Short Story 1
The Postman. Winter 1945
‘Sorry to be blunt. But I’ve been out on this delivery for some time now. It’s late and I’m very cold. And unusually for me, I feel more than slightly disorientated. So, like I told you, I have a message to deliver and you are the only one here who can receive it, right?’
Well now, let’s be clear about this: the message is for me, isn’t it? I would have expected you to look more official, that’s all. You don’t look obviously like a postman. I thought you would have a uniform and a badge. You know - stuff like that?
‘I don’t need a uniform. I’m part of a grey mob. We all look much the same really. Now we’re told we are continually moaning, getting in everyone’s way, not as tip-top and smart as we used to be. Now we’re demobbed. After all we’ve done for them! San Fairy Ann. They want to keep us in line, again, and make us do as we’re told. Follow orders. Be quiet. Go there, not here. Stop lining up there. Get out of it - or we’ll set our dogs on you! You’re smelly and undisciplined and useless!’ That talk would rile anyone.
‘Sorry, to digress. But after all we did? They want to forget about us now. We mess things up. We’re not welcome amongst them anymore. Already, they’ve forgotten about the War and how many of us got shot down, doing their bidding. Pushing up the daisies now. Only one in my battalion got a medal: Billy Orange. NS.15125. His medal read: For delivering a message from the Arnhem Airborne Operation in record time, while serving with the APS in September 1944. Despite all that courage. All that success. And we did deliver, where others had failed and couldn’t see a way through. We’d delivered for King and Country. We should have been treated like heroes. Instead we had nothing to come back to in good old Blighty. We got side-lined, and we were desperate. At first, we accepted their meagre handouts. Some of us only had doorways and parks as refuge in the city, and then they forced us out of there, to places of their choosing. Out of the suburbs, to the country and then the coast. Far out of their sight. Out of sight, out of mind. We were an embarrassment. No longer useful.’
But, as you so succinctly put your case, with such proven ability to deliver messages? And, as you point out, to such a high standard of professionalism and fearlessness. I don’t often get messages. So, I must say thank you. It’s not an easy place to find. There aren’t many obvious landmarks, in my opinion. So, I congratulate you in the determination and the effort you’ve already displayed!
‘Kind words, friend. Warmly received. And you’re right – it is very bare and samey here. My name’s Col, by the way. Brought up in the Culver Downs. Just north of Sandown Bay on the Isle of Wight. Don’t expect you’ve been? No, I fully understand. Each to their own. But it’s such a pretty spot in the spring, with the Downs covered in a haze of wildflowers. Such colour: yellow, blue, pink and white. And butterflies - mainly Chalkhill Blues. Deliciously warm and heavenly scented!
Unimaginable!
‘The very thought of it makes me yearn to get home. In my mind’s eye, I hold such a comforting picture of that familiar place. But, I must admit, there are still the remnants of WW1 fortifications and gun placements in my paradise. In1939, Culver Down was manned by 118th Battery from the 527th Coast Regiment. The battery's two main guns had ranges of up to 17,000 yards and could prevent long-range bombardments of Spithead and Portsmouth dockyard. Come 1942, the battery was stood down from full-time night alerts. A couple of years ago, a radar station was erected to the east of Culver Battery. Still there - those grim reminders of war.
‘But oh, the views of the Downs and out to sea! So wonderful to climb high and then look down on that beautiful panorama. And the pleasant feel of the sun’s warmth on your body. And all those spiralling scents of salty sea air mixed with wildflowers. Nothing can beat it!’
You must find this rather cold and monotone then? It’s either black or white here. Hey, what’s black and white and red all over?
‘Charlie Delta. One of my own shot down, I would wager.’
No! It’s a joke. It’s a newspaper. Get it?
‘Jolly good show! Everyone needs a joker in their pack. We certainly knew about The Mocker. Are you considered a joker in your mob then?’
Joker? Ha ha. I suppose I’ll try anything! But no. I’m a loner, Col. Solitary by nature, I’m told. So, it’s a novelty for me to be speaking to a postman. And for me to get a delivery from someone. I just can’t think who would want, or even need, to get in touch? We’re very self-sufficient here. Hard as nails. Selfish in our ways. Here, everyone’s out for what they can get. Trying to get by in these far-flung northern outposts, is a daily struggle. We have to work for every single bite we eat.
You’ve gone quiet and you’re starting to shiver, Col. And looks like there’s another fall of snow on the way. You must be hungry by now. You are? I knew it. I’m a bit peckish myself. We’ve chatted long enough. Here, hop onto my shoulders and I’ll carry you for a bit. Your legs are rather on the short side. Not at all suited to this arctic terrain. No, I must insist. Believe me, it’ll be my pleasure! Stay still. I’m just going to nudge you forward quite a bit more.
And with that, the polar bear tossed the barely alive carrier pigeon into the air for its last fateful flight, before downing it in one swift mouthful! It didn’t even hit the sides of his mouth. The message remained unread. Still hidden in the small metal canister attached to the pigeon’s leg. But now all safely dispatched and on its way to his stomach, as a tasty little snack!
That pigeon must rank as the stupidest bird he had ever eaten! His magnetite was well and truly AWOL! Ha ha.
