‘What did you do, sir?’ ‘Tell us about Jerry, sir.’
Always the same. Trying to distract him. The cacophony of fourteen year old voices rose to a peak. Old Gibblets will tell us about the war and then the class would be over.
William Gilbert took the chalk, writing etre, underlined it and then je suis, tu es and on. Then he started again.
Gradually the noise dimmed. The boys thought he wasn’t listening, but he was. The hubbub behind him brought back those nights and Jean-luc’s moans, shivering in his nightly sweats; a fellow inmate at Stalag VII from whom he’d learnt French.
Each teenage cry echoed the men, trapped on Absolom Beach as they landed. Each hoot of laughter reprised the lads’ nervous release as explosions perforated that calm, terrifying crossing.
The class fell into an eerie quiet, while he crawled up the sand dune where all but he had died.
And as alone as he had been, surrounded by gore and death, he was lonelier here, secure in a class of the fourth formers, sure as he had been that death was a heartbeat away.
They were only boys. They didn’t understand what they were doing, each encouraging the other to defy their fears.
‘Are you writing lines, sir?’ One questioning voice.
Like the astonished German who’d found him, just a bloodied corpse yet oddly alive.
‘What have you done wrong, sir?’
The tear hit the toe of his highly polished boots. He had survived. A mistake for which he would pay in his imaginings for the rest of his days.
He turned on his inquisitors. ‘What about when we set fire to the RSM’s bed?’
The hooting and hollering exploded. Old Gibblets was back. They were just boys; they deserved a life.
This is touching…
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Based On My old french teacher
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😊
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Oh! Geoff, I am sobbing like a baby. I might be feeling delicate but the thought of those young men some mere boys going through such harrowing times. I fully see why he felt he had to pay for surving… Of course he should not of felt like that but he was not alone. Like my Dad’s friend Father Anno who survived a Japanese war camp , he used to test the tissue thin pages out of his missal for the men to make ciggerettes out of God knows what. Like my uncle Tom who physically survived the WW1 trenches but was a hollow shell of a man.
I am sure you know some survivers too, you dad saw some awful things too.
Thank you for reminding us of these brave men and women too. 💜
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Thanks Willow it is dreadful what we ask people to do in our names.
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And sadly we do not always give those who gave their all and somehow survived the care and support that we should.💜💜
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No. We may be better than we were but still a lot to do
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Yes indeed 💜
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Poignant …
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Thanks
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I am always blown away when you decide to write like this! And undone!
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It’s a change of time and place but stories are stories. You never know which ones will pop out
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Marvelous writing, Geoff. “He had survived. A mistake for which he would pay in his imaginings for the rest of his days.” That phrase is still lived by many. Just different wars, different survival. And still, we chatter on in class, never understanding the silent damage. You did the topic justice.
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Thank you Charli. I knew you’d understand
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Very accurate portrayal of the intrusive thoughts that are part of PTSD.
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It’s often the unknown cruelties that are the worst
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Such a sad piece, Geoff. Living – I’m sure many relived over and over and over. Poor old Gibblets, I feel for him; but those boys – forgive them, for they know not what they do. Hopefully, they never will. Thanks to Gibblets and others like him.
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Yes they were unintentionally cruel but they didn’t intend to be cruel
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No, they don’t, that’s why I said “Forgive me, they know not what they do.”
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