The Policeman's Hand

It was almost seven am before the ‘All Clear’ siren finally sounded. Huddled together in the dark bomb shelter, John had been sat, his knees crushed to his chest for almost twelve hours. It was nice of the Smiths to let them squeeze into the tiny shelter with them. With just the Smiths, John assumed the shelter would have been quite comfortable. Two fold down canvas beds for Mrs. Smith’s two daughters and a chair for Mrs. Smith, a small cupboard stocked with blankets and such items. However, with three families huddled into the small shelter, it was incredibly cramped. The three mothers: John’s mother, Mrs. Smith, and Mrs. Green, sat along one of the fold down beds, and the children, seven in all, sat on the floor, knees to their chests, as they tried to get some sleep.

The children piled excitedly out of the shelter, ignoring their mother’s calls about their Mickey Mouses gas masks. John coughed up the dust that filled his lungs, he’d heard the bangs through the night, had shaken with everyone else as the booms echoed through the tiny room, Mrs. Smith’s two daughters covering their ears and squeezing their eyes shut.

John’s mother had caught up to him, gripping his wrist and pressing two coupons into it.

“Now, John. I need to go and check Gran’ ma got to Mrs. Higgin’s house before the raids. Could you fetch the bread and milk for mother?”

John nodded proudly, clutching the orange coupons and reciting quietly, “John Walters, Seventy-two, Bleat Street. Milk and Bread.”

“That’s a good lad.” She smiled at him, walking him to the front of Mrs. Smith’s house and giving his shoulder a small squeeze as he set off towards the bakery.

Everywhere, people were emerging from their houses, from train stations, and from shops that had taken cover in when the sirens had sounded. John walked tentatively along the main street, tightly gripping his rations coupons in his small hand. Further down the road, John could see people beginning to crowd around something. Bits of rubble lay around them, some big chunks of brick walls, some small ones. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, and continued nervously. He’d have to walk past that big group of people to get to the bakers. Keeping his head low, he approached them slowly, getting ready to dodge around the group of people, but as he came closer, he realized there was not going to be any bread and milk. The bakers had been hit. In fact, the entire row down this end of the street had been hit. Houses stood with half their walls missing, shops with their produce scattered bent and broken amongst the bricks and debris, glass from windows in shards over the pavement.

John rocked backwards and forwards on the balls of his feet, wondering what to do. He was sure there was another bakers six streets away, but his mother hadn’t given him permission to go that far. What if the sirens started again? She’d worry if he wasn’t back. He was just contemplating going home empty handed, when a large hand clamped over his shoulder. John looked up, glad to see the large domed hat and kind eyes of a policeman.

“What you doing out alone, Son?” He asked, his voice strict but concerned. John pulled his hand from his pocket, showing the policeman his coupons. The policeman glanced to the destroyed buildings and back down to the small boy.

“How about I take you home, Son. Where do you live?”

“John Walters, Seventy-two, Bleat Street. Milk and Bread.” John recited. The policeman laughed.

“Good to see your mother has you remembering that.” He held out his hand, which John took carefully. Smiling slightly. The callused pads of the policeman’s fingers feeling exactly like his father’s had, when he’d walk John and his mother to church on Sundays. Of course, that was before the sirens, before the bombs, before his father had been gone for over a year.