils from their boots, and the roadside verges beckoned them invitingly, with the colour of the cornflowers and poppies, amongst the green of the gentle grass that waved in the soft breeze. As the ancients had marched these roads, now the soldiers of a new land followed. Where, they knew, for what, they knew, for why; they questioned. As the roads became the saps and the dust became mud, they mumbled and swore; pausing in their disagreement with the world’s sanity, only when a stretcher passed them. Then, as to each his own religion, they crossed themselves, looked away, or shook the injured man’s hand, promising him that they would give the Hun justice on his behalf. As they stumbled along the duckboards, over the debris of war; the coils of barbed wire, the fallen blackened tree trunks, the dead mates, the bloated horses; they remembered the warmth of the hearth, the soul reviving smell of stew bubbling in the pot, the dry tart aftermath on their tongues of the Vin Blanc, the glint in the eye of Suzanne,… and they cursed and wondered. Taking over from the 45th, the men settled into a routine that was now second nature. Reinforce the parapet, repair the shell damage, seek the best dugouts, look to the stars and wish that the Hun’s had no plans for tonight. Swear at being on sentry duty, pray that the cooks in the back lines were on the go, hope that the runners would make it through. All the bits and pieces that made a soldier’s life hell or bearable, …just. Dawn bought the usual stand to, and no sounds alluded to the promise of a sh*t of a morning. The men relaxed, as best they could, some writing letters, others playing cards. More digging, more sniping, looking for the runners that would bring hot, well, maybe warm stew for tea. As the men set about their duties, one or two looked down at their sodden boots, and remembered the warmth of Suzanne’s Estaminet, that place that had been comfortable and homelike, no matter that the old woman snorted at them; they had felt human there. And now here? Enveloped in a uniform that bred chats, taking bets on how many rats they could spear, how many Hun that Harry would snipe that day, they all thought of Suzanne and the warm walls of her house; was it a dream? The orders came down. Over the top at daybreak. The barrage would start an hour before. Go forward over a five hundred yard front, the Tommies on the left, the Kiwis on the right. Go forward, take the Huns, go forward, through the mud, the wire, the old battle field. Each man communed with his own that night. They thought of those that were not with them now. They thought of those at home. They wrote letters; cheery, uplifting letters so as to allay their loved ones doubts. They remembered the long path they had marched to come to this trench. They remembered the warmth and generosity of the local people. And they prepared. A gossamer veil of a dawn mist hung over the battlefield, wavering and swirling, hiding and revealing no-man’s land, and the German trenches. The black earth, the shell holes, the devastation of the country side, flowing and ebbing with the mist’s elusive wanderings. The men roused themselves, some lingering over their tot of rum, others on their knees, asking. The Corp walked along the trench, his eyes never still. Here a man needed a pat on the back, there one needed a wink. He gave himself to each of his men, the only way he could. The command came. The barrage opened up, and hell rent the earth. The whistle shrilled. That tiny instrument of death, it shrilled against the orchestra that the devil had drummed up for the men that day. They scrambled and crawled up over the parapet, walking forward, rifles at the hip, the freshly sharpened bayonets dull in the morning mist. Forward they went, and the Hun’s artillery opened up. The Hun’s machine guns rattled, and the men sank into the soil of France. Some would never again know sunshine or rain, others would never again set eyes on the sea or the mountains. Others lay gulping, screaming, their torn limbs, their oozing stomachs an appointment with death. Still some marched forward, and left their bodies hanging on the wire. Those that had felt, seen, and stumbled over the dead and maimed, they knew a rage; a rage of red and fog, a rage that grew in them and took them to a place that man had no right or expectation to go. But there they went, and with screams of ancient beings, they went forward and took a life for a life, drove the bayonet through flesh, and revelled as the steel went home, as the enemy sighed when the life force left him. Slowly the noise abated, the barrage died and the battlefield became again a quiet, bleak, tormented piece of earth. Except for the cries of ‘Stretcher!” and the groans of men whose wounds were too much to bear, the sounds of battle died away. Sammy stared about, the fog had lifted from his mind, and now, as he looked around, it was as if he were flipping the pages of a story book, each picture painting a different scene. Around him were the dead and dying German’s. Spread between hell and their own trenches were his wounded and dying mates, the red blood, the grey faces, the blasted trenches, the new shell holes. Setting his head sideways, he listened for Corp’s usual diatribe of what useless bastar*s they were, what they had done wrong, who they had to attend to, where to dig in! He listened in vain. A rising panic, not one that came when you went over, but a deeper, more gut wrenching turmoil came, as his eyes searched the bleak black ground of No Mans land, his desperate stare searching for Corp. Corp, the one that fathered the young, punched the smart ar*ses, been the go between the f’ing officers and the men, the one who had bought the drinks, the one who couldn’t , wouldn’t….do anything but the best by his men. Sammy’s stare roamed over the wire behind the captured trench. His face froze, his eyes widening in horror as he saw the torn bleeding body of Corp, held by the vicious knots of barbs on the German’s wire. Sammy’s mind did not ask why, as he dropped to, and floundered in the mud on his knees. His mind did not question why Corp’s body should affect him more than any other. What drove Sammy’s mind to another plateau, a place that would never be reached again, a place that only those that had had the privilege of seeing what he now beheld, and would always hold such a thing as a gift, now appeared for Sammy. He lifted his mud encrusted hands to face, dragging them down over his eyes. Digging into his cheeks, his fingers left red furrows as they tore into the skin. It was not possible. They had marched thirty miles, come through hell. His heart told him his eyes did not lie. He stared at the little brown and white dog that tugged at Corp’s collar, trying to drag him off the wire, to drag him to safety. Sammy’s mind had stopped all thought, all but one. Jimmy had not been dead when Little Mate went to get him, and neither was Corp. With an instinct, - a gift, unknown to man, this little dog had followed and stayed loyal to his men, and now that ancient wisdom of the dog was showing Sammy that Corp was not dead. 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CGM Posted 9 May , 2009 Share Posted 9 May , 2009 Oh! You will be writing more, won't you......... Please Kim. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
