small beerOn the last day of their holiday, Bill and Sonia, from Chicago, were invited to visit a military enactment in a nearby village. They had enjoyed Jonathan and Martha's company while staying at the hotel, so they were pleased to be asked to join them. Travelling in their fellow holidaymakers's car they admired the beautiful, scenic countryside, illuminated by a bright summer sun. As they approached the outskirts of the village Jonathan turned into a farm track and parked under the shade of an oak tree.
‘We'll walk from here, guys! The organisers like to keep the village looking authentic,’ explained Jonathan as he switched the engine off. They got out of the car and Jonathan opened the car boot, then he and Martha handed out clothing.
‘We like to dress the part; adds to the experience,' said Jonathan. ‘Here, try this helmet for size, Bill, you too Sonia. I'm afraid we're all soldiers today!’
Bill pulled the metal helmet on and bent down to look in the door mirror. Smiling, he could just imagine himself as a Roundhead about to fight in a battle.
Dressed in their uniforms, they walked down the road to the village, their helmets and pikes glinting in the sunlight.
The village square resembled a film set; soldiers milled about and cannons pulled by horses clattered by on the cobbles, drowning out the shouting of orders. Then columns were formed and the soldiers started to march over the bridge.
‘Gee, this is awesome, so real!’ said Sonia trying to keep step.
‘Awesome, but pretty hot in this gear, Honey!’ said Bill looking around for Jonathan and Martha.
The battlefield stank of blood, burnt flesh, shit and smoke. The officer, looked sadly around at the carnage, then, bending down from his horse, took the strange object from the soldier.
‘You found it upon this body, soldier? Around the wrist, you say?’ he said, pointing at a butchered corpse.
‘Aye, Sor.’ Said the soldier.
‘Strange object indeed,’ said the officer picking away glass fragments.’ See, there are letters, an inscription, 'Rolex'. Perchance a Lord Rolex....? Odd numerals too, carved upon the rim. This the General must see!’
‘Perhaps 'tis an instrument of Satan, Sor?’ said the surly soldier, then watched resentfully as the officer rode off with his battlefield trophy.
About the authorSandy Wilson writes memoirs, fiction and poetry. He has recently published 'Memory Spill' a memoir of his childhood in Scotland during the 1950s and 60s.. His poetry has been published in the international poetry anthology 'Indra's Net'. Sandy lives in Leeds, England.
His The Caress of Spring and The Arc of Time have been included in the international poetry anthology Indra's Net published by Bennison Books. All profits are donated to Book Bus, a charity that provides libraries for children in Africa, Asia and South America.
Indra's Net is available from Amazon.
He blogs as www.sandyscribbler.com and www.lifeaccordingtogramps.co.uk