THE END OF THE WAR 

By Bob French  

After a ferocious four-day attack and some fierce hand-to-hand fighting during the night and into the dawn of Thursday the 24^th of December 1914, the men of the Royal Cumberland Fusiliers staggered to a halt. They had broken through the front line and pushed the Germans’ back a couple of miles to the remains of the village of Zonnebeke, east of the town of Ypres.

          As the Company Sergeant Major called for the men to stop and take up defensive positions, silence fell over the battle field. For the first time, the men of the Fusiliers stood in silence as the realization of their victory gradually sunk in.  Their exhausted breath tore from their lungs in ragged plumes, ghosting white in the ice-cold dawn, each exhale a burst of heat against the biting air. No one spoke for a while.  Then gradually the voices of the corporals and sergeants started giving out orders; “weapons check in five minutes. Wounded men to the Regimental Aid Post, Roll call at O four hundred hours.”

          After the roll call had been taken, a peace and normality seemed to settle around the men. The Regimental Sergeant Major, who normally never left the Commanding Officers’ side, had been asked to discreetly observe the new Company Commander of B Company, Major Charles Alderidge, who had joined the Fusiliers just before the Regiment had set sail for France and in the eyes of the officers and men of B Company, he had yet to prove himself.    

          He took the list from the clerk of the company, then quietly wondered over to a derelict cottage, sat down on a low brick wall next to the Adjutant, Captain Farington.  After a while he took a deep breath and shook his head slowly.

          Captain Farrington gently took the Butchers Bill from him and quickly scanned the scribbled names. “Don’t worry Sir, you will get used to it in time, trust me.”  They didn’t speak for a minute then Major Alderidge asked the Adjutant “who were we fighting against?”

          “We won’t know that until our forward recce platoon returns Sir.”

          The company clerk of B Company had already set up the company headquarters in the back of a partly derelict cottage and within minutes had a brew of tea on the go.  Once the Adjutant had taken the information he needed from the casualty list, he told the company clerk that if the telephone line was still buggerd to get a runner to take the dispatches back to the C.O. at Regimental Headquarters in Ypres. Hopefully They would sort out some reinforcements before the enemy could counter attack.

          Around him, the men of B Company started to clean their weapons, check their ammunition and brew up some tea. No one noticed the Medical Section quietly moved back over the ground they had fought and started to pick up those who had been wounded, or take identity disks from those that did not make it.

          As the casualties were brought in, Company Sergeant Major Jim Travis called for Sergeant Bateman who commanded the 13^th Platoon. A close friend.

          “Hi Geordie.  Your lads alright?”

          Geordie Bateman DSM had joined the Fusiliers and had fought in the first and second Boer Wars and proved himself beyond doubt, an asset to the regiment, winning the Distinguished Service Medal. Now, too old to be part of a rifle company, he was given command of the labour platoon. Then, against all odds, he had trained, then led the bunch of misfits, drunks, deserters, and wasters to victory by winning the annual combat exercise cup in July before the regiment was deployed to face the Hun.  To honour him and his men, the Commanding Officer granted them the title of the ‘13^th Platoon instead of the labour platoon.’

          “I just want to thank you and your lads for watching over young Everet.  I know he isn’t a natural soldier and it doesn’t help with his buggered-up right ankle,”

          “Not a problem Jim, I told McAllistair to look out for him. As we covered our left flank.  If he learns nothing from McAlistair then I give up on him.”

          They laughed. Then Travis leant forward so he was a few inches away from his friend.  “Thank you for watching over the lad anyway. “    “Can you get your lads to start on the latrines, then once the medics have brought in the wounded and dead, can your lads start digging the graves please. Don’t forget to let the Adjutant know which graves belong to which man.”

          Without being told, the men of the rifle companies had begun setting up a security perimeter around their position, and digging trenches.

           Sergeant Black had formed up his recce platoon only to realise that he was down three men, and asked Sergeant Major Travis if he could borrow a couple of men from the 13^th Platoon.

          “Square it away with Geordie, then let the Adjutant know.”  Black knew instantly who he would take; Jonsey, McAllistair and Devereaux. If he was ever in a scrap, he would rely on these three men to back him up.    