salesie Posted 9 May , 2009 Share Posted 9 May , 2009 As I said earlier, Kim, story-telling at its best - keep it up. Cheers-salesie. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
dekenai Posted 10 May , 2009 Share Posted 10 May , 2009 --seriously Ms Kim, you are not far off a novel with your estaminet--hmmm. proceed without haste though. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
CGM Posted 10 May , 2009 Share Posted 10 May , 2009 Kim, Please have a giggle at my expense... A couple of days ago I lost the top bar off my screen, so no back and forward buttons - a terrible position to be in when on a forum! It spent ages trying to get it back - in fact it only reappeared when I re-booted. When I reached the end of your post I looked to 'turn on' to the next page and, to my dismay found I must have lost a bottom bar off the screen, so I couldn't turn over to see the rest - a terrible position to be in! I actually spent a while looking for it before it dawned on me that I had really reached the end. So - my Oh! (above) came from the heart .... Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
salesie Posted 10 May , 2009 Share Posted 10 May , 2009 (Not for polling) 18, Balfour St, Attercliffe, Sheffield. 18th June 1916. My dearest Tommy, Thank you for your latest letter. Despite the scarcity and usual brevity of your letters you always sound so cheerful and optimistic in them and such things warm a mother’s heart. Is it possible for you to write to me more often? Mrs Simpkin-Watt tells me that her son, Henry, writes to her almost every week without fail. I know Henry is a subaltern and you are a private soldier, and perhaps therefore he has more time to write home, but perhaps you could find the time to write to me a little more frequently? As an aside, do you ever come across Henry in your day to day duties? You were great chums at school, and it would cheer me somewhat to think that you were looking out for each other. I know you are still annoyed with your father, for attempting to pull strings with his business contacts in order to have you commissioned, but you must understand that he was only thinking of your best interests, and that he was equally annoyed with you for refusing the offer when it came. It’s all very well you wishing to remain in the ranks, but with your education and background your father does have a point when he says that it is your duty to lead. I must say, however, that I find this bickering about commissions and duty somewhat tiresome, when all I wish for is your safe return. That said, Tommy, I do have more pressing concerns at the moment. When I was visiting your father’s factory the other day, I overheard some of the factory women talking. Some of the things they were saying cannot be repeated in decent company. But to summarise, they were saying that France is full of dens of iniquity, which trap our brave troops. One was saying that she’d learnt from a friend that French civilians had set up bars called Estimates, where our troops can drink as much alcohol as they like, gamble whenever they want, and, most shockingly, meet up with ladies of the night. To their credit, all the women seemed shocked, and one stated quite openly that if she found out that her husband had been visiting one of these Estimates then she would skin him alive. Another declared that her son would never dream of visiting such an establishment, him once being an alter-boy and all. But the others just laughed, and said when away from home in a foreign country then how could their men-folk resist such temptations and that the French and British authorities should be ashamed of themselves for allowing such establishments to flourish. Such was my shock at hearing this news; I broached the subject with Mrs Simpkin-Watt when taking our usual Friday afternoon high-tea together at the Victoria Hotel. She said that she’d heard similar rumours a few months ago and had sought assurances from Henry that he was in no moral danger. She told me that Henry had written back to her immediately assuring her that although such establishments did exist, called Estaminet not Estimates, the officers frequented establishments, when off-duty, that were merely cafes and bars and that he had never personally witnessed any gambling nor nefarious goings-on, and that he would never condone such immoral behaviour. Unfortunately, this only served to heighten my own concerns i.e. that is all very-well for the officers but where did the ordinary soldiers go when off-duty? This is a very difficult subject for a mother to broach with her son, Tommy – I do wish that you and your father were on speaking terms – but I feel that I must warn you against visiting such establishments. If they are as bad as the rumours say they are then I must warn you that by just visiting these places of drunkenness and debauchery then you are in severe danger of becoming disease ridden and morally corrupt, which would damn you for the rest of your days. I do understand the temptations that young men face, and how difficult it must be to resist. But I implore you to think of your future peace of mind, to think of Dora and the wonderful future life you undoubtedly have together, and not to throw away all of that for easy pleasures now. If not for your father’s sake, then for mine, please reconsider your refusal to accept a commission and thus take yourself, like Henry, out of moral danger. Your ever loving Mamma Hilda May 3rd July 1916 Dearest Mamma You will not recognise the handwriting as a kind nurse is taking dictation so I must be brief. I cannot promise to write more frequently from France because I am coming home, and am writing this letter from a field-hospital. But please don’t worry, I have been told that my wounds, though serious enough to return to Blighty, should not be life threatening. Though in a different company to me, I did bump into Henry on several occasions. But I have sad news, Henry will not be writing home ever again. I’m afraid that he fell in the big push that started two days ago. As for taking a commission? I don’t think that my wounds will permit that now. And as for the Estaminets? You worry too much about such things, Mamma, you always did. They’re nothing like the rumours you’ve been hearing, they're just like the YMCA and Salvation Army canteens – so don’t worry on that score. I may not be physically complete any longer but I’m still morally intact. Must sign off now, will let you know when landed in Blighty. Your ever loving Son Tommy © John Sales 2009 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
CGM Posted 10 May , 2009 Share Posted 10 May , 2009 I'm discovering the pleasure that words in patterns and rhythms can convey. Thanks to squirrel, salesie and those who've posted poems on previous occasions! Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
