Red

[Somewhere in the English countryside - 1946]

They’d be hitting Birmingham again, thought Alex, peering from his nest of corrugated iron and scorched brick. Once more fire lashed across the night sky, defying the molten darkness. The scarred remnant of the landscape below held its breath as the thunder of mechanized death rolled in from the North. Poor beggars, reflected Alex, half-heartedly, reluctantly, the thought soon chased away. Better them than me, came all too easy, riding a wave of guilt.

Pushing through the tangled mesh of wreckage that had become Alex’s refuge, a finger of light fell uneasily on the boy’s leg, his threads stained by crimson and dirt. An involuntary shudder coursed through the boy’s withered self, the instinctual urge to flee screaming against the tiny exposure. Unnoticed, a grubby hand wrapped itself around the hilt at his side, calming and alert. Ridiculous, thought the boy, the urge to unleash a guttural laugh into the darkness only overcome by the grating taboo prohibiting movement; fat good a stolen bread-knife’ll do against anything. Bully. A flash from a distant past broke cover in his mind – sunlight dancing on a desk, itchy socks, the scolding voice of a teacher. Silly boy. The humour subsided, pushed down by the growing lump in his throat. He didn’t want to think of Before. Silly boy.

A thunder-clap. Closer. They’d be shifting their fire, feeling through the engulfing black, seeking out untouched land to sow with fire and fury. Another. Closer still. The stench of death was pungent in the cold air, clawing at his streaming nostrils. A third crash rocked the earth, tossing a mangled side of Alex’s shelter casually aside, taunting, teasing, playing with the powerless landscape. It was time to move; the enormity of exposure swept aside by the rattle-tattle of gunfire somewhere to the left. Taking a deep breath, Alex lunged into the darkness.

* * * * * * * * *

[London, England - 1945]

The summer of 1945 had begun as one of joy, of relief, of looking to the future. With the death of a bunkered madman, and the liberation of an oppressed continent, the dam of stiff, upper-lipped Britishness had finally broken, disgorging a towering wave of happiness across the land, swelling the rivers of elation as loved ones started to trickle home. The nation, united by the wireless, had heard the new government’s promises of a better future, a fairer future, a peaceful future, and had believed. The time of war, of darkness and rationing and bombing and hate was over, and the new age of man stretched out in front of the nation, a golden meadow fading into hills full of promise.

None of this mattered to Alex, as he was shaken to life by the growing chug of the train picking up speed, the calm whistles of the Stationmaster piercing the restless throng of the crowded carriage. Only three things mattered, really, knew Alex, with the certainty of youth. One was the arm that was wrapped protectively around him, cocooning him, content, in warmth, unaware he had been roused from his peaceful slumber. Father, back from Over There, because that was what the soldiers called it, what Mr Darren at the evacuation office, with his wooden leg and rack of medals, had called it. Not that Father talked about it, mind you. He just kind of glazed over, and went very still. How lucky he was, to fight, to win, to have such adventure and glory! The train rattled on, each bump now a wondrous explosion as Alex beat back the Bosch, screaming in delight for King and Country. Another bump jolted him awake once more.

A shrill whistle, the screech of metal on metal as the train drew to a halt. Inhibitions cast aside, the deluge of bodies poured from the train, eager faces illuminated with joy as they rushed into the impatient, outstretched arms of loved ones. No they wouldn’t let go. Yes they’d had a good journey. They were fine, honestly. The platform throbbed with reunion.

She must be here, had to be here. Something fleeted against Alex’s arm, a momentary touch, yet utterly distinguishable amidst the jostling, light against day, a beacon in the chaos. He span, eyes wide and glistening, into the waiting, blubbering arms of Mother, clasped on, held tight. His cheeks streamed, fed by the torrent of elation and liquid emotion dampening his tangled hair. Joy coursed through his limbs… [To be continued]

---> Comments are all welcomed and indeed impatiently atticipated!!! I am looking to chart the destruction of society as the USSR uses the Potsdam Conference of 1945 as an oppurtunity to eliminate the Allied leadership, sweeping across a lulled Europe and eliminating the vastly outnumbered forces of USA, France and Britain. As capital after capital falls, and the Americans struggle to ramp up their A-bomb production, Operation Red Sunset sees the Russians invade Britain (despite stiff oppositon from the Royal Navy) and exact a terrible revenge for the mushroom clouds hanging over Leningrad and Moscow. As Communist sympathizers rise up, and desperate survivors flee North, I hope to follow the story of a boy left behind in a world he is ill-prepared to face, and for whom a baptism of fire soon comes as he joins the resistance group Avalon, a ragtag band of boys led by the enigmatic Arthur.

Not that I'm amibitious or anything. All comments and crtitiscism are welcome, please help! <---