Somebody’s Son by Ben Blackwell
Anne and Lorna were enjoying a pleasant bike ride before the storm thundered in. Away from the nervous gossip and discontented moans buzzing around the town centre, Anne thought the small woods on the outskirts would be shielded from the infectious worry of the people. Although the humble creek still trickled along and the woodpecker continued to drum hidden in the green branches, evidence of the war had cut through the serenity of the woods: a Ju 88, mainly intact with the bodies of three pried from the crash barely a week before.
Everyone had heard the crash in the night, the first one near the village. People had heard stories on the radio about bombings on neighbouring cities but no attacks on their village yet. Many doubts had been voiced over whether it had been the RAF or the Luftwaffe but there was no uncertainty for Anne and Lorna with a swastika still visible on the plane’s tail, protruding from the shrubs like a marked gravestone. Anne and Lorna paused on their ride, looking with interest before continuing on their path. Soon the rays of light were replaced by the dribble of rain, steadily becoming heavier. Wanting to escape the storm, the pair left the path and entered a small cave.
They leant their bikes against the mouth of the cave, sheltering from the weather. The change from the breathing forest to the stagnant air in the cave was not particularly pungent but noticeable. From the mouth, the cave led off in a fairly straight direction and, in the dim light, the two women could just about see a smaller tunnel meandering off to the right. “How long are we waiting for the rain to stop?” Lorna asked. “Billy needs picking up from school.” “It’s only 2 o’clock now.” Anne assured. The rain on the cave roof intensified from a patter to a bombardment.
“Fine.” Lorna grabbed her handbag from the basket of her bike and withdrew a box of kitchen matches and a packet of Player’s cigarettes. “How did you manage to get those?” Anne asked. “Mr Floorer said he didn’t have any Players left. I only saw the Spanish Shawls.”
Lorna lit the cigarette with a match. “He keeps some for the regulars.”
“What do you mean regulars? I go there just as much as you do.” Anne said.
“Regulars he likes then.” Lorna grinned. “Besides, I’m not having those Shawls. They’re horrible.”
Lorna blew out her match.
“Can I have one?” Anne asked.
Lorna looked at her cigarette. “Do you know how much this cost?”
It was Anne’s turn to smile. “Don’t worry. I don’t want that. Can I have a match?”
“Oh.” Lorna handed Anne the box. “Sure.”
Anne lit the match. She began to wander deeper into the cave.
“Anne, what are you doing?” Lorna asked, standing at the mouth of the cave, still smoking.
“Exploring.” Anne answered. “You can stay there if you like.”
“Okay.”
Anne continued on, around to where the cave veered off to the right. The flame had almost reached her fingers when she noticed, hidden in the dark, a body lay unmoving. She dropped the match. “Lorna! Lorna! Get here now. I think there’s a man in here.” Anne’s eyes began adjusting to the dark as Lorna rushed over to her. Definitely the silhouette of a body. Lorna appeared behind her, cigarette clamped in her lips. Anne stepped forward. Lorna grabbed her shoulder. “Wait.” Lorna whispered. Anne lit another match and brought the light closer to the body. Lorna followed behind her. In the flickering light, Anne could make out a face. “He’s a boy.” Anne said.
“A Nazi.” Lorna spat. “He must’ve survived the crash.”
“Not for that much longer, I don’t think.” Anne said. She lowered the match down to his blood-stained uniform. Evidently, he had not escaped the plane unharmed.
“Good.” Lorna grimaced.
“Lorna! What if he was conscripted?” “So what? He’s what your husband is fighting.” “And he’s only just older than your son.” Anne remarked.
“He’s still a Nazi.”
“He was a boy. He had to live under Nazi regime.” Anne lit a new match. One of the boy’s hands was clenched. Anne opened his cold fist. A piece of crumpled paper. Under the light of the small flame and knowing little German, Anne could only make out the first scrawled line, ‘Liebe Mutter’: Dear Mother.
Written by Ben Blackwell
I am currently studying A-levels in Bath. I’ve always enjoyed creative writing and after winning short story competitions such as the Mid-Somerset Festival, the Threshold Prize and being published in my school anthologies, I am looking to apply for a university course in English Literature and Creative Writing. When I’m not writing, I enjoy playing rugby and spending time with my friends.