Current Shareware 1994 January/SHAR194.ISO/articles/s_m1193.zip/CHUR

Text File | 1993-10-31 | 15KB | 333 lines

 ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄
 ░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░The Second Mr. Churchill░░░░░░░░░░By Franchot Lewis
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     I suppose my story started in the Spring of 1944.  I lay on a
     cot in an air raid shelter.  Most children, my age, had been
     sent to the country.  But, I lived with my grandfather, the
     only kin I had who wasn't serving overseas.  I had seen my Mum
     blown up in the early days of the war.  We were in the street,
     running; she, holding my hand.  A Nazi rocket found its mark.
     One minute there was me Mum, holding tightly to my hand; the
     next, a hissing sound, a silence, then a boom, and Mum wasn't
     there anymore.  I had nightmares.  I couldn't sleep without
     knowing that my grandfather was nearby.  The day the social
     workers came to take me away, I got hysterical.  I screamed and
     shouted and scratched and cried.  My chin and stomach shook and
     quaked like I was one critical mass.  I said that I would die
     if they took me.  My grandfather pleaded, with tears too, and
     so they left us alone.

     Next to us in the shelter was a great hulking Sergeant of the
     U.S.  Army.  He was a colored fellah.  Grandfather had offered
     the Sergeant quarters in our house.  Grandfather was a
     progressive thinker and he had no prejudice against the colored
     Yanks.  The Sergeant used the name George Miller.  He spent
     many long nights during the black-out in my grand father's
     house discussing, what I now remember must have been Fabian
     social philosophy.  To me, Sergeant Miller was a strong man
     with a rifle, who would know what to do if the Nazis came to
     our house.  I liked him right from the start.  From that first
     day I met him, he talked to me like I was a real person, not
     some little orphan, and he listened to what I had to say.  When
     the bombs dropped nearby and the shelter shook, I trembled, and
     he sometimes would lift me into his arms and rock me.

     The day Sergeant Miller told my grandfather that orders had
     come for the Sergeant to leave in a few days, two rockets fell
     nearby the shelter.  Shells and rockets seemed to fall and
     pound the ground right above us.  I held tightly to my grand-
     father.  The impact of the first of the two rockets seemed to
     rip the shelter apart.  I called out.  I squeezed Grandfather's
     arm.  Grandfather asked Sergeant Miller if the shelter was
     being hit by falling shells and debris from our own guns, and
     if we would be all right.

     Sergeant Miller answered, "They are ours and they can't hurt
     us.  There's nothing to worry about." The second rocket knocked
     out the lights.  We sat in pitch darkness.  I began to scream.
     Grandfather cuddled me.  Sergeant Miller placed his hand on the
     back of my shoulders and whispered my name three times: "Jane,
     Jane ..." Each time his voice got softer, and more musical, and
     I got calmer.  "Jane."

     Later, that night, I had gone to bed.  Grandfather was in his
     room, upstairs, in the front of the house.  I was in the middle
     room, and Sergeant Miller was in the backroom.  Grand father
     quickly fell asleep because I could hear the sound of his
     snoring coming through the walls.  I lay awake.  A good while
     passed, and I heard this soft and steady humming sound, unlike
     any sound I'd heard before, coming from the back room.  I
     wondered what the sound was.  I got up to see.

     I knocked on Sergeant Miller's door.  I called him, "Sir?" The
     door wasn't locked.  I opened the door.  I saw a man on the
     bed.  The man who looked like he was dead.  I had seen dead
     people lying in the street, and that man was as pale, and his
     eyes stared with the same look as theirs.  I didn't move but I
     looked closer.  I recognized the man on the bed.  I gasped, The
     Prime Minister!  I had seen his picture in the papers and in
     the newsreels.  I screamed.

     I still remember the look of shock on Sergeant Miller's face
     when I stumbled back into the hallway, and into him.  He must
     have gone downstairs and had just come up.  Nearly breathless,
     I stuttered, "Sergeant!  Sergeant!" "Hush," he replied, coldly,
     not comforting, not like himself.

     "The Prime Minister, Mr.  Churchill," I whined.  The Sergeant
     reached for me.  I ran passed him to my grand father's room.
     The Sergeant did not follow.  I squealed, then I whispered.  "
     Grandfather.  Grandfather.  Wake up.  Please.  Please,
     Grandfather."

     Grandfather jumped awake, startled, surprised, worried, shook
     himself, then aware, took me into his arms.  "Oh, Jane, pet.
     What's happened, love?  You've been having a bad dream, haven't
     you?"