CGM Posted 10 May , 2009 Share Posted 10 May , 2009 THE ESTAMINET It was so very dark; no moon, no stars and no lights anywhere. Stumbling over a heap of fallen masonry George suddenly pitched forward and putting out a hand to steady himself stubbed his fingers against a piece of rough wall he had no idea was so close. He winced, both at the noise he'd made and the pain. This is a nightmare, he thought. There could be a thousand Jerries in this village and we'd never see any of them. Billy giggled when George tripped but the sound was abruptly cut short as Joe reached round from behind him and fiercely clamped his mouth shut. Stealthily creeping on, the small group of soldiers reached a corner and, peering round it, George could just make out a very faint light a little way down the road; what was probably a candle flame flickered in one corner of a window. He stiffened. No-one should be here. The village had been shelled for two whole days and the road leading out had been choked with escaping families. He shrank back into the darkest shadows, held his breath, and then, with the tiniest touch on each man's arm, he signalled three of them to continue moving through the village, checking it was deserted. He pulled on Billy's sleeve to come with him. They would investigate the light together. Without a sound the three were gone; lost in the darkness before they had taken more than a pace. Stooping down low, he and Billy crept along the road and paused under the lighted window. "It's a bar" whispered Billy, peering through the window. George gasped in horror and hissed "Billy, get down! Don't be so stupid! Don't do anything without I say so. Understand lad?" "Yes George. Sorry." Moving backwards, to avoid going past the front of the estaminet, they crept round to the rear of the building and found it was in darkness. George felt his way along, found a door and opened it as slowly as possible. He listened hard for a moment or two, and then listened again. Finally he carefully stepped inside. As he moved along with his back to the wall his foot touched something on the floor and tentatively he pushed at it with his toe, then reached down to feel it. What he touched was cold, hard and covered with sticky cloth. Bracing himself he investigated some more. It was pretty obvious there were two adult bodies; he found a skirt and then a strong pair of men's boots. Trying not to retch he shifted his weight onto the other foot and slowly straightened up. "Maman? Maman? Es_tu réveillée?" a little voice whispered. "Maman!" another voice sobbed. Children? Please.... Not children! "Billy," he whispered urgently. "Check out the front rooms, but BE CAREFUL, remember there's a light in one. Find out if anyone's alive in there." "Yes George." Billy returned and even though it was dark George could tell he was very distressed. He waited as Billy took several deep breaths and then, despite a voice that wobbled, managed to whisper "there are a lot of dead people in the café. Something's come in through the roof and everything's smashed. There's no one in the bar although someone's lit a candle; it's nearly burnt down. I've shut the blinds tight. We should be safe now." "Good lad. Push the bar door wide open, we need a bit of light in here" he replied. By the faint stream of light they saw there were three little girls huddled together under the kitchen table. Quickly he moved to block the view of their parents and motioned Billy to take them into the bar. Slowly, so as not to alarm the girls, Billy bent down and took the hands of the smallest child. He coaxed her out from under the table and gently led her into the light. The other two children scrambled out and followed. The eldest child lit a second candle from the stub of the first, set it in a candlestick and then looked apprehensively at the two soldiers. Billy looked enquiringly at George. "What do we do now?" George looked at Billy and just couldn't think of anything to say. He felt sick at heart. Suddenly there was a slight noise at the back door and they both swung round to face that way, but were relieved to hear a familiar voice hiss "All right to come in?" "Yes" they whispered back. Joe crept in, checked it really was safe, then turned and quietly called in the other two who came through to the bar supporting a semi-conscious man between them. "What the?" "Don't panic George! He's just a villager. We found him on the front doorstep with an empty vino bottle. He's too drunk to save himself and we just couldn't leave him out there." "The rest of the village's completely empty though" they hastened to add. Catching sight of the children, it was their turn to be surprised. "What the?" George didn't reply. He was staring at the man and suddenly said "GET HIM SOBER!" Amazed at the urgency of his tone, they hastily stood the man upright and shook him. The man groaned. They shook him harder and he slurred something in French. Striding into the kitchen George ran water into a bucket by the sink and strode back with it. He poured all the water over the man's head and said again "GET HIM SOBER!" The man gasped, straightened up and started shouting at them. One of the soldiers slapped his face. "Shut up and sober up!" he growled. "Qu'est _ ce que tu fais a Monsieur Dubois?" shouted the oldest child. "Tu l'as frappé!" and she began to cry. George knelt down in front of her and smiled. "Please don't be frightened" he said, trying to soothe her using the tone of his voice. "We won't hurt you." Standing up again he look at the other soldiers. "Quick" he said. "What's the French for children? Anyone? The French for children?" "Have a heart George. None of us……no wait, umm…….mam'selles…..p'teet might do it, and umm……..un, derr, twar….twar p'teet mam'selles!" "I'll try it" said George. Taking the man by the shoulders and fixing his eyes with his own, he said "Twar p'teet mam'selles! Twar p'teet mam'selles!" and pointed at the children. Then he gathered them together and pushed them towards the man. "Look lads, as quick as possible we've got to get them all to the edge of the village and start them walking in the same direction as all the other villagers went. They might manage to get far enough away to be safe by the time shelling starts up again tomorrow." He turned and picked up the smallest child and pushed her into the man's arms. "George, we haven't got time for all this! We should've been long gone by now and we'll get cut off from the others at this rate! We don't even know for sure where the farm we're meeting them is yet!" "Look! I won't let this war turn us into uncaring brutes" he replied. "If they put that candle in the window to ask for help, well, it was for us to see. There's no one else in the village is there? Now, while Billy and I take them out of here I want the rest of you to find food and water for them to take. As much as you can. Then catch us up. Move!" ~~~ Late that night they finally managed to rejoin the rest of their platoon and set about talking their way out of trouble. Carefully sticking to the same story they protested that as the devastation was so great and it was so dark they couldn't possibly be expected to manage any faster. They were mortified to discover that because they were all inexperienced soldiers and it was their first week in the field all the others found it all too easy to believe them. They came in for a good bit of a ragging from all the others. "Give us a couple of years and we might just make soldiers of you all – possibly" they laughed. George was grateful for the light hearted atmosphere surrounding the evening meal; he needed to