Field of Remembrance

His orders were simple. But the task was terrifying. He crouched behind the rubble of what was once the kitchen, peering from behind an upturned stove. He tried to focus, to spot a route through the debris of what was left of the French town and the misery of a thousand lives. But all he could see ahead was the fog of battle as thick dust and choking smoke swirled in the air.

Bile burned his throat. He slumped back against the cold brick of a half-demolished wall. Behind him a defiant door swung on its hinges with no wall to close against. He wiped his eyes with the back of his filthy hands.   

He’d be running blind. Charging first towards them, then around them. If the smoke from the fires and the dust from the demolished buildings stayed thick and dark for long enough, he had a chance. To get beyond them before they even knew he was there.

It had fallen to him because he was quick. A county champion over 440 yards, he was the only one they thought could do it. His natural speed over one lap – a quarter of a mile - meant he was the only one who probably could do it. In the end, he was the one ordered to do it. To carry the message and save them. A frantic foot race to save what was left of his brigade. He was their last resort. How he hated the thought of that.

He closed his eyes and saw himself, not in this broken hell of a battle-scarred landscape, but running fast and free in the leafy lanes of Oxfordshire. And sprinting between the bales of hay in the sun-soaked fields of the family farm. 

He could hear his father bellowing: “Shoulders and arms, boy! Pump your arms and shoulders. Faster! Faster!” His master’s voice, screaming instructions that were carried on the same warm breeze as the sweet-smelling perfume of the young woman perched on a bale of hay at the end of the field, who was watching intently. 

A waft of acrid cordite dragged him from the sun-lit field. He needed to move as freely as possible so, still crouching, he removed what was left of his thick, heavy tunic, folding it carefully and laying it on the ground.

He’d wait for the next bombardment, hoping the smoke, dust and dirt from fresh explosions would hide him from the snipers. Before it cleared, he would be halfway towards them. Out in the open. Sprinting through the murk. A fast-moving target.

He gulped in a lungful of air and waited. Coiled. Poised. Ready for the next heart-jarring bang that would start his race. A race he knew, deep down, he was unlikely to win.

***

The boy knew this was a race he was expected to win. The county final was still 20 minutes away and Tom thought they’d been called a little too early. He’d not rushed but finished his warm-up in his own time before joining the seven other gangly youths gathered in the room.

As Tom entered, the harsh neon lighting hurt his eyes momentarily as it bounced off the whitewashed walls. He stood for a second to take in the scene, ran his hand through his blonde hair, then walked to the corner and sat down in a flimsy plastic chair. He stared ahead, his blue eyes clear and cold. Fully focussed.

Five of his rivals were also sitting down, either focusing on nothing in the middle distance or slumped forward with heads bowed staring at the floor. In the centre of the room, the two others were pacing. Back and forth they strutted displaying total disregard for everything. All of them battling hard to control their nerves in the deafening silence of the “Call Room” – the gathering place for the finalists. 

After a few minutes, Tom rose from the chair. As he did so, he put his hand in his pocket to feel for the slender, silver chain and the calming reassurance it provided. He kept his head high and looked straight ahead while he gently ran the chain through his fingers and then wrapped it up tightly in his closed fist. 

Without warning, the door was thrown open and a woman entered, a smartly dressed official in pleated white skirt and blue blazer. “Boys 400 metres Final,” she stated, her manner curt and business-like, marshalling them out of the room and ordering them to follow her into the stadium like soldiers on parade.

They emerged blinking into the sunlit school stadium, welcomed by a few hundred spectators cheering enthusiastically and enjoying the late spring sunshine.

Among them – up in the makeshift stand – she watched.

***

The ceremony was short but typically formal, full of military pomp and precision.

Stirring music from a marching band performing in front young, smartly turned-out soldiers. And a small gathering of veterans and their families, huddling under umbrellas seeking protection from the incessant drizzle. Sodden flags hanging limply under the weeping skies. An officer at a lectern reading out a list of names.

They were there to honour the heroes – ordinary soldiers, ordinary men - who had performed extraordinary acts of courage to save others in the chilling heat of battle all those years ago. Today it was his turn to be recognised for his bravery when he’d literally run the gauntlet - hurtling through the bombs and the bullets, to carry the message and save their lives.

His valour had almost gone un-noticed. And that hurt. The army had taken too many years to officially recognise his bravery. His name was among the dozens read out that was carried on the wet wind over the dripping umbrellas. His name meant nothing to those gathered there on that miserable, grey day on the parade ground.

He didn’t hear it. He wasn’t there. Neither was she.

