Night Shadows

Reflections of night shadows pass through the moonlight into sunlight. Dimming stars fade into the distant horizon as I soar beyond where eagles dare to fly. I’m smitten—the glare of the sunlight dances on the windshield

I have no sense of time, no feeling of pain, no memory of a yesterday, nor the calling of a tomorrow. An emptiness clings within me, leaving my hollow-core helpless. I’m dream walking, free-falling, painting Picasso’s in my mind—drifting boundlessly.

Emotions flood over my thoughts, tears form in my mind and puddle into my soul. Relentlessly, I replay the past and search for answers, putting each perspective piece of the puzzle to rest. The spiral sensation maintains its grip on me, tearing away at any sanity I retain. Recycling images taunt me as I seek answers. The forever darkness has cast its spell on me. I’m feeling blind to what I see and what I know, knowing little of who I am. Reality slowly settles in, telling me that I’m a casualty of war.

* * *

The corner of my eye sees an oval clock on the wall, large for the room that it shares with the beds. Sounds from this majestic timepiece take me back to my school years, and my mind captures glimpses of my past. Perhaps the clock is whispering to me, drawing me in like a hypnotist—sharing its secrets. The three hands are painted black, and the centre pin the hands revolve on is a discoloured brass emblem of a crown, reminding me that I’m in England. The chipped black trim that holds the glass firmly to the clock housing reveals the rust that is taking hold. Numbers on the face of the timepiece are in roman numerals, adding to its character. The painted black hands slowly tick and chip away at time, reducing one’s life expectancy with every stroke.

I turn to my left; there is a row of four beds. The bed next to me is empty. A grey woollen blanket is drawn over it and tucked under the pillow. The white enamel finish on the bed’s frame has dulled, showing its age. One can see that the decorative design is missing from the front of the bed. The next bed holds a young man, oblivious to his condition and surroundings. He appears to be approximately sixteen years old. He lies still, bandaged in white linen from his mid-chest to his chin. An odour persists and lingers over him—as though death is calling.

Next to him is a grumpy, bearded older man in his mid-forties, who forever shouts profanities. Whispers from the nurses have referred to him as old Alexis. His bullish comments and inappropriate phrases go unanswered. He may have lost his sight; bandages cover his eyes, but not his foul mouth. He stumbles from bed to bed, asking for matches to keep his pipe in smoke, cursing every time he bumps into a bed frame. Refusing to wear the given clothing, he remains dressed in his uniform. His jacket is buttoned properly and worn with pride as if he were on parade, marching past Buckingham Palace. Perhaps in his mind, he is on a march, but his bare feet suggest otherwise. The uniform bears no marking of command.

The fourth bed in the continued row is isolated by grey blankets, hanging from the ceiling, acting as curtains. A constant stream of nurses’ rush to and from the bedside—chilling moans of a man near death echo along the wall. With luck, God Himself will appear in the night shadows, taking the man who desperately calls for Him from behind the grey curtains.

The pity I felt for myself disappears as I look around this chamber of Hell—men of war, men of honour, all tattered and wounded. Most are mindless of their surroundings, staring at silent walls, victims of war.

My body aches, my head pounds. Muscles regularly contract, sending a volley of uncontrolled spasms through me, like electrical shocks. It is a welcomed pain; I am alive.

My hollow thoughts soon subside with the easing of pain. My legs find rest and comfort as I roll to my side. I release my breath slowly in short bursts, allowing my rib cage to settle to the mattress. I stifle my moans and contain the agony, retaining my pride.

The winds of war sweep their chills into my thoughts once again. The spiralling sensation returns as the bed I lay in rotates faster and faster. Like the floodwaters from a severed dam, memories overwhelm the present and take me back to the cockpit of the Spitfire. I’m being fired upon by two German Messerschmitt 109’s. Caught in their web, I have no choice but to push the throttle to full power. Momentarily my plane hesitates as it struggles upwards, a rookie mistake by a seasoned pilot. My Spitfire finds its wings and slingshots into the formation of clouds—the compounded sound of a rat-tat-tat rings in my ears. Bullets rip into the cockpit, ricocheting within its interior.

Choking smoke escapes from the wiring harness, and the wires pop like firecrackers in front of me. I lose control of my Spitfire; its gauges are erratic, and I’m flying blind, on fire and now lost. Sparks needle their way into my flying suit, my hands extinguish my burning clothing. The heat is unbearable. My fingers blister. I look back; a trail of grey ebony smoke follows my plane like a curse. My Rolls-Royce Merlin engine has failed. The V-12 engine clings to life, sputters, gasping for air one last time. Silence now controls the endless horizon. Peace overcomes me—the White cliffs of Dover call me home.