          Black grinned as the three men joined the forward recce platoon’s briefing.  One of the recce platoon corporals asked Jonsey what type of rifle he was carrying”

          “It’s a ‘Gewher 98’ high villosity hunting rifle with a Mauser scope, Boyo.  I can bring down a Hun officer at three hundred and fifty paces.”

           Sergeant Black caught the look on his corporal’s face and before he could ask if the recce platoon could have such rifles, he informed him that as far as the company is concerned, the men of the 13^th platoon do not have designated weapons. In fact they have nothing, so they improvise.

          “Right lads, you all know the drill.  ‘Who was facing us? who is replacing them and when? how many of their dead were left behind? And lastly if they were using weapons that you’ve never seen before so carefully bring one in? OK”

          “What about prisoners Sarge?”

          “Only officers or senior NCOs.  Anyone else, remove their weapons and webbing and send them back to where they came from. Now the wind is at our back, so no threat of a gas attack.  By the speed of their retreat, I’m guessing that their departure was not planned, but be careful anyway.

          The men started to move forward when the harsh voice of Sergeant Black, cut through the stillness of the battle field again.

          “Remember. Do not be tempted to loot or go trophy hunting, unless you want your loved ones to receive just bits and pieces of what remained of your body.  If the booby traps don’t get you, be assured that I bloody well will.  Is that understood?”

          The men replied in chorus, some joked about those of the platoon who had ignored the advice a few weeks earlier and were no longer a member of the human race.

          As the sun slowly broke through the dawn clouds, so the bodies of those who had fallen during the four days of bitter combat started to warm.  The putrid smell of rotting flesh and the sound of the flies soon forced the men to hold rags over their noses.

          Once the latrines and graves had been dug, Sergeant Bateman called his platoon together.

          “Well done lads.  Davey Brown, can you see if you can scrounge some tea and milk from the cookhouse.  The rest of you start digging your trench now, then clean your weapons and let me know if you need any more ammo.”  As a last-minute thought, he raised his voice. “And no bloody trophy hunting either, got it!”

          The Recce platoon had carefully moved forward over the field which was now scattered with the dead and the moaning wounded. Jonsey stopped first and raised his hand, then pointed down at a body. It was a man from the second rifle platoon, B Company.  No one spoke as Sergeant Black carefully made his way over, knelt-down and identified the man then carefully tied a piece of white tape to his uniform so that the men, could return and carefully check for booby traps, then take him back to their lines ready for burial.

          As they moved forward, McAllistair saw movement and without thinking, leapt forward and hit the man before he had time to defend himself.  It was a young Lieutenant who Sergeant Black helped to his feet then told McAllistair to take him back to Sergeant Waynwright, of the intelligence section for questioning.

          It took most of the day to put together the facts of the report of the battle. for the Company Commander and his report to RHQ. After that the men were detailed for sentry duty or stood down.

          Then just as the men of B company started to settle down for the night, the sentries reported that they could hear people singing Silen Night in German.  The guard commander called out the support troop and slowly approached the sound of singing.  To his surprise the German’s had got up out of their trenches and were drinking wine and singing.  When the men of the support troop approached the Germans’ they stopped singing and staired at the Fusiliers.  Then the guard commander laughed.

          “Bloody hell lads, it’s Christmas day. Then the Germans’ slowly started shouting “Merry Christmas Tommy.” Within a matter of minutes, men from B Company had left their trenches and joined in with the men of the  218^th Saxon Jager Regiment and were mingling and laughing together, shaking hands and swopping cap badges, cigarettes and showing pictures of their loved ones.

          Sergeant Black took young Everet aside. “’Ear lad, go and get the young German lieutenant and bring him here.  After nearly ten minutes of stumbling around in the dark, Everet found the prisoner and dragged him back to Sergeant Black.

          Black caught the eye of what he thought was their commander and beckoned him over.  The elderly man slowly made his way through the celebrations and up to face Black.

          Black saluted the officer and held out his hand.  The German commander smiled then saluted him and took his hand.

