Churchill's War.

"To – day we have the naming of parts. Yesterday
We had daily cleaning. And tomorrow morning
We shall have what to do after firing. But today,
To – day we have the naming of parts…"

When he came out of work it had started sleeting. Trolleybuses sloshed by. The rain, the wind, the slushy snow, black clouds lit by the flashing, electric, overhead cables. In other parts of the town the circuit sparked, and split the heavens like the onset of an electrical storm. People shouted as they were pushed to the front of the queue… “Sorry we’re full mate…Fares please! Stand clear everybody! Stand clear! Lets ‘ave sum breathing space!”

There was no way out, and no way in. No way to escape the madness. The shuffling, flat capped army, the smell of oil and industry everywhere. Hungry, hard working folk going home, packed onto buses like bony, dark silhouettes, like so many others in Europe.

Mass movement. Entire cities mobilized, and whether he liked it or not he was part of the nations struggle. He was drowning; and there was nobody to help. Nobody who would listen, and nobody who could afford to listen, it was everyman for them selves, and as if to prove the point, when he went at dinnertime to get his sandwich from his jacket pocket, somebody had stolen it. He couldn’t help thinking ‘rotten bastard’ but then he thought if they’re that desperate they can have it, and good, bloody, luck!

Night closed in. Across the town, the rooftops of factories and churches were glistening under the sparkling frost of a moonlit night.

No lights shone in the streets. There was a blackout to observe. Warders in tin helmets walked around shining torches and shouting abuse, mostly at each other.

Any German bomber could have seen their way, by the contours of the hills and valleys that seemed to glitter in an almost 'Tinkerbell' land, with mile, upon mile, of reflective whiteness from the moors showing them the way to every industrial complex.

The curtains were drawn. The fire was built up, and outside the wind howled. Even at its best this was not a life, it was an existence fobbed off to them as a life.

The rain fell heavy.

Futures were what the War was about. Churchill talked of the future and what it held if Hitler triumphed. How all of there lives were inextricably linked in the quest to conquer this monster. Yet, in the silent night of winter, listening to the crackling logs on the fire, Ted’s resilience floundered. He was afraid.

Soldiers marched through the town, studded boots, sparking and crunching on the dry, cobblestone streets. A brass band played their regimental march, and the big bass drum beat out the beat… BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! In battle dozens fell holding hands, bleating like sheep.

Slag heaps steamed on the edge of town.

Phosphorous fumes watered their eyes.

Illness and death reached into their lives on an almost daily basis. Opposite to where Ted lived, Fred died of diphtheria aged two. Last January, Albert aged 12, drowned skating on the mill - dam when the ice broke. At number 23 Mamie died in hospital undergoing surgery aged 14 years. Florrie, her sister died of a heart attack aged 21 a week later. Arthur, who drove a horse and cart for the mill at the end of the street, was crushed to death when his horse was startled and backed the cart over him.

From posters on walls the messages and reminders. ‘Be like dad keep mum. Careless talk costs lives.'

High in the steel blue sky, the moon pale and cold twinkled upon the silent hills. Ted began to see the silver stars of winter. In twos and threes and then like salt… the constellation of Orion spilled down the heavens.

The Great Bear taught to him by his friend’s dad sent its white messages. He missed the school trip to France did his friend; one afternoon his dad took a rope and hung himself in Bolton Woods. The man at the corner shop on hearing the news said, “ Selfish bugger, he might have waited at least, until the lad got back.”