Folks,

I am going to risk causing a mass exodus from this place so complete that the likes of it have not been seen since prohibition was voted in here in the USA or the Inland Revenue Service was created in Britain. I will accomplish this feat by posting another amazingly awful but surprisingly dull effort written by me. If you have a weak stomach, a good mind, or good taste for that matter, read no further.

A CRUMPLED RECTANGLE
By JRT
HWH (continued)
Pg.16
07-20-2002

Somewhere over a slate-gray Channel a lone Spitfire trails a long line of white smoke as it plods along low and slow toward home. The once powerful Merlin engine smokes a bit and is skipping badly. Along the port wing there are several large holes and one or two long rips through which may be seen important things that were never supposed to have enjoyed such easy scrutiny.

Inside the smashed cockpit a dark shape sits slumped in his aluminum seat. His gaze is fixed upon a point just ahead of him but below the windscreen. At the very edge of the smashed instrument panel, right in front of the young pilot struggling for his life, can be seen a small, crumpled rectangle. This is the focal point on which his mind is now locked. On close inspection the small rectangle is seen to be a sun-faded photograph of a small child and a woman whom we may easily take to be his mother. Even though the images are faded by the sun, creased and soiled by the frequent, longing touch of loving yet grimy fingers, it is clear that the mother is young and pretty, the child is clear-eyed and handsome.

There is a sudden blinding flash and a powerful shudder runs through the aircraft from its spinning nose to its shattered tail. In that instant the engine seizes and shortly there is only the sound of rushing wind. The cockpit is empty. There is a pool of red liquid clotting on the seat and there are two wide, crimson stains drying upon the tangled harness. Along the edge of the hood and on the edge of the hanging exit door there are several sticky, reddish glove prints. Both the pilot and the small, crumpled rectangle are now missing. A small parachute pops open just a hundred meters or so above the waiting sea and the burning tangle of metal that was once a proud Spitfire crashes straight into the cold, green waves. In seconds all trace of the broken fighter plane disappears into the yawning depths.

Far across an England that is far too preoccupied with the business of war to be overly concerned with the fate of just one pilot, in a place thought safe from bombing, a young woman cradles a small child in her delicate arms and looks longingly out her curtained window at the distant sky above. As her little child squirms happily in her arms she shifts him over her right shoulder, pats him reassuringly on his little back and says a silent prayer. Somehow she knows that at this precise moment her dear husband is in darkest peril.

As the evening shadows lengthen, the young Derbyshire mother makes her way past the Quiet Woman Pub and across the road to the old stone church. She follows the well-worn path past centuries old stones to the church’s creaking door and enters the small sanctuary. Here at the ancient altar she kneels with her son to pray earnestly for the safety of her beloved husband. Her eyes are full of expectant tears as she looks reverently upward; her aching mind carrying her prayers past the timbered roof and on into the unknown void above.

High above the stricken mother, floating purposefully in the settling darkness, a lone JU88 in a fruitless search for an ammunition dump rumored to be in the area releases its load of bombs. As the deadly payload begins its fall toward an unsuspecting village far below, the crew of the Junkers are relieved that their mission has been completed and they may now begin their dangerous journey homeward.

Thrashing about in the Channel’s freezing spray, PO Wood manages to inflate his rubber dinghy and scramble aboard before all his strength deserts him. Several long and difficult hours later his almost lifeless form is tenderly removed from the sea by friendly hands. One of the sailors notices that the pilot has something grasped tightly in one of his gloved hands. A small rectangle. As the bloody gloves are unstuck and removed it is found that PO Wood still has clutched in his death-like grasp a small, wet photograph.

Compassionately the young sailor wipes the blood from the little photograph tries to dry it a bit and tenderly places it into the pilot’s newly bandaged hand. PO Wood’s eyes flicker and there is just the ghost of an appreciative smile that wrinkles the tortured, tired young face.

Many miles away, a small Derbyshire village fire brigade is called out to battle a raging blaze in the old stone church located across from the pub. When the scattered members arrive they have no idea at all that a day or so later when the stones have cooled there will be found grizzly evidence of a far greater tragedy amongst the twisted rubble of the bombed out sanctuary.

Standing near the little, crumpled rectangle that had once framed the old church door, Constable Robert Newton was heard to say, “Well Mates, tragic as it may seem, at least no one were ‘urt 'ere, now ain’t that right lads?”