          “I think this young lad belongs to you Sir.”  The German commander smiled then said in English, “Thank you sergeant, “and turned to the young lieutenant and said something to him.  The young officer burst into tears and shook Black and Everet’s hand. Then they tuned and left to join in the celebrations. Just then it started to snow.

          Everet turned to Black. “Do you know Sarge, My Mum said that the war would end by Christmas, I think she was right.”

Copyright Bob French

THE DEMISE OF POOLE STREET UNITED

 THE DEMISE OF POOLE STREET UNITED

By Bob French

It was starting to get cold on a late September day as Lucy stopped dead in her tracks, then looked up into the darkening evening sky.  She had heard the familiar noise many times and instinctively knew what to do.  Then she heard the sound of whistles,  some close by, others a long way off.  As if by magic, everyone started to run for the shelters.  No one screamed but for the hurried voice of a mother calling for her child.

          Lucy turned and yelled at her younger brother Thomas, who was carefully climbing down a huge mound of rubble that had, until five days ago, been their school.  A place where, according to Miss Jenkins, their class teacher, if they concentrated, they would learn more things about sums, famous people, music and countries far, far away, than their parents would ever learn.

          “Run Thomas Run! It’s the Germans. Head for the bridge!”

          Thomas, usually challenged his sister’s advice, but on this occasion, he dropped a cricket bat he had found in the rubble and started to run for the old railway bridge that spanned the River Lea. Just as it joins the Bow Creek. They had just made it under the iron posts that held the bridge in place when the first of the bombs hit a row of houses not far from Poole Street.  The ground shook; flames quickly spread across the street, sending scorched dust, splintered wood and glass everywhere.  Amidst the horrors of the explosions Lucy could hear the faint screams of those who were too slow or old to find shelter.  She hated this period, when the bombers had gone and all that was left was the dirty thick mist of debris and the faint wailing of those who had just lost everything they possessed.

          They both sought safety deep into the foundations of the old iron bridge.  As Lucy landed, she instinctively turned and grabbed hold of Thomas, pulling him in close to her and putting her hands over his head.

          After the first bomber had passed overhead, dropping its payload, the second was close behind and they felt the impact of the bomb much closer.  Lucy whispered into Thomas’s ear to reassure him.

          He forced his head above his sister’s protection and spoke.           “Blimey, was that Poole Street Lucy?”  When she didn’t reply to his question, he looked up to see his sister start to cry. With tears in her eyes, she replied.

          “Yes luv.  I hope Mandy and Victoria are safe.”

          “Blimey, if they aren’t, we’re short of two players for next Saturday’s Street footy against the Three Mills mob.”

          The sound of the bombers started to fade as they travelled further into the capital’s centre.  Lucy knew that what would follow was a walking nightmare.  Once the whistles sounded people would scamper up from their shelter and walk slowly through what was left of their homes. People would sink to their knees or stand and stare in shock at the total destruction of their street. A place where they had been born, a place they had played, danced and laughed with their friends, a place where they had got married. But that was a week ago and now several of their friends didn’t come out to play anymore.

          Lucy and Thomas, picked their way through the ruins of what had once been their home. It had stood proudly in East London, red-bricked and warm, until one of the many bombs of the Blitz had turned it into a skeleton of scorched beams and broken glass. Their parents were gone, evacuated, missing, or worse and the siblings had returned from their billet in the countryside without telling anyone, drawn by something unspoken.

          Lucy, the elder at twelve, led the way. Her coat was two sizes too big, the sleeves flapping like frightened birds. Thomas, just eight, clutched a wooden toy soldier in his pocket, fingers rubbing it smooth from habit.

          “I think it was here,” Lucy whispered, pointing to a half-collapsed corner of the house. The Parlour. The place they used to gather for tea and stories.

          They stepped over fallen timbers and twisted pipes, crunching glass underfoot. The fire had blackened the wallpaper, and the ceiling was open to the grey sky. And yet, as they stood there, a strange warmth crept in. The scent of toast and lavender, impossible, but real, floated on the evening breeze.

          “Do you hear that?” Thomas asked suddenly, tilting his head. A soft humming, like a lullaby. Lucy shivered. “It’s just the wind.”

          But it wasn’t. A woman’s voice, faint but familiar, sang a tune their mother used to hum when they were sick. The melody curled around them like a shawl.

