Galaxy's Edge Magazine: Issue 7: March 2014 Read Online Free PDF Page B

loo as the old tins of corned beef had their way with our colons. A few days later my beloved gave us some excitement, though. She had her best helmet ruined by a stray shot from a bored Jerry sniper. Immediately, and without any thought for her own safety, she went straight over the top. Her Sten gun chattered as she tossed off grenades left, right and centre. We watched in horror as my girl made straight for the enemy. We were helpless, unable to do anything as she bravely took them on headfirst. Unfortunately there were too many of them. It took seven of the Bosch to bring her down. The lads and I cheered her on from the safety of the foxholes as they wrestled her away. I didn’t see her again until after the war. Somehow she managed to escape from behind enemy lines. Apparently she became enraged after a Jerry guard called her ‘Sir’. Not only did she beat him to a bloody pulp, but she also stole a plane, an ME-109, which she flew back to Blighty. On the way she shot down several other 109s in dogfights over the channel. Her plane was rather badly shot up. In fact the undercarriage was so badly damaged the wheels would not lower but she was able to bring the old kite in safely on its belly. Of course she won the D.F.C. for gallantry in active flying service. It’s on display in our sitting room along with the ribbon of machine gun bullets from the stolen 109 she gave me as an engagement present.
    We were married a year later after we’d both been de-mobbed. What a wedding! She looked stunning in her camouflage dress, boots and polished rifle. And I suppose that would have been an end of the tale, if it wasn’t for these recent events.
    I’ve already written of my minor car accident after I saw the lights in the sky last week. Of course at the time I had no recollection of my initial encounter with the alien. I would probably have thought no more of them, except as a curious anecdote to tell the lads. A couple of nights ago, however, I saw these lights again.
    I’d been drinking at the local pub with some of the lads, playing darts and chatting about the war years. I’d had a few pints of ale, and knew I had to be home by ten or else someone might get hurt. I didn’t fancy another black eye, so I made my excuses, left and stumbled out into the mild night air. About halfway home I saw a couple of those ‘hoodies’ chaps in their grey windcheaters standing under the yellowing circle glow of a street lamp. They were smoking cigs and swilling tins of lager.
    “Hey Grandad,” one of them shouted as he crossed the street towards me. “Can you gimme a tenner?”
    “Of course,” I said. “Luciano Pavarotti.”
    “Smartarse!” he said, and thrust two fingers up at me. I’m not sure why he wasn’t pleased. I thought I’d answered his quiz rather accurately. I just don’t understand these modern teenagers. They shave their heads, get tattoos and listen to that zany hippity-hoppity music. They need discipline! They should get haircuts and join the army. A real job. It’s what made a man of me. And my wife.
    The ‘hoodie’ crossed the street to rejoin his mate. As I turned the corner into Schoolyard Lane, an empty lager tin clattered off the cobblestones behind me. I ignored this and proceeded on my way. I was only 100 yards from home when I paused and leaned against a wall to catch my breath. As I rested, I glanced up into the night sky and saw those three pale blue lights again. They were in a triangular formation and crossed slowly above from east to west until they vanished behind the roofline of the houses before me.
    I frowned. That was twice I’d seen these flying saucers in a matter of days. And bear in mind I still had no memory of those events in Holland.
    Yesterday, however, that all changed.
    It was early afternoon, and I was gardening out the back. My wife was down at the village hall, shouting numbers for bingo. I’d just mowed the lawn and raked the clippings and had knelt to start tending