Forever the Colours
“The strange smell here, though, Tommy couldn’t place. He had never liked the smell of hospitals; it meant sickness and death. It also meant watching your loved ones take their last breath, like Granddad Stan, curled up on a bed fighting for every breath; six stone soaking wet and looking a hundred-and-fifty-years-old. He didn’t always look like that though; no, once he was a big man. A big strong man and a soldier, it’s true. Tommy had seen all the old photographs from the war when he was a child. All those black and white prints of young Stan and his mates, standing alongside burnt out German tanks, artillery pieces and even brothels (though he wasn’t supposed to see those photos, and Gran went mad when Tommy asked who the black girl was sitting on his lap, drinking out of a champagne bottle).
‘Ah, well now,’ Stan had said, ‘that was a poor Nubian that I rescued from the Nazis, boy. Poor girl was so happy when we took that French town, she gave us all a drink and a kiss, as thank...s, you know.’ And with that he had quickly buried the photo at the bottom of the shoe box where they were kept.MoreLess
‘Ah, well now,’ Stan had said, ‘that was a poor Nubian that I rescued from the Nazis, boy. Poor girl was so happy when we took that French town, she gave us all a drink and a kiss, as thank...s, you know.’ And with that he had quickly buried the photo at the bottom of the shoe box where they were kept.MoreLess
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