          “Let’s go upstairs,” Thomas said, his voice hollow with curiosity and trepidation

          “There’s no upstairs,” Lucy replied, but Thomas was already climbing the splintered remains of the staircase. Lucy followed heart thumping.  At the top, or what was left of it, they found their old bedroom. The floor was mostly just a few sturdy boards clinging to the walls. But something shimmered in the air: a faint outline of beds, books, the teddy bear Lucy had lost.

          Thomas stepped forward. “Mum?” he whispered. Then they saw her. Or thought they did. A figure, more light than flesh, standing at the window, looking out as if watching for someone’s return. She turned, and for a breathless moment, smiled.

          Lucy reached for Thomas’s hand, squeezing tightly. The ghost, if that’s what it was, opened her arms, and Thomas made a move toward her. But Lucy held him back.

          “No,” she said softly. “We can’t.”

          The woman’s smile faded. Her form dimmed like a candle flickering in wind. And then she was gone. The humming stopped. Silence again. They stood there, cold and small against the vast, broken sky.

          “Do you think she was really here?” Thomas asked.

          Lucy didn’t answer right away. She stared at the space where the ghost had stood, then turned toward the stairs.

          “She was,” she said finally.”

          They climbed down carefully, the house groaning with every step. As they carefully made their way out into what was left of their street, the wind picked up, scattering ash like snow across the empty bomb site of Poole Street.

          Thomas stood for a moment looking at what used to be the street where the footy was to be played.  Then he spoke to no one in particular and Said;

          “Dya think Harry and the Three Mills mob are going to let us play with seven players?”  Lucy smiled down at him.

          “Maybe.” then gently took his hand and walked on, hand in hand, into the smoke-thick dawn.

Copyright Bob French 

THE BUCKET LIST

 THE BUCKET LIST

By Bob French

The main sitting room of the Dickens Care Home just outside Purleigh, was buzzing as Jane, the head nurse sounded the evening gong.  Those who had booked their place to watch ‘Gone with the wind’ in the upstairs lounge, for the eighth time, started to make their way out of the sitting room.

          The card and domino players left by the west wing to play in the conservatory, whilst Nancy and Albert waited for the mass exodus to settle down.

          After a few minutes, Albert stood and addressed the remaining eight gentle folk as he sometimes referred to them.

          “Right, everyone, we have just two months left before we declare the winner of the Dickens Care Home Bucket List Champion of 2019.”  Everyone applauded their achievements. Nancy stood, and with a huge grin on her face read from her millboard. “Pamela, you have completed two of your quests, Billy you have completed three; Owen you have only completed one, but as you know it is still being adjudicated by the committee as stealing ladies’ underwear from washing lines is not considered in keeping within the rules of the competition. Jill, you Harry and Mavis have yet to complete any of your challenges. Frances and Paul, you both have four a piece and William and Janet you both have nine each, so it looks like it’s between you two.  The first to complete their last quest will become this year’s champion.”  Everyone applauded again as some of their challenges were rather scarry.

          Nancy looked at William. “I understand that you are being held up by the weather for your tandem parachute jump, and Janet,” She paused as she re-read from her notes. “I don’t understand. “A walk into the past?”

          Janet smiled and gently nodded to Nancy. “It’s a surprise, so I shan’t let on love if that’s alright.”

          That night Janet paid a visit to her closest friend, Gwenavere, who dabbled in the dark arts. Tea leaves, dice and tarot cards.

          Gwenavere could see the pain in Janet’s eyes and nodded her towards a soft arm chair.  “How you feeling Love.” Janet had been suffering from osteoarthritis for a long time and found sanctuary in the little bags of herbal medicine that Gwenavere would dispense to those who needed to get through the day.  Without being asked, she put the kettle on and passed Janet a small bag of marijuana and watched her sprinkle it into a warm cup of Chamomile tea. This, she found that it would drive away the pain and allow her to sleep peacefully. “Now what date are you planning your last quest my love?”

          Janet looked up at her friend. “I was thinking of All Hallows’ Eve. I wouldn’t stand out.”

          Gwenavere nodded.  How you getting out there then.  Tis a long way?”

