A Grand Thing

“Right there next to that tree, the one with the flowers growing at its base, that is where it happened.” The journalist looked to the spot the elderly man was pointing out. The sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting a warm glow over the spot that held so many conflicting memories, where time seemed to dance between the present, near past, and further past. “Oh, I remember that day. How could you not when something like that happens?” The man fell back in time, the journalist letting him stay there. A smile developed on the old man's face, the lines of life receding as the younger face poked out from the past. “How did that day start?” the journalist asked softly. The elderly man sighed contemplatively, tilting his head as the past enveloped him. The man took a nearly imperceptible step forward into the past. “Cold,” the man said. The journalist paused, cursing himself for not thinking to bring a jacket on this very warm late spring day. “Cold,” the man repeated. The journalist shivered and took a step forward to help the man back to the warmth of the car. “Cold, it was a cold day. Too cold for anyone to be out in, well, at least anyone who had two good cents about them,” the man began. “I was out and about on my daily walk. I don't usually walk this way, but that day my path seemed not to be my own. It was mid morning. The sound took me back to those long hours watching for the planes. We all knew they were coming; the government told us so. Everything we did was to prepare and protect from the coming invasion. Well, everything the adults did. As a child I was told my only duty was to eat my vegetables, carry my gas mask, and keep calm and carry on. That was all us youngsters could do. Nothing grand like the older boys and girls who could be messengers. Or the teenagers and young adults who could be ARP wardens or even members of the Home Guard. Now those people did grand things for the war effort. Us little kids had nothing to do but 'eat our vegetables, carry our gas masks, and keep calm and carry on.'" The man paused. A bird called out as if to encourage the man to continue. “But one thing some of us little kids could do was be plane spotters. All of us youngsters knew all the outlines, ours and theirs, but on this day I did not need to see it to know what it was. Oh, that engine...” The man looked into the vast sky of the past. The journalist heard a faint rumble of a plane engine from somewhere in that past. “To us that sound was the sound of victory,” the man said proudly. "We all knew we were going to beat the bloody bastards." We shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be. We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender.” The man recited, his head held high. He grasped the hem of his shirt and jerked it downward, forcing it and himself to attention, ready for the battle at hand. “But the sound of this one was not right, not raging at the enemy like it should but limping home injured. The plane was damaged, and it was coming down. I raced up the hill, and there it was, that glorious Spitfire billowing smoke. In that moment it seemed that we both chose a point and aimed for it. He got there first, slamming nose-first into the ground. His speed had dropped, and he was as level as you can be and still take a nosedive. So he skidded for a bit before flipping. Oh, that beautiful machine, wrecked. I know it was a replica, The originals being too valuable to risk flying. But that replica sure took me back. The smell of the fuel, upturned earth, and oil surrounded me as I rushed down the hill. The journalist's keen eyes observed the man. “I rushed up and saw the pilot struggling to free himself. His leg was caught. When he turned to me, I stepped back in shock. Not a modern feature about him. He was from the past. This was one of our boys, so I did my duty to him. I reached up and felt along his leg. A sharp piece of metal had gouged his leg. Hanging upside down as he was, the metal was cutting its way along his leg. The more he struggled to get free, the more his leg was being split. I crawled under his hanging body and shouldered him back into the cockpit. With what strength he had left, he bravely swung his butchered leg off the metal. Exhausted, he fell from his plane. I dragged him free, knowing he would never return to his airfield and squadron. We had already lost so many young men, boys really. most dying alone, with no one to hold their hand and tell them their king and country thanked them.” The men paused, reflecting on the cost of war. “I held his hand and told him his king and country thanked him for his service. I made sure he did not have to die alone.”. Nature held a moment of silence. ” “Are you telling me that you believe this pilot was actually from the 1940s?” Like a time traveler? the journalist finally asked hesitantly. The elderly man slowly returned from the recent and further pasts. “No, of course not; that pilot was a reenactor. I know that,” the man gently said. “But you know, in a way he was from the 1940s. Most of the adults from the war are no longer with us. Those of us who were there were just kids. We could not do much to help. The government was calling on all citizens to help. I remember wanting to help my country, but what could I do as a kid?” The journalist watched a tear roll down the man's elderly face. But those living historians help us all to remember that time as if we were pilots, soldiers, land girls, shopkeepers, housewives, home guards, and ARP wardens. You know the people who were able to really do something grand for the war effort. Right over there, by that tree with the flowers growing at its base, is where it happened, where I was finally able to do something grand for the war effort.” I will always remember that.