Alan Stanley

  1937 -
  City of Birth:
Romford. Essex. Great Britain.

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Alan's Story > Chapters > 3. Alan's War. Three.

" Alan's War. Three." 


Date Range: 01/01/1942 To 05/08/1945   Comments: 2   Views: 5,434
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The moment that he pressed down on the stick, he knew that he was wrong.

 He actually tried to hold back at the very last moment, but the momentum of being so positive was too much, almost overwhelming.

A wave of inner heat illuminated his face at the job done but was followed by a cold shudder that shook his body loosening beads of sweat in his hair that trickled down his cheek and neck onto his scarf. He was surprised at the emotion; after all he was only doing his duty for the Reichmarshal, the Fuhrer and Germany.
The people below were his enemies and during the last mission to attack London, the devastation caused to the armament factories in the dock area by the bombs of his group was easy to see. The Reichmarshal had addressed his group only yesterday and had stressed that while Germany was winning the war against Britain, now was not the time to slacken off. Now was the time for that extra effort-that extra push that would convince the the people to force Churchill to capitulate before the Americans decided to move in and claim the spoils.
The Reichmarshal had just returned from the Chancellery in Berlin and a personal meeting with the Fuhrer. He had the ear of the Fuhrer and his confidence.
Hit the factories, destroy the morale, kill the war effort. Strike at the right time and it would collapse like a pack of cards and then Britain and it's people would be on Germany's side and together they could move against the old enemy; Russia. It was only Churchill who was keeping the country going, spouting lies and spreading terror amoung the people. Get rid of him and the King is waiting to do the Fuhrur's bidding and together to sweep away the Bolsheviks!
 He now realised as the bombs fell away that his directions were wrong and that he was still a good six minutes away from the target zone. He saw the sighting that he had identified turn into something entirely different to what he imagined.
He heard the pilot shouting at him; shouting and cursing him and his mother. He opened his mouth to reply but shut it  when he turned and saw the crew cursing and realised it wouldn't do any good whatsoever.
The bombs had probably fallen on open fields and that was probably why there were curses.
He stared off into the darkness going over in his mind where he had gone wrong but suddenly the plane banked steeply forcing him down into his seat, as it headed for the French coast. He heard the pilot shouting at the top of his voice, it cracking with strain, but then the rear gunner said one word that brought instant silence.

The long black cylinder hanging from a parachute made no sound as it floated down from the open bomb doors of the plane, as if being born from it's mother and being sent out into the wicked world to fend for itself without so much as a fond goodbye, rather curses.
 The only other sound was the fading twange of bullets striking metal and then the softer sounds of wind fussing through the straps of the harness holding the bomb,and the occcasional stretching of leather as of that made by the lone occupant of a back street hotel bed, turning over in blissful rest.
 The moon broke through cloud catching a shine on the silk and reflecting it back to the heavens. Anyone looking up at that moment would wonder at the vampire like cape blocking the light of the moon, but the ones to whom it would matter had their minds on other things at that time.
Old Mrs Miller had almost given up trying to listen to the play on the radio over the noise of the siren. First there had been an 'Alert' and then an 'All Clear' and now there was an 'Alert' sending her again to the pile of cushions on the floor under the solid oak dining table. Her old bones, she had decided, were too brittle to spend time in the damp ground of a back garden shelter.
 The men from the Council had very willingly dug the hole in the soft ground, put in the Anderson Shelter and covered it over with earth. She had only the comfort of an old kitchen chair to sit on and kept dozing off and nearly falling over. The last time that she had spent the night down there at the insistance of her friend Elsie, they had nearly froze under their eiderdowns and in the end nothing had happened.
  She had said to herself then:
"This is the last time I sit down here in the freezing cold like a silly boy scout, and for what?  Nothing! Nothing came over. No! That's it. Not for King, Country, or Winston and certainly not for bloody Adolf."
Her son Jamie would be calling in tomorrow, as he did every two weeks.
He was a good boy.
She was sure that his wife wasn't very keen on him calling so regular. He would spend some of his time with her trying to get her to go to live with him and her and her grandchildren at Cambridge, where he was a Professor of Foriegn Language, or some strange title that meant he was. Cambridge was a very nice city, but her friends were still around here. It was only the young folk who had moved away, or at least the women and children. What would be acheived by the old folk moving away, except to put strain on families already under pressure, without the complications of somebody's mother or mother in law to make things worse. No, she was staying where she was.
If, and that was bigger word than it looked, if she got bombed out, she would think about Cambridge again, but-that wasn't likely to happen.

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Member Since
Aug 2007
Brian Childers said:
posted on Feb 19, 2010
Enjoying these

I like your writing style Alan.

Member Since
Feb 2010
Alan Stanley said:
posted on Mar 13, 2010

Thanks Brian for your kind words. Keep reading.