          “It’s only two and a half miles and I have walked it in the day time and during the night, so I think I can do it.”

          It had just past eleven forty-five on a cold and frosty night in late October as Janet reached the outskirts of the forest.  She paused while she took a breath, then moved along the muddy path until she came to the old rickety bench which she had found five years ago, just on the fringes of the dead Forest of Mundon.

          With a smile, she eased herself down onto the bench and felt a sense of achievement as mentally she crossed off the last task from her bucket list; to visit the ancient oaks of Mundon.

          After about ten minutes, she took the flask from her coat pocket, unscrewed the cap and drank the warm Chamomile tea then lent back to allow the tiny leaves to do their magic. Feeling the peaceful sensation start to take hold of her old and frail body, Janet took a deep breath and felt the cold night air start to seep deep into her lungs until she felt invigorated as though her old body was coming to life.  She stood and slowly walked towards the skeletal monuments that held secrets of the past that no man would ever hear.

          Under a veil of frost and moonlight, the petrified oaks of Mundon stood like ancient sentinels, their gnarled limbs twisted in eternal agony. Silver ice clung to barks long dead, glinting faintly in the cold starlight. A spectral hush hung over the marshland, broken only by the whisper of wind through hollow branches. Each tree, lifeless yet looming, casting long skeletal shadows across the frozen earth.

          As she slowly moved amongst the tombstones of oak, time felt suspended, her breath visible in the still night air. The oaks, remnants of a forgotten forest, seem to watch her in silence; ghosts rooted in soil, frozen in time.

          The further she moved into the centre of the forgotten forest, the more she felt younger, as though some medieval force was gradually occupying her body and soul. Then she saw them. A series of shooting stars, streaking across the deep black heavens, leaving their Icey trail briefly before fading into the distance. A message from the gods she thought as she glanced at her watch.  It was midnight.

          Without thinking she fell to her knees and started to recite a prayer she’d read in a book of ancient pagan rituals many years ago.  Her mumblings were interrupted by the sound of people singing and playing musical instruments in the distance.  Her inquisitiveness got the better of her and she stood and started to follow the sound of merriment. Her steps increased until she felt herself running flat out towards the noise.  Suddenly huge bon fires burst into bright flames in the four corners of the field as though protecting those who had chosen to celebrate the festival.

          The sounds grew louder, yet she could not see anyone. The pain in her chest started to burn, but she knew she had to get near to the fire for it to work. The closer she got to the noise, so the smoke from the huge fire burning in the centre of the celebrations, started to thin and she could now make out faces.  Her breathing started to labour and the pain was increasing, forcing her to stumble and she felt herself falling. Then she saw him, her Jack, the man she had fallen in love with and lived together for some fifty years before he moved to the other side as Gwenavere explained to her.  He ran towards her and cradled her in his arms.

          “You came my darling, you came.”

          “Oh Jack, I’m hurting my love.”

          “Tis alright my darling, we are together now, it will pass.”

          Jack glanced into the huge fire, then looked into her eyes. “We have but a few minutes before all this ends, Will you marry me?”

          Janet smiled and nodded.  Suddenly they were standing at the altar of the thirteenth century church of Saint Mary’s on the corner of the ancient forest.  The old priest went through the ceremony of handfasting; gently binding their hands together with a cord.  They exchanged their vows, kissed, then carefully jumped over the broom.  As their feet touched the ground, everything vanished. Only the stillness of the cold night remained.

          The faint sound of the gentle moaning wind as it passed through the tormented limbs of the ancient oaks was all that was left of the gathering.  In the stillness of the dawn came the sound of the single bell of Saint Mary’s, together. With wind and bell woven in a haunting symphony, solemn, and strangely beautiful in the stillness of a forgotten world.

          Janet was reported missing the following day and after the briefest of searches, was found sitting up against one of the huge old oak trees in the forest of Mundon with a smile on her face.  That night the committee of the Dickens Care Home Bucket List Championship declared that even though Janet had passed away, she had achieved her quest and was voted the winner. 

