When I was a young lad, my dad used to tell me stories about his WWII experiences. He had been a sailor on a battleship in the Med, then on an aircraft carrier in the Pacific. He told me all about the exiting places he had been to and all the things he had seen, he kept mostly clear of the gory stuff, at least till I was a bit older.
One day we were watching a war film, and I laughed at the American jeeps because they had a big piece of angle iron sticking up at the front , like a rigid aerial. My dad explained, it was to cut any cheesewire that the enemy had strung across the road, the idea being to decapitate the unwary.
My dad used to cycle to work and he always took a convoluted route along a dark path that ran next to the allotments, it was a dark narrow path, quarter of a mile long. He refused to take the more direct route because there was a fierce dog that chased cars, cyclists , anything, and it had a particular dislike for my dad.
One morning dad left for work, I was getting ready for school, ten minutes later dad was home again white as a sheet and shaking like a leaf. On the path, a cyclist in front had suddenly come of short, screamed and flew off his bike backwards. Someone had strung a wire across the path, just like WWII and it caught this guy on the head, neatly peeling a huge chunk of flesh and skin off his skull. They got him into a nearby house and dad vowed never to risk the path again.
That night when he got home his trouser leg was torn , bloody and he had a bandage on his lower calf. The dog had gotten him, he was not having a good day. That night he said to me ' Little EO , I need your help. The jerries, Eyties and japs didnt get me, I'll be buggered if that dog is going to'
So we went into the garage and I held the bike upright while he sat on it and measured out a length of string. When he was satisfied with the length, he tied a nut and bolt to the end. When it was dark he pedalled into the school playground and practised riding and swinging at the same time. He was whizzing this thing around parallel to the bike and about a foot to the right, so that anything coming next to him would be in the firing line. He swore me to silence.
Next day he winked at me then left for work. When he came home that night, he was white and shaking again. Did this guy never get a break ? Many years later, I was on leave from the military and I took him for a pint. He told me a lot more about his life and I asked him about the dog.
That morning he had left for work as usual, when he got near the street where that dog lived he began swinging his weapon. Sure enough the dog jumped the fence making a heck of a racket. The nut and bolt were a blur, the dog was at his leg, a slight adjustment to the length of the string and thwack, right on the head.
'I didn't mean to kill it, but I wasn't sorry, and I am still not. Vicious b@rstard'
He is long dead himself now, I still wonder sometimes which of them he meant when he said 'vicious b@rstard'
One day we were watching a war film, and I laughed at the American jeeps because they had a big piece of angle iron sticking up at the front , like a rigid aerial. My dad explained, it was to cut any cheesewire that the enemy had strung across the road, the idea being to decapitate the unwary.
My dad used to cycle to work and he always took a convoluted route along a dark path that ran next to the allotments, it was a dark narrow path, quarter of a mile long. He refused to take the more direct route because there was a fierce dog that chased cars, cyclists , anything, and it had a particular dislike for my dad.
One morning dad left for work, I was getting ready for school, ten minutes later dad was home again white as a sheet and shaking like a leaf. On the path, a cyclist in front had suddenly come of short, screamed and flew off his bike backwards. Someone had strung a wire across the path, just like WWII and it caught this guy on the head, neatly peeling a huge chunk of flesh and skin off his skull. They got him into a nearby house and dad vowed never to risk the path again.
That night when he got home his trouser leg was torn , bloody and he had a bandage on his lower calf. The dog had gotten him, he was not having a good day. That night he said to me ' Little EO , I need your help. The jerries, Eyties and japs didnt get me, I'll be buggered if that dog is going to'
So we went into the garage and I held the bike upright while he sat on it and measured out a length of string. When he was satisfied with the length, he tied a nut and bolt to the end. When it was dark he pedalled into the school playground and practised riding and swinging at the same time. He was whizzing this thing around parallel to the bike and about a foot to the right, so that anything coming next to him would be in the firing line. He swore me to silence.
Next day he winked at me then left for work. When he came home that night, he was white and shaking again. Did this guy never get a break ? Many years later, I was on leave from the military and I took him for a pint. He told me a lot more about his life and I asked him about the dog.
That morning he had left for work as usual, when he got near the street where that dog lived he began swinging his weapon. Sure enough the dog jumped the fence making a heck of a racket. The nut and bolt were a blur, the dog was at his leg, a slight adjustment to the length of the string and thwack, right on the head.
'I didn't mean to kill it, but I wasn't sorry, and I am still not. Vicious b@rstard'
He is long dead himself now, I still wonder sometimes which of them he meant when he said 'vicious b@rstard'
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