1942: Part One

It was the year 1942. The two soldiers dragged themselves wearily through the never ending stretch of mud. The wild rain lashed their backs like a whip, the cold breeze viciously gnawing their faces and fingers. They were both ravenous and longed for a piping hot meal. The first man, Fredrick Wilkinson, known by his friends and family as Freddy, found himself craving one of his wife's meat and potato pies, or sausage and mashed potato, or one of his wife's famous apple pies. He loved his wife more than anything in the world. He was handsome and smart; his blonde hair always combed neatly, his moustache carefully trimmed, his blue eyes always shimmering like he had just received good news. Now though, his hair was plastered to his scalp and streaked with blood and mud, his eyes dead and his heart broken. He pushed all thoughts of his wife away and looked at his companion.

Peter Turner was a man of secrecy and hardly ever spoke. Before the war, he had been alone for many years, with no friends or family. He had jumped on the chance to be a soldier, hoping that this could be his time to shine. To be a hero. He frightened Freddy a little, with his long dark hair and dark eyes, with a dark personality to match. Occasionally, the men stole glances at each other, but mostly they gritted their teeth and struggled on.

The silence was deafening. They hardly spoke in fear of being heard by the German soldiers. But they had not seen or heard anyone, English or German, for a long time. Thunder clapped over their heads, yet they never stopped to rest. In a way, it was a peaceful day for them both. They had certainly had worse.

But everything was about to change.