take his mind off everything. As the group broke up to prepare for sleep George managed to get Billy on his own. "You all right Billy?" "Yes, George." "No, I mean really all right, son?" "Well……" his voice trailed off. "How old are you Billy?" The lad looked up, surprised by the question. He hesitated. "Don't worry. It won't go past me, I promise you." "Fifteen." "Oh Billy, you shouldn't be here" George sighed. Billy looked down and kicked one toe into the ground. "They could've been my sisters" he burst out. "Sorry……sorry……a man shouldn't cry……a man shouldn't, should he……but…… they could've been my sisters." Tears ran down his cheeks. George lent forward and put his hands on Billy's shoulders. "Son, I know what you're feeling because they could've been my children." "Will they be all right?" "I hope so son, I really hope so. We did what we could. Now go and get some sleep and tomorrow you stick with me, right?" He squeezed Billy's shoulders; the nearest he dared go to hugging him, although that was what he longed to do. Billy dashed the tears from his cheeks and, with hunched shoulders, turned and stumbled over to the old barn to try and sleep. George watched him go and with tears stinging his own eyes now, found himself praying a wordless prayer for all the children caught up in such a hideous war. What sort of sleep could Billy and the three little girls look forward to? This is not good, he scolded himself, and giving himself a mental shake, tried to disperse the dreadful foreboding which had hung over him all evening. He imagined three happy little girls walking away from misery and great danger into a bright new future. He saw the man and the oldest little girl swinging the youngest between them, while the middle one skipped along in front of them, laughing and singing. He put a bunch of roadside wildflowers into her hand. He made it a beautiful, sunny day. He made the birds sing. He began to feel that maybe everything could work out well. But then he glanced in the direction of the crossroads where so recently he had been forced to shout at three sobbing little girls to make them run up the lane and away from their whole life. He had sent them to what? With just a drunkard to look after them. The happy picture abruptly died. It was so very dark; no moon, no stars and no lights anywhere. "Oh Annie my love, we did what we could. Pray it was enough." --~~~-- Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
salesie Posted 10 May , 2009 Share Posted 10 May , 2009 Not bad at all, CGM, not bad at all. I particularly like the way you bring civilians into the action - too many of us focus on the military aspects alone and tend to forget that civilians were also caught up in the horrors of the front. I love the irony of George's situation, no ideal solution just the lesser of two evils - pretty much symbolises the great irony of going to war for any democracy? Bloody hell - I hope those kids will be all right? Cheers-salesie. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
CGM Posted 10 May , 2009 Share Posted 10 May , 2009 Thank you salesie. This was hard - I couldn't find an estaminet anywhere in the UK for Annie to visit! This took me right out of my comfort zone. I'm reading Seeds of Discord now. I do love a good story. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
salesie Posted 10 May , 2009 Share Posted 10 May , 2009 Thank you salesie. This was hard - I couldn't find an estaminet anywhere in the UK for Annie to visit! This took me right out of my comfort zone. I'm reading Seeds of Discord now. I do love a good story. When I first saw this month's theme I thought you may have to write about Annie's husband - and, as I'm sure you realise, such a lateral step has added a bit of depth to Annie's story. You handled this transition well and touched my heart; sending the kids off into the night with a drunk was a masterstroke of irony and suspense. Cheers-salesie. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Gunboat Posted 10 May , 2009 Share Posted 10 May , 2009 I have been really busy lately folks so not had much time to visit the forum, I am about 3/4 of a way through my own entry...but I am really quite dispirited by the sheer brilliance of the entries this month. Top notch stuff! Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest Posted 11 May , 2009 Share Posted 11 May , 2009 Salesie. That letter would have shut Mamma's mouth! Great story, with a thudding end! TA for the comments. Richard, Ta, Maybe down the track. Cheers Kim Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest Posted 11 May , 2009 Share Posted 11 May , 2009 CGM, I did have a bit of giggle at your plight, and thank you for your comment. Cheers Kim Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest Posted 11 May , 2009 Share Posted 11 May , 2009 CGM, as said, the way you bought the drunk into the story, the questions you left us with, did he bring the children through, oh and the children..... You now have to tell us more!!! I can see that you are reading and absorbing madly, it shows. Doesn't it take hold of you! Does it not give you a better understanding of them? I know it does for me. Best to you Kim Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Gunboat Posted 11 May , 2009 Share Posted 11 May , 2009 A bit of a long one...and I apologise that the names are so similar to CGM's characters...purely a conicidence They waited at the junction as a motorised lorry rattled past, then turned into the cobbled high-street. Ahead of them a myriad Khaki figures milled around the numerous stalls that lined the street. Many more sat in or stood outside the cafés and estaminets that had sprung up to service the thousands of troops billeted near the village during their spells in reserve. Some of the establishments were badly damaged by the heavy shellfire that the Germans periodically rained down on the hamlet in an attempt to disrupt the respite of those that had escaped the frontline. To that end it had failed as nothing deterred the troops from snatching what enjoyment they got from coming to the village and the cafés and estaminets carried on serving regardless. The waitresses already supple hipped from avoiding the clinches of drunken soldiers, skipped nimbly over fallen brickwork and other debris unhampered by its presence. The two men turned off the high street almost immediately and descended down a narrow alleyway lined with torn and peeling bill posters. They struggled past stragglers who had paused for a smoke or taken advantage of the dark seclusion to urinate or be sick. Occasionally they would nod or exchange greetings with familiar faces as they passed. They both laughed at a Scottish soldier shaking his head in mock despair as he paused from berating a squatting comrade for not being able to “haud yer drink”. Toward the end of the alleyway was a doorway and they turned into it ignoring the protests of those who had been queuing for sometime outside the estaminet of Madame Jeanette shouting that they had “reservations”!. The harried old lady at the door did not understand the hand signals meant to signify they were looking for friends, so they brushed her past ignoring what they took to be the oaths and curses that followed them. They craned their