I Love to Write Fiction
Germany, November 1944.
A man makes his way painfully along a narrow road, leading from a forest towards Bremen. Name Peter Dugdale, age 29, RAF uniform, bruised with a twisted ankle, above all exhausted. He knows he's unlikely to reach 30; the Nazis have abandoned the Geneva Convention; if lucky he'll be shot on sight, if not he'll be at the mercy of the SS. Its dark, the only light being from fires burning in the city. A cold damp fog is drifting in from the trees. To his right in a valley, what looks like a warehouse; a few parked cars, no sign of any life. He makes his way towards them. Builders' rubble nearby supplies the tool to force open a door, but he's no idea how to start a vehicle without its ignition key. He gets down across the seat to try to make sense of the wiring.
Suddenly stops. A tall stern man is standing staring at him. "English?" "Ja". "You consider this a justifiable way to end a war", pointing towards the fires. "Killing our children; destroying our beautiful cities". "Have you been to the Eastend of London?" "Hardly a good example of beautiful architecture" the German replies with a sneer. "So that's what you're interested in. Not the children".
"I am not a Nazi. You had best get into my car". He drives to what was once a garden; now several bomb craters. "Wait here. I will be some time". Eventually he and another return, carrying sacks. He is told to get back in the car. "What have you decided?" "If a colleague of yours turns up we just might save you. If not we save you from the SS" Muffled thuds in the distance. They stop at a field - surely to small for a Hurricane aircraft to land. The Germans get their sacks out and start arranging battery powered lanterns, as yet unlit, in two lines. "How would they know to come here?" "A radio transmission to one of your bombing friends. They are presently at work on our docks".
They wait for what seems an eternity. Then a distant drone. The Germans hurry forward and light the lanterns. The plane flies dangerously low over the the hedge but can't risk a landing and soars up again, and away. The Germans look grim. one putting a hand into his pocket. Out of fear rather than hope Peter suggests " He could be burning off fuel". They wait another few minutes. The more burly of the Germans has decided its time to finish it but the other has keen hearing : "He is coming back". This time the Hurricane clips the hedge, the wheels still lowering as he bounces off the ground and slams on the brakes. "Never thought I'd be giving the Huns a free hedge trim" grinned the pilot. Surveying his passenger "Your life expectancy would be better with losing a bit of weight".
Once they're in the air Peter hears the announcement "Bar Service. I can offer you aspirin and water, or rum". They reach England singing "Show me the way to go home".
A man makes his way painfully along a narrow road, leading from a forest towards Bremen. Name Peter Dugdale, age 29, RAF uniform, bruised with a twisted ankle, above all exhausted. He knows he's unlikely to reach 30; the Nazis have abandoned the Geneva Convention; if lucky he'll be shot on sight, if not he'll be at the mercy of the SS. Its dark, the only light being from fires burning in the city. A cold damp fog is drifting in from the trees. To his right in a valley, what looks like a warehouse; a few parked cars, no sign of any life. He makes his way towards them. Builders' rubble nearby supplies the tool to force open a door, but he's no idea how to start a vehicle without its ignition key. He gets down across the seat to try to make sense of the wiring.
Suddenly stops. A tall stern man is standing staring at him. "English?" "Ja". "You consider this a justifiable way to end a war", pointing towards the fires. "Killing our children; destroying our beautiful cities". "Have you been to the Eastend of London?" "Hardly a good example of beautiful architecture" the German replies with a sneer. "So that's what you're interested in. Not the children".
"I am not a Nazi. You had best get into my car". He drives to what was once a garden; now several bomb craters. "Wait here. I will be some time". Eventually he and another return, carrying sacks. He is told to get back in the car. "What have you decided?" "If a colleague of yours turns up we just might save you. If not we save you from the SS" Muffled thuds in the distance. They stop at a field - surely to small for a Hurricane aircraft to land. The Germans get their sacks out and start arranging battery powered lanterns, as yet unlit, in two lines. "How would they know to come here?" "A radio transmission to one of your bombing friends. They are presently at work on our docks".
They wait for what seems an eternity. Then a distant drone. The Germans hurry forward and light the lanterns. The plane flies dangerously low over the the hedge but can't risk a landing and soars up again, and away. The Germans look grim. one putting a hand into his pocket. Out of fear rather than hope Peter suggests " He could be burning off fuel". They wait another few minutes. The more burly of the Germans has decided its time to finish it but the other has keen hearing : "He is coming back". This time the Hurricane clips the hedge, the wheels still lowering as he bounces off the ground and slams on the brakes. "Never thought I'd be giving the Huns a free hedge trim" grinned the pilot. Surveying his passenger "Your life expectancy would be better with losing a bit of weight".
Once they're in the air Peter hears the announcement "Bar Service. I can offer you aspirin and water, or rum". They reach England singing "Show me the way to go home".