Copyright Bob French

 HARRY’S SURPRISE

By Bob French

It was a usual Friday afternoon when the factory hooter sounded, heralding the end of the busy day shift.  Within minutes, the wide open space leading to the main gate was filled with loud chatter and laughter as the five hundred or so workers of Jimsons and Wentworth, the furniture factory in Hounslow, slowly made their way out of the premises and into an exciting weekend. Their local football team was due to play Brentford on Saturday and the Chipies, the factory ladies netball team was due to play their arch enemies, the Twickenham Owels.  As usual, old man Jimson had laid on busses to and from both events.  Regardless of the results, he’d promised his workers that after church, he would throw a barbecue on the field behind the factory.   

Watching the happy band of workers pass through the main gate was Harry Thornton, a tall, well build man who had served his country in the Royal Navy for some fifteen years. Harry was well respected within the community; the coach of the under tens mixed football team and a story teller at the local infants and primary school, and of course, come Christmas, he secretly played the role of Santa Clause.

Over the years, he had become the person to go to if you had a problem.   He had got to know nearly everyone who worked at the factory including their families.  Now and then he would pick one of the workers at random to step into his small, but comfortable security office for a chat and discretely find out if anyone was on the fiddle.

As he stood nodding to those who managed to get out of the factory early, he noticed Alf Pilkington, a jovial man who worked on the metal frame side of the furniture shop. As he drew near, Harry grinned and held up his hand.

“What ya got there Alf?”

          “Sawdust mate.  Jean is going to try and make toys for the school Christmas party.”

 Harry lifted the huge bags of sawdust from the wheelbarrow, then satisfied with his inspection, turned to Alf. “What a good idea. How are the kids?”

“Fine.  Little Freddy and our May are both looking forward to the football training tomorrow afternoon.”

With that they parted company and Harry went back to his scrutiny of the workers. Harry noticed that Alf didn’t always have a wheelbarrow full of sawdust and must have thought that Jean, his wife, had completed the toy making for the school.

A fortnight passed before Alf appeared again and for a catch-up rather than a security check, Harry nodded to Alf.

“Jean making some extra toys then Alf?”

“Yeh, the headteacher asked her if she could make a few extra for the kids down at the orphanage. She couldn’t say no, could she?”

For the following two weeks, Alf stopped and had a chat with Harry, who would discretely check out what Alf had in the wheelbarrow. Sometimes it was old balls of twine and others, sawdust, and after a chat about the chances of their football team being promoted this season, Alf was allowed to leave the office.

On the twentieth of December, spirits were high as the workers passed through the gates to begin their two weeks Christmas holiday.  As usual, Harry was nodding to the masses as they made their way home. then he saw Alf and called him over.

“Fancy a cupper Alf.”

With a grin on his face, Alf nodded and made his way over to the little office. 

“As it’s Christmas, fancy a dram?”

“That’s very kind of you Harry; don’t mind if I do.”

After pouring a shot of Glenfiddich into his coffee, they sat chatting for about ten minutes.  Then Harry looked up at Alf. “OK mate. I’ve been watching you for some time and I can’t work out what your scam is?”

 Alf laughed. Wheel barrows Harry, wheel barrows.

Copyright Bob French

A CHRISTMAS STORY OF LONG, LONG AGO

 A CHRISTMAS STORY OF LONG, LONG AGO

By Bob French 

The people of the little town of Braintree woke to find that during one night, just before Christmas 1917, snow had silently fallen, altering the bleak countryside to one of beauty and tranquillity. 

            Edward, who was making his way home on leave from the war for the first time, pulled up the damp rough collar of his great-coat to around his ears and lowered his face into the bitter cold wind that cut across the Witham Road.  He trudged on through slit eyes, his cold hands thrust deep inside his pockets.  The soft crunch of his boots as they trod the virgin snow; the haunting sound of the wind as it howled through the wire and the distant squawk of a crow high in the blackened leafless trees, brought his memory sharply back to home, the home where he had spent twelve months, but it felt like a life time.  The home, where he and his mates survived in a small muddy trench, day after day.  Where he lived on his nerves just to stay alive.  Where around him, grown men openly wept when one of their own quietly passed away from the bitter cold or hunger in the darkness of the night. Yet, strangely enough, it was a home he had become accustomed to, where he was happy.