necks searching the room for their pals. Although it wasn’t a large room, not much bigger than a village schoolroom, every inch of floor space was filled with tables; actually a mixture of furniture and upturned packing cases with similarly makeshift chairs. At one end was a bar with a swinging door that led into the kitchen. There was only one window high on the far wall. Whitewashed plaster was meant to make most of the lack of natural light but the walls were discoloured by tobacco smoke and soot. Had there once been gas or electric lighting there was little evidence of it now, instead a number of oil lamps hung from the roof beams and wine bottles with candles stuck in the neck were fixed artlessly around the walls. Madame Jeanette had made an effort to make the sparse décor more homely by the use of colourful Lautrec type posters and cheap prints and each table was laid with a gingham tablecloth and sported one of the ubiquitous bottle candle sticks. The place was full to the rafters with soldiers from any number of different regiments. They were crammed together in groups of half a dozen or more at tables only big enough to seat four comfortably. Some of the more sober were trying to eat quietly whilst around them uproarious drinking songs were being sung whilst in other corners more melancholy tunes prevailed. It was an impenetrable wall of sound and through which only the smell penetrated a sickening heady mix of stale liquor, sweat, tobacco, cooking fat and oil-lamps. They saw one of their pals waving furiously and they pushed their way through the crowded room. Four figures were sat at the table two slumped drunkenly, one of them a Scottish soldier was who was unceremoniously ejected by the new arrivals and dragged to a group of kilties who were indifferent as to whether they should claim him but who nevertheless let him fall amongst them. The other drunken figure was one there own. “How long has Jack been in that state?” this was Bill one of the newcomers who prodded his packing case gingerly before letting himself be seated. “About an hour” it was Alf who had waved them over and he now glared at the slumped form in front of him with some distaste “we told him to lay off the vino…but he had bought a bottle and drunk it before we could do anything about it” he nodded to the bottle still gripped in the hand of the slumbering form, “we told you didn’t we Jackie mate?” he elbowed the figure who groaned in response. “We’ve ordered for you” Alf addressed this to George the other new arrival who had got a chair but one that was none to steady. “Oh yes said George what was on the menu?” “Lets see” this was Tom the last of their party, who spoke with his eyes closed in mock concentration counting on his fingers as he spoke “There was Chips and Egg, Egg and Chips, Eggs with Chips or Chips with Eggs “What did your order” George queried “Egg and Chips…” “Oh no”! George thumped the table “I wanted Chips and Egg for a change”! It was a familiar joke but they laughed like they had done the day before and the day before that. They had learnt that routine was good, routine kept them sane, kept them alive, well thus far anyway. There was a thin line between routine and ritual and it was line they stepped over regularly…as Tom had once said “If I make the same old jokes, I’m still alive” George looked around the restaurant three of the four waitresses were servicing the tables carrying the large trays at shoulder height, laden with plates, bottles of wine and beers. It amazed him how they balanced the tray on one hand whilst simultaneously serving food and drink with the other, and occasionally slapping down the wayward hands of the exclusively male clientele. One of the reasons for Madame Jeanette’s was so popular was that she had managed to retain some of the prettier waitresses; many other places had lost their attractive girls to establishments that catered for officers in more ways than one. The others nudged each other knowingly as George strained as if looking for someone in particular. As the door of the kitchen swung open and a figure emerged George almost jumped out his seat, causing his comrades to laugh, though he himself was oblivious to it. The figure was a girl, about 19, slender and petite her full black skirt however gave shape to her hips and accentuated the narrowness of her waist. She was full lipped with a mass of black wavy hair worn high on her head. She wore a heavily starched white blouse done up tight at long slim neck and a locket hung down between her breasts. George watched her walk between the tables her tray held high. She smiled patiently at the leering troops and would occasionally wag a finger in reproach. One soldier made a grab at her and George raised himself out of his chair looking as if he was about to intervene, but Bill pulled him down, he was right to do so because the young girl effortlessly danced past the clumsy drunk. After a moment it was clear that she was heading for their table and George turned back round sitting bolt upright in his chair, causing his pals to laugh even more. The girl arrived at the table and started to serve the plates of Egg and Chips. George daren’t look at her. Then she spoke “’Ello Georges” the way she said George in the French manner made the hair stand up on his neck…but he sat mute “Come on Georges” said Alf mimicking her pronunciation “where are your manners the mademoiselle said hello”! George looked up and into cornflower blue eyes. Eyes that smiled at him but she bit her bottom lip nervously betraying her shyness. George thought her the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. “Hello Camille…how..are…you?” he stuttered and his friends laughed into their hands until the broad smile of Camille stopped them dead in their tracks. George was no scholar, literature had, for the most part, passed him by. He had enjoyed one Shakespeare play - Henry V. Indeed it had been the exploits of England’s warrior king that had engendered in him the romantic notion of soldiering and it had been his ambition thereafter to join the army, which he did at the earliest opportunity. Indeed George had often thought when passing through the crowds of soldiers congregated in the village how similar the scene must have been almost 500 years ago to the date, when Henry’s troops were billeted in similar villages, not so very far from where he was now. But it was another scene from that play that came to mind now as her remembered the ardent Harry’s frustration at his own ineptitude in the French language contrasted with the charm of Princess Katherine’s faltering English: “Come, your answer in broken music; for thy voice is music and thy English broken” And indeed Camille’s answer was music to his ears “Oh, I am very well Georges…thank you” Camille proceeded to serve the food and beer and stood waiting at the side of the table. George looked firmly ahead unsure of what to say, the tension momentarily relieved by Alf who was speaking to the still slumped Jack “What’s that you say Jackie lad…share your food out…that’s decent of you old son” The others laughed and Alf doled the food out evenly. Camille still stood with the tray clasped in her hands behind her back. They all looked to George who turned back to Camille “That is pretty Camille” he pointed to the gold locket, Camille put down the tray and leant over the table she opened the locket and cupped it in her hands to show George. “C'est mon père et mere… my mother and father” George placed his hand behind hers and breathed in deeply at he brushed against her soft white skin “Very nice” he said “where are they now?” He pointed at the photograph “ooooo ayyyy” Camille’s smile faltered and her brow furrowed slightly “Ils son mort…”she kissed the pictures and closed the locket George looked to Alf for translation, he had started to eat and so spoke between mouthfuls “Napoo…dead” George turned back to Camille his eyes showing genuine sympathy. “Oh Camille I am so sorry.” Camille seemed to understand the consoling tones and patted George’s hand….she smiled broadly “Merci…Georges, see you later… oui?” “Oui.” George said and Camille left the table. It s was bill that broke the silence this time “What the bleeding hell does she see in you?” George looked at his distorted reflection in the wine bottle, he had no idea himself. He was not unhandsome but neither was he especially good looking, he was of middling height, middling build, middling looks, but for some reason Camille a girl that could have her pick of any man in France seemed attracted to him. He had no intention of sharing his own surprise with his comrades, instead he made a great play of slicking his hair in the reflection and shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly “You’ve either got it or not…clearly I have and you lot haven’t”! Bill mopped his plate with a piece of bread. “That was bleeding delicious” he said stifling a belch behind a clenched fist. The others concurred. George stretched his legs as far as he could and lit a cigarette. Alf pushed an empty plate in front of the still sleeping Jack. “Enjoyed that didn’t you chum…OH MY GOD”! Alf sat bolt upright and nodded furiously for the others to turn and look. Approaching the table was Madame Jeanette herself. A widow in her early fifties and still a great beauty, with her dark blonde hair and a fine figure she still turned heads. Indeed all the men loved Madame Jeanette; she was both a surrogate mother and a figure of considerable sexual allure. She had lost both her husband and her son who despite their middle class backgrounds had both served in the ranks and whose lives had been wasted, in her view, by incompetent officers. She therefore hated all officers and refused their patronage instead preferring as she had put it. “the company and honest money of the ordinary soldier.” She reached the table and started to stack the plates...then imperiously snapped her fingers and another waitress hurried over and cleared them. “Which one of you is George?” Madame Jeanette’s English was perfect. Alf pointed at George and Madame Jeanette looked him up and down, seemingly satisfied she smiled. “Camille is not working tomorrow night…perhaps you are free?” George nodded…his friends nodded as well but Madame Jeanette paid them no heed. “She will be waiting outside at 7.00 o’clock tomorrow, you will come and see her?” George nodded calmly but inside his stomach was churning…an evening with Camille…could it be possible. “Good…you look a nice boy, she is a nice girl do not let her down or treat her badly”. George shook his head… he had no thoughts of treating her badly at all in fact he was more worried that he would be struck dumb because it seemed he had already lost the power of speech. Alf spoke up somewhat nervously “Errrrmm Madame would you care to join us…” Madame Jeanette made a great play of her excitement clapping her hands excitedly “Oh yes” she said her voice shrill like an excited schoolgirl “ oh we will have champagne…” “Oh err” Alf hesitated “Oh…Champagne…I’m not sure….!” Madame Jeannette put her hands to her face incredulously “No champagne!” She looked distraught and laughed patting Alf’s shoulder "I am just teasing…poor boy…I cannot sit with you why all these other men would be so jealous”…she ruffled Alf’s hair and he flushed red, she turned on her heels and walked. The others laughed but Alf just watched her hips swaying… “Oh what a woman…” he lifted Jack’s arm by the cuff and shook it up and down so the hand flapped. “Say au revoir to Madame Jeanette Jack…” The next evening George paid no attention to the Khaki lined streets as he retraced his steps to Madame Jeanettes. He took out his watch for the tenth time 6.45 he had plenty of time. He wondered whether he could spare a minute get a drink to calm his nerves, he dismissed the notion…could he even go through with this…he stopped and turned as if to bolt. He thought of Camille standing outside the estaminet, perhaps wearing her best bonnet, lace gloves covering those delicate soft white fingers… perhaps she would even be smiling in anticipation…perhaps she would be nervous. No she wouldn’t be there…she won’t turn up…he started to walk back on himself…as he did he could hear the incredulous taunts of his chums “You didn’t go? ” Alf would exclaim with disgust… Jack who had been asleep as events unfolded the night before, but who had whistled through his teeth in admiration when told that George would be walking out with Camille, would tut and turn his back on him. Bill and Tom would shake their heads in despair and look at their boots…and he could imagine the scolding he would get from Madame Jeannette for letting Camille down. He thought then of those blue eyes, looking up the alleyway in wondering where Georges could be…perhaps she would worry had something happened to him…that he had been called back to the front early. He couldn’t do it to her! He turned back and increased his pace, unaware of the increased activity nearby. He got the mouth of the alley and took a deep breath and paced down…he got halfway and stopped… smoke billowed down the alley he became aware of figures running past with pales filled with water that sloshed over the sides…he started to run…he passed a chain of people passing the buckets down a line and stopped abruptly. Madame Jeanette’s had taken a direct hit from a shell. Half the building had collapsed into the alley and the ensuing fire had only just been brought under control. Madame Jeanette stood defiant and purposeful directing the damping down operation herself. It was still early in the evening, the estaminet not yet full or the loss of life would have been unimaginable but nonetheless there had been plenty of British troops nearby and a number of dazed looking and injured soldiers stood by as bodies were being recovered from the wreckage. Three of four NCO’s scrambled over the fallen timbers and brickwork listening for cries of help and a line of Kilted soldiers had formed and they passed along pieces of debris as they continued the search. “OH MY GOD CAMILLE!” George shouted furiously looking around the various groups that had assembled. Three young girls stood in a huddle crying, he ran over and pulled them apart roughly searching their faces…they screamed… he recognised them as the waitresses but none of them were Camille. He pulled off his cap and started twisting it in is hands…he had to do something. He looked up and down the alley; the only estaminet staff unaccounted for was Camille and the old