***

Tom’s nerves were building but he felt calm and in control, gulping down air to meet his brain’s craving for oxygen. A one lap race over 400 metres for the county title.

He sat on the bench and swapped his trainers for spikes. Then, in a series of slow and deliberate movements, he removed his tracksuit before folding it and placing it in the plastic basket provided. Now it was time. He stepped on to the track and gazed at the empty lanes that stretched out ahead of him.

They were called forward to settle into position. To take their marks. Some did so hurriedly without ceremony. Others were more deliberate, swaying gently from side-to-side as a finishing flourish to mark the end of the beginning.

As Tom settled into position he sat back on his haunches and opened his fist. He’d taken the chain from his tracksuit pocket as they’d entered the stadium and he’d been gripping it ever since. It was his final act of preparation.

Half-kneeling, his body bolt upright supported by one knee planted firmly on the track, Tom unfurled the slim silver chain and let it dangle for a split second before placing it over his head. He let it drop round his neck then pulled the chain up to his pursed lips, before tucking it behind his vest.

Behind him, a pistol was raised. As the trigger was squeezed, it fired with an ear-splitting crack that made Tom jolt, and his heart miss a beat. It happened every time, even though he knew it was coming.

The field of eight rose in unison, rising rhythmically as one in their individual lanes as if lifted by some invisible force. The biggest race of Tom’s young life was underway.

High up in the stands, she stirred in her seat and a faint smile creased her wrinkled face.

***

She watched in silent agony as he faded fast towards the finish.

As he lay in the hospital bed, Violet could see the life ebbing out of him like a slow turning tide and there was nothing she could do, apart from hold his hand and mop his brow. She sobbed and thought her heart would rupture beyond repair as the man she loved slipped away.

They’d delivered him home to her broken and bloodied. There was no fanfare. No heroic homecoming. He’d arrived unheralded on a stretcher, carried unceremoniously from the back of a lorry into the military hospital where they continued to work on his wounds, to stem the bleeding and remove the tiny bullet that had punctured his lung and lodged itself close to his heart.

Of course, their efforts were futile. It was only after his passing that she’d learned of his self-sacrifice, his outstanding bravery that had saved the lives of so many others.

It was one of the many survivors from that day, a young officer with a baby face and nervous blue eyes that flitted as he spoke, who sought her out to tell her how, as the shells exploded about him and the bullets fizzed around his head, he’d launched himself towards the guns and hurtled through the chaotic, bombed-out streets to fetch help from the other British company nearby. 

He told her how, as the artillery rained down, he’d taken off with the speed of a cheetah, keeping low then rising to hurdle the smoking barricades of rubble with a dancer’s grace. He recounted how he’d pelted through the filthy dust and the wreckage of the town, leaving the snipers searching vainly from the shadows.

All except one, whose single shot found its target, a small round bullet shattering his shoulder blade and smashing through his lung before coming to rest in the soft tissue near his heart. It was enough to bring him down just yards from safety. But not enough to end the race.

She wept as she heard how he’d staggered to his feet and lunged for the finish, urged on by the British soldiers who roared like a delirious football crowd, and who celebrated wildly as, wounded and bleeding, he fell into their arms to deliver his message requesting urgent assistance for his comrades trapped a few streets away.

They responded immediately, sweeping through the carnage of the town to rescue their beleaguered brothers-in-arms from certain annihilation. But not before the sniper found his range again.

***

There was no medal. No fancy piece of ornate ironwork mounted on colourful ribbons to honour his courage. All she was left with after he’d gone was the child they’d cut from her body. And the small round bullet they’d cut from his. Nearly 50 years ago.

As Tom launched himself from the gun, Violet was carried back to a sun-kissed field in middle England where she watched the handsome, rugged man she loved running full pelt, fast and free towards her, the wind tugging at his hair as the tall grass swayed in silent tribute to his speed.

As Tom powered along the back straight, his young shoulders and arms pumping like pistons, all she could see was her beloved husband Tommy racing towards her on a glorious summer’s afternoon, hurdling bales of hay as he charged past his father to sweep her into his arms.

“Oh mum. He’s done it!” her daughter exclaimed, coaxing Violet back to the present just as her son crossed the finish line, a comfortable winner.

The small crowd roared in recognition of Tom’s triumph and acclaimed him as the new county champion. From the track, Tom turned and waved at his mother and the frail old lady seated beside her.

Then, still holding his grandmother’s adoring gaze, he lifted the silver chain that hung around his neck to display the small round bullet that was attached to it, carrying the spirit of his war-hero grandfather. As he lifted it to his lips, Violet’s smile grew even wider. Her beloved Tommy was running free again.