HumpDay Quickie #89

Posted: January 13, 2016 in Hump-Day Quickies
Tags: , , , ,

SPIT | FIRE

by Mark A King

He’s sworn two oaths. One to his homeland, one to King George.

He’s skimmed the cordite skies of Poland, barrelled the shrapnel-strewn Belgium ether, endured the insectile fury of the Messerschmitt swarms above France.

Each time, one of the few to survive—he starts again in a new land. He becomes another foreigner, not accepted. At worst, he’s despised, at best he’s welcomed with suspicion and contempt.

Yet, the RAF needs pilots. So, grudgingly, they accept him and those like him—on the lowest ranks—he must know his place.

The cockpit is familiar. His worn leather gloves clasp the controls as if they are extensions of his soul.

A private chapel of hellfire. A crucible of death.

He once carried the Bible. Once folded a photo of his latest wielbiciel into his breast pocket. But these are talismans of false-hope. He has lost those that hoped. Hope is a luxury for those that mourn.

Hope is for those can’t fly the Spitfire like he can.

Perhaps his enemy has his own lucky charms. They will fail him.

She feels shaky, skittish and flimsy compared to the Hurricane, yet the sound, oh that sound. It rattles the skies of London, rumbles the cratered earth. The noise is like the god of thunder, Thor, dying of consumption.

Some brave kids must hear the noise. He sees the excited dots below. Escaped vagabonds from the wire-frame chicken-run Morrison shelters which sit precariously beneath the trembling tables of their terraced house. The dots try and outrun him—but only God can outrun the Spitfire.

Above the Home Counties, he has the insects in his sights. He is overwhelmed in number, but these odds are normal.

They fall.

Fall.

Fall.

And when he lands, there is no celebration, no credit.

Just the sound of another siren.

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