lady who sat at the door. He ran over and started tearing away at the bricks one of the NCO’s a corporal came over and told him to calm down they had to be systematic. He was interrupted by the yell from one of the others they had found the body of a woman…George scrabbled over praying it was the old lady…she was old…she had had her life. The group of NCO’s were on their knees carefully pulling debris aside and passing it down the line. Slowly the form of a woman started to emerge. George crawled over. There was a glint of gold…a locket…and across her breast a soft white hand. George screamed…he couldn’t run away quick enough, stumbling over the bricks and pushing away the soldiers. He ran into the alley, Madame Jeanette grabbed his arm. She looked into his face, he couldn’t speak …but he didn’t have too. Madame Jeanette screamed and threw herself onto the pile of debris crawling over the rubble to try to get to Camille. George had to escape the confines of the alley he pushed aside all that got in his way. He emerged at the end and grabbed at the wall trying to stop the world moving. He coughed and started to claw at his stinging eyes. Enraged he pummelled the wall with his fists until the blood started to splatter his tunic and the pain became too much to bear…he wanted the pain in his hands to deaden the pain in his head... but it didn’t work. He slid down the wall, nursing his damaged knuckles, and for the first time since he was a child…he cried. He had known loss in his life, especially in this war and thought himself inured to death. But this was different, she was an innocent…a beautiful innocent girl, who with her shy smile had captured his heart and given him hope of happiness. George sat there… his rage subsiding…into sadness and then the clarity and purpose of mind that sometimes follows great sorrow. He struggled to his feet, staggered slightly and then stood upright. He knew what he had to do…he would make them pay dearly for her death…Camille would be his battle-cry until every German was dead…this was his promise to her. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest Posted 11 May , 2009 Share Posted 11 May , 2009 Little Mate has his say. Part 4. Sammy stared, the whites of his eyes mapped with thin red lines. Slowly he found his feet, using his rifle to heave himself up from the mud. One foot forward, then the other, his body drew itself through the muck, his mind trying to rebel in doubt. His head flung upwards, he straightened and screamed at the wide sky above. “Jimmy was alive! We left him for dead, We left our mate for dead.’ His hands shook as he raised them up, reaching towards the figure on the wire. His sodden boots lifted with a squelch that became rhythmic as he began to move faster and faster through the shell holes, over the torn remains of humans; only one image in his mind. “Jimmy’” he screamed. “Stretcher bearers! Where the f*ck are the stretcher bearers?” Smoke wafted upwards from the small fires that the shelling had started, and men milled about, doing the mop up that the last stage of battle required. The stripping of useful intelligence from the dead, the binding of wounds, the sorting of prisoners, the consolidation of trenches; it was the aftermath of rage. Men glanced at Sammy, seeing just another soldier bereaving a wounded or lost mate. They looked about for the cause of his distress, but saw no living man. All were dead. Then one or two paused, a small glitch in the usual scene of mopping up causing them to slow to a standstill. Johnny was the first to understand. He threw down the handful of papers that he had taken from a dead German officer, and crawled up the trench wall, slipping back for every leap forward. He howled his anger and with an almighty effort clambered over the top. As one, the men rushed forward, their eyes fastened on Little Mate. The dog paid no heed to the infrequent shells, the screaming of the men. His teeth were fastened to the collar of the man who had held him, there by the warm fire. The man whose scent reminded him of Jimmy. His hindquarters dug into the mud as he tried to drag the man to safety, every muscle quivering with the strain he placed on his body. He paused, and tilted his head sideways, his perky ears cocked. He thrust his nose into Corp’s face. Little Mate sniffed, and whined. Grabbing Corp’s uniform the dog’s efforts at dragging the man became frenzied, a deep throated growling coming from the shaking dog. Johnny was the first to the wire, the wire cutters dwarfed by his large hands. Each strand twanged as he ground the blades into the vicious metal, and he saw other hands peeling back the strands as they gave way. Four feet in, they were astounded to be met with snapping teeth, a brown and white ball of fury. Softly Johnny crooned, "Little Mate.. Little man, it’s us.” The terrier paused, sniffed the proffered hand and turning his tail to them, went to Corp’s head, whining, licking the face of the man bleeding on the wire. Sammy reached forward, feeling the Corp’s throat. The men held their breath and when they saw Sammy’s shoulders stiffen, saw his body tense, they all gave voice. “Stretcher bearers!” “Get your f*ing arses here!” It was a confusion of hands and wire cutters that surrounded the small dog that sat guard by head of the company’s best mate. Hands that bought forward field dressings, hands that lifted the Corp from the wire; gently, reverently. Little Mate’s tail curled over his back, his legs prancing up and down as he moved between the men that carried Corp out of the wire, over the muddy ground, and laid him down on a piece of iron that had been blown from a dug out. The men hunkered down around the dying man. One who had seen what these men had seen, could not doubt that Corp was dying. His uniform could not hide the ropes of his intestines, and the spurting jets of blood that came from his legs. The blueness that touched his lips and the barely lifting chest, they saw and read. Little Mate’s tail slunk down, and his perky ears lowered as he pushed his nose under Corp’s arm, and burrowed into his side. Soft whimpers came from deep in his chest as his wet nose buried into Corp’s neck. Sammy sat back on his heels, and with no effort to wipe them away, let the tears run down his cheeks. “He knew. We left him with a good home, a warm fire. But he was one of us, and he knew,” his voice cracked, and he coughed and spat. Staring around at the soldier’s who sat, covered in filth, the blood, the gore , the blackness of battle, he gave voice to their thoughts. “I dunno how he knew that Corp wasn’t dead, or why he followed us, or why we didn’t know that Jimmy wasn’t dead. That we might of saved Jimmy………………” Smoke drifted over the ring of men that crouched around the dying man, all sound seemed to cease, as Sammy words entered their conscience. One by one, their eyes lifted and dwelt on the brown and white dog that lay with Corp. Some communed with God regularly, others had written him off, and yet others believed in only what their own eyes told them. Here in the mud of Flanders, here in the bowels of Hell, far from their loving homes and all that they knew was good and true, they were faced with something that they had no answer for. A small dog, an animal that had