Tangled Yarns: Flashback
The bullet had missed. Tom inspected the rip in his uniform and crouched lower in the depression made by the morning's bombing. If the bullet had struck a little further down, it would have punctured his lung. If it had made a hole a bit to the left, it would have gone through his heart. Tom sighed, like a man breathing out his last breath. He had been very lucky.
The battlefield was quiet now. There were some shots, half-hearted, far away. That was all. They sounded like crackers, on Guy Faulkes night. Harmless snaps and bangs. Tom forgot where he was and remembered those yesterdays, when he was a child.
Smoke drifted across the back yard, swirling and twisting in the warm night air Someone was lighting another rocket. Everyone stood and waited as the wick burned. A red eye in the darkness.
Swoosh! The rocket blazed into the stars and exploded in a burst of colour. All the faces of the children below appeared for a moment laughing, wondering, lit by the red and gold stars. Every eye twinkled. The girl with the silky blond hair giggled and jumped on the spot, clapping her tiny hands. The boys, fall of whoops and yells, ran around like mad things, grabbing at each other and fighting in the pungent darkness.
Tom had gone for a walk that night, after the fireworks were finished. He had gone exploring, as boys do, over a fence and down a steep clay bank which dropped sheer to the sea. He was not far from the house, yet he felt as if he was a thousand miles from anywhere. He was tired, excited, and drunk with the fun and stupidity of climbing a cliff on a warm summer night.
And he had slipped. He still remembered the feeling of cold, wet air, slicing against his face as he fell. His body had crumpled with the first massive collision against the bank and then came the icy rush of the sea as it swallowed him. He had screamed on the way down but of course no one heard. He had fought the cold strength of the water, gasping for breath, until his hope for living was gone. He held the freezing rock which lined the edge of the sea until his hands were numb. Death began to claim him, little by little, taking his legs, his hands, his mind.
But help had come. Strong arms had lifted him from the dark ocean and carried him to a bed. His friends had stood by, smiling nervously, wishing him well. A nurse had given him things to make him feel well again.
And as he had lain in hospital, he had remembered a story his father told him.