            Edward was twenty one when he enlisted into the Essex Regiment during the summer of 1915. He felt it a sense of duty to fight for his country, which his father understood and praised him for, whilst his Mother did not and scolded him.  Then he remembered the day he told Grace, his young lady friend and grinned to himself at her reaction.  She had stared at him for a few seconds, then slapped his face hard, Then, with compassion in her eyes, she reached out and held his stinging face gently in her hands and kissed him.  It had been their first kiss.

            He had left the family farm just outside White Notley and within six months had passed through basic training. During the bitter winter of 1916 found himself in Belgium with his regiment at a place called Plug Street Wood, a desolate and cruel place, where creature comforts were virtually nonexistent and where both the weather and the enemy seemed determined to kill him.

            His thoughts were suddenly distracted by the sound of jangling chains and the crack of a whip that cut through the silence of the vast white and empty countryside. Edward’s eyes followed the sound until they settled on four steaming horses that strained against the straps and chains that imprisoned them. He stopped and returned the coachman’s wave, then grinned to himself.  ‘That must be the half past three coach from Chelmsford,’ he thought.

            His heavy breathing caused the air around him to billow like a steam engine pulling away from the station as he struggled up the last few yards to the crest of a familiar hill.  Then he rested, and looked down onto a small valley, hidden partially by the snow laden trees, his eyes began to sting as he fought back the tears.  Here was the place where he had started life, where he had grown from a scrawny boy to a man, under the protection of people who loved and cared for him. Where he had sweated and broken his back on an unyielding land; where he had given his love for the first time to someone other than his mother.  Then it dawned upon him.  Here was home.

            As he adjusted the shoulder straps of his haversack and began the perilous descent towards the small clump of cottages and barns, someone shouted his name. It carried clearly through the cold afternoon air.

            “Edward!”

He stopped, and through tired eyes quickly searched the snow covered farm in front of him.

            “Edward!”

He felt excitement rush through his body as he frantically searched the countryside.  Then he saw her stumbling up the field toward him. A grin spread across his face as he lurched down the slope, slipping and sliding as he went.  They met in each other’s arms, at the edge of the small brook which had frozen over to allow her to cross in safety. 

            “Oh my dear Grace.” His first words were uttered through sobs of happiness. They held each other close ignoring the bitter cold wind that tugged at their clothes.  Grace, cradled in his arms, her face buried in his chest and her muffled sobs, brought happiness to his heart.

            “Edward.  Thank God you are safe.  I have loved and missed you so much.” 

A few minutes later they heard the familiar voices of his parents through the winter air, as they hurried towards them.  Amongst sobs and laughter they hugged him until his father had insisted that the welcome should continue inside, rather than out in the cold and within minutes they were all standing in front of a raging open fire in the parlour.  Edward looked at his father, who grinned back at him with a nod of proud approval, as his mother and Grace clung to him as though he might suddenly vanish.

            “Welcome home lad.  It’s good to have you back, and just in time for Christmas.”

            His mother, who had remained uncommonly silent during the welcome, had suddenly started to openly weep, drawing Edward and Grace around her, embracing them with gentle arms. 

            “Edward lad, come and sit down.  You must be tired.”  His father recognised the expression on his son’s face.  He had seen it many times before, when they had been ploughing the fields till late, or bringing in the harvest.  His mother clung to his hand as he sat and listened to what they had planned for Christmas Day. 

            In the corner of his eye, Edward watched Grace as she prepared a sandwich; his heart leapt at the way the afternoon sun shone on her shoulder length hair and the smile of her calm angelic face. He had made his mind up.  This Christmas he would ask for her hand in marriage.

            The morning brought Christmas Eve, and with it another bitter cold day.  Edward, who was not accustomed to the comfort of a proper bed, had risen early and helped his father with the milking before being spoilt by his mother with a cooked breakfast that could have fed three.  She watched him as he ate and with an intriguing grin on her face, confronted him.

            “Well Edward, what is it?” 

            Edward knew he could never keep a secret from her for long and chose silence as his defence.  

            “I recognise that look on your face.  When have you got to go back?” 