no right or sense or obligation to be where it was, had defied the madness of man, had gone against the animal’s instinct to flee from harm, and had not once, but twice, of its own doing, put itself in amongst the cauldron of man’s hate. The little dog sat up, it’s body stiff, its eyes upon the face of Corp. As Corp’s lips moved, the little ears pricked. “Little…Mate, .. mate….Suzanne…men.” One by one, they touched the cooling body, with a whisper, a promise; a soft touch to the hand, a shake of the shoulder. Then they rose and stood around, lost, until Johnny took Corp’s rifle and thrust it , bayonet into the mud. “Jimmy?” Sammy murmured. Johnny turned back and taking his slouch hat from his pack, he placed it on the butt of the upturned rifle. His fingers brushed the brass rising sun, as he whispered, “ Jimmy, the little dog didn’t let you down. Here’s to you, mate.” The singing in the streets, the blowing of horns and the joyous sound of a violin filtered into the dark room. By the fire, the old woman sat, her empty hands winding an imaginary ball of wool, as she stared into the fire. It was hard to admit that she was wrong. Proud to the last, she did not acknowledge the men who crowded the room in their fresh uniforms, their faces shaved and clean, their slouch hats at a jaunty angle. She left it to her daughter to say the words. Suzanne, in her joy, in her gratitude, spoke English and French at once, making little sense. The men knew what she meant. It was there for all to see, in her shining eyes, her dancing feet, her soft touch, as she grasped their hands one by one. Sammy said it for the men. “ Mademoiselle," he bowed to Suzanne. Turning, he bowed to the old woman. “Madam, we’d like to thank you for the rest you gave us. The way you took us in.” The old woman had the decency to blush at the young man’s words. Continuing Sammy said, “ Lots of places would have thrown us out, but you gave us wonderful food and comfort.” He paused then clearing his throat he went on. “We have a problem. One that we hope that you might help us with. We have a mate that won’t be allowed to return home with us. Rules and regs won’t allow it. We left him with you before, but he decided that being with us was his duty and he did his duty; far and beyond, as they say.” Suzanne’s eyes misted up, as she saw what was unfolding, and her heart thudded as she realized the trust that these men were giving her. Sammy whistled, and Johnny came through the open door, Little Mate jumping up and down at his side. The terrier froze in his playful antics and sat suddenly, his head tilted, looking from soldier to soldier. Sammy clicked his fingers and Little Mate sprung forward. “We can’t take home our best mate. The brass said No. Him that tried to tell us so much, and we didn’t listen. Him who asked nothing but to be with us? Would you take our little mate, and give him a home?” Clutching her dress in her hands, Suzanne sank down to the hearth and stretched her arms out. “Mon Brave, Chien, …Little Mate?” The dog sat at Sammy’s side, his quick eyes darting between Sammy and Suzanne. “No more, Little Mate, no more war, ” Sammy whispered. “Go,… go sit.” He pointed to Suzanne, and the little brown and white dog trotted obediently over to the girl. He sniffed at her dress and then leapt into its folds, settling down into her lap. The blackened branches glowed with the freshness of emerald green leaves, and the fields swayed in the gentle morning breeze with small blue dots of cornflowers, white of daises here and there, and the rolling carpets of red poppies. Suzanne laughed as she watched Little Mate start a squirrel for its tree, a high yipping renting the air as the squirrel found refuge before feeling the snapping teeth. Suzanne’s feet threw up small puffs of dust as she walked along the sunken road, the little dog shaking himself as he fell in behind her. The gate swung smoothly as she opened it, letting it swing back behind her. If one looked carefully, one might see a slight wornness in the grass of the path that she took, a slight dullness in the manicured grass underfoot. Nodding her head to the left and the right, she walked purposefully towards the large white cross that rose up from the green carpet. Stepping up onto the white stone, she lent forward and bought forward the posy of roses that she had carried from her garden, laying them onto the cold surface. By her side, the little dog sat, watching her every move. He watched as she took two buds from the posy, and curled her hand around them, not a sound from her as the thorns pricked her flesh. As she stood up, and turned, he pranced in front of her, tail curled over his back, his purpose sure. He trotted back down the green aisle, and as he passed the rows of white stone slabs his nose lifted. He stopped, looked back at Suzanne and turned into a row that glowed with red roses. He trotted by six slabs of stone, each one engraved with a name and sad epitaph, and then sat, his soulful brown eyes staring at the ground. Suzanne whispered the words that never became trite. Somehow, they always were the only words that could be spoken. “Here they are, Little Mate. Your two L'Australien’s." Gently she laid a rose bud at the foot of each gravestone, and sat back on her heels. As with every other Sunday, she looked from one gravestone to the other, wondering what divine intervention had placed Little Mate’s soldiers, side by side in this, one of many graveyards. Standing up, she smoothed down her dress, nodded towards the two graves, and murmured, “Thank you for your lives, and thank you for the gift you gave me.” She looked down at the little brown and white dog, and watched as he sniffed the rosebuds, and then stared up at her, his eyes questioning. “Yes, home now!” she answered. She laughed as he sprinted over the grass, stopping to hunt imaginary spooks in the recesses of the walls, in the long grass of the roadside. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest Posted 11 May , 2009 Share Posted 11 May , 2009 Gunny, I couldn't read the words quick enough to take in your wonderful descriptions. Going back for a third read. Thank you. Kim Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
salesie Posted 11 May , 2009 Share Posted 11 May , 2009 Nice one, Gunny, your highly descriptive scene-setting is an artform in itself - and one that I personally fall short on - nice one. Cheers-salesie. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
salesie Posted 11 May , 2009 Share Posted 11 May , 2009 Kim, I was worried, only a touch, that you may not be able to keep up the excellence of "Little Mate" - I needn't have been, this last (?) episode doesn't disappoint at all. In fact, it could be argued that it’s better than the preceding ones (if that's possible). Little Mate and Annie's better half, both present me with a problem though; how the hell do us lesser mortals compete in the emotion stakes with kids and dogs? Cheers-salesie. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest Posted 12 May , 2009 Share Posted 12 May , 2009 Gunny, read it agian in the light of day, and have to say, this one is your best ever. Cheers Kim Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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