BY BARRY BASDEN
I served tea to UXB teams. Boring, really, until the day I drove up to a great smoking hole, not a man left.
Dampness soaks into our bones. Planes, ack-ack, and bombs sound closer. I snap on the BBC’s silly play. We sit, wait, listen.
Last Night’s Bombing
We dug out Mum and Dad, laid them beside the others. When the king came to see the damage, some cheered, but I booed.
Coming out of the pub, we saw him parachute into Ted’s field. We grabbed our pitchforks and ran to make sure he didn’t get out alive.
Home on leave, I saw women and children sifting through ruins. First time I thought of my bombs doing the same thing over there.
Barry Basden realizes that life is a finite adventure, not a dress rehearsal. Few things surprise him, not even endless war. He especially enjoys a good breakfast and editing Camroc Press Review at http://www.camrocpressreview.com.