            Edward pondered on the thought of that far away place; the stench of rotting bodies; the cold; the mud and the ever present threat of death, but quickly cast it from his mind.

            “No Mum it’s that…..”  The back door suddenly opened, admitting his father and a gust of ice cold wind.

            “Right, lad, when you’ve finished you can help me with the fencing, up in the top field, if you like.”  Edward grinned, secretly thanking his father for intervening.  As he moved toward the back door he paused and kissed his mother on the cheek.

            “I will tell you tomorrow, Mum, I Promise.”

            The excitement of what Christmas Day might bring slowly built throughout the morning, with the rich smells of cooking drifting through the house and the jubilant sound of Edward and Grace, amidst bouts of laughter, as they decorated the Christmas tree. 

            After lunch, Edward asked Grace if she would accompany him into Braintree, where she had grown up. Grace nodded enthusiastically, but insisted that he wore his uniform.

            To their surprise, the expected wind, that howled across the desolate countryside, was absent as they stepped out into the yard.  In its place, nature had prepared a spectacular show for the young couple.  The large, warm sun that hung in the vast, blue, empty sky ignited millions of diamonds, that lay in the gentle blanket of white snow. All around them was total silence, as they trudged up the Witham Road towards Braintree Town and civilisation.

            The cramped buildings on the Rayne Road, which led into the market square of Braintree, offered them sanctuary from the cold and soon they were amidst the jostle of humanity; smells of roasting chestnuts, carol singers, peddlers and busy shoppers, who smiled and greeted Edward as though he were a long lost son.  

            As Grace bartered with the fruit and vegetable seller, Edward knew the time had come and leant across and whispered that he had seen one of his friends and would only be a minute. She smiled at him with her eyes.

            “Don’t be too long.”

            As he eased himself through the busy square he paused and glanced at the White Hart public house and thought that a little Dutch courage might help, but thought better of it and continued to walk purposefully toward the tobacco shop on Coggeshall Road. 

            He paused and glanced briefly at the gold lettering printed neatly above the door of the shop.  Edward felt his heart start to pound, as he realised what he had to do, then, pushing the large wooden door open, he felt the waft of warm sweet- smelling air rush past him.  He allowed himself a few seconds to revel in the warmth and let his nose grow accustomed to the smells, when a tall, well-built man with a mop of grey hair appeared from behind a curtain.

            “Why, Edward.  It is good to see you back safely.  How are you?” 

            Edward had rehearsed the lines over and over in his mind and took a deep breath.

            “Sir. I come into your shop on a false errand.”  A sudden frown crept across the tall man’s face.

            “As you know Sir, I had been walking out with your daughter for over a year before I enlisted and I would like to ask your permission to take her hand in marriage.”

            The tall man narrowed his eyes and searched Edward’s frightened face.  Time seemed to stand still as the tall man contemplated his decision, then slowly smiled.

            “Edward, son.  You have my blessing,” he said as he extended his hand, which was eagerly taken.

            “Her mother, God rest her soul, would have wanted it also. Have you any idea when you intend marrying her?” 

            Edward had not been prepared for the question, but knew that to marry Grace before the war ended would be folly.

            “Upon my return from the war Sir.”  The grin that spread across the tall man’s face was quickly followed by the nodding of his shaggy head.

            “I know she spends most of her day across at your parents’ farm and I am sure she will do you proud, son. Go to her, Edward, and may God bless you both.”

            Christmas morning was filled with the smell of roast turkey, home-made wine and the singing of Christmas carols. After a huge lunch, excited screams and laughter followed the opening of presents.  Edward felt his eyes water as he unwrapped a watch, engraved with love from his parents, to replace the one he had broken in the trenches. 

            Suddenly, the room fell silent.  His parents gazed at Edward, who had knelt down in front of Grace.

            “Grace Thompson. You are my only true reason to live and I don’t think I can live on this earth without you by my side.  Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”

            What followed was a cacophony of screams and tears of joy as Edward’s parents embraced the young happy couple.  Grace and his mother clung to each other in tears. Edward, with bright tearful eyes, smiled at his father, then stepped forward and embraced him.  They both knew it was going to be the best Christmas ever.

Copyright Bob French