     I shook my head.

     "Did you say your prayers?  Nothing bad can happen to us while
     we sleep if we have said our prayers." "Grandfather," I choked,
     whispered, I was afraid to tell.  I liked the Sergeant, but he
     had frightened me, and I thought, he might break in the room to
     stop me.  I was nearly sobbing.  I blurted out: "He has
     somebody dead in his room."

     "He?" Grandfather looked at me.  "Our friend, the Yank?"

     "Yes."

     Grandfather didn't believe me.  He laughed.  "Girls shouldn't
     go around the rooms of grown borders at night." Grandfather
     tried to look stern, but I could see that he wasn't angry, only
     amused.  His eyes twinkled.  He sighed.  "The Sergeant has some
     grown girl he's taken a fancy to."

     "No, Grandfather," I almost choked again.  "It's a man." My
     grandfather looked crossed.  I thought he was angry with me,
     but he looked toward the hall door and said, "Uh?  I didn't
     think the Yank was like that.  He seems like a fine sort."

     I was now becoming angry, along with scared.  Grand father
     wasn't listening to me.  "The man is dead," I shouted.  "The
     man in the room is dead."

     "Oh, " Grandfather said softly.  "Probably's sleeping."

     "No!  Dead.  And it's Mister Churchill he has in there."

     "Don't you like the Sergeant?"

     "I did!"

     "You're sour because he has to leave us?"

     "No!  He's killed Mr.  Churchill."


     "What a beautiful night to disturb our Yank," Grand father
     said.  He took me to the Sergeant's room.  "This is the life,"
     he said to himself.  He stopped at the door, knocked.  "It's me
     and my little one.  May we disturb you for a minute?"

     The Sergeant opened the door.  Grandfather took me inside, sat
     me down on the bed.  "Excuse us," he said to the Sergeant.  He
     turned to me.  "Any sign of Mister Churchill?"

     I thought, "The closet," but I only answered "No."

     "Somebody needs some tonic to help her sleep," he said.  "Let's
     go, love." He thanked the Sergeant and left.

     Once back in Grandfather's room, I closed the door and
     whispered in his ear, "He's hidden him."

     Grandfather asked before taking me to the Sergeant's room, "Why
     in the world would a Yank want to have Mr.  Churchill dead?"
     It didn't made sense I told myself.

     Before my Mum was killed, Grandfather had served as an air
     warden.  I heard him tell my Mum, and I heard him tell the
     Sergeant too, that everyday someone would ring up the warden's
     post and report sighting German paratroopers in the sky, who
     have come to murder Mr.  Churchill or the royal family.  The
     wardens would send a social worker around, or a bobby if they
     couldn't get a social worker.  The caller would always be just
     someone suffering from nervousness caused by the war.
     Grandfather said that if the Germans were truly an advanced
     people or smart, they would not try to assassinate the Royal
     Family or Mr.  Churchill, for that would make us want to fight
     on ever more so.  Mr.  Churchill's assassination would not
     leave us defeated, but would make us more powerful, and the
     Germans knew enough to know this, and so Mr.  Churchill didn't
     have to worry about paratroopers coming to kill him.

     I was amazed by how friendly the Sergeant looked, with no sign
     of his strange look.  He smiled politely, "Your granddaughter
     was just seeing things; it's these times."

     Grandfather chuckled to himself, "Bet my little one dreamed some
     Nazi storm trooper had taken over your room?"

    The Sergeant chuckled too.  "Or I'm a Nazi storm trooper?" A
    bright glint of light suddenly appeared across his face.  At
    first I thought his face was changing, showing that he was
    German.  I jumped.  Grandfather said, they were lights from
    outside, searching the sky for low flying planes.  This news
    didn't much calm me.  The suddenly flash of light did look
    strange.  I had a spooky feeling inside.

    Grandfather decided to go back to bed, and said, if I wanted
    to, I could climb in and sleep with him.  I did.

     I pulled the covers over my head.  I didn't sleep.  I kept
     peeping from under the covers, kept watching the door, fearful
     that the Sergeant would come in any minute shouting Heil
     Hilter.  Although I was too much on edge too sleep, I was
     tired, and sleep threatened to pull me from my watch at any
     minute.  I know this sounds silly now.  Now, I am sixty, but
     then, I was barely three years passed six.  As sleep nearly
     pulled me away from my vigil, I thought of getting up and, as
     the Yanks would say: high-tailing it out of my grand father's
     room, to hide somewhere downstairs, but I decided to stay put.

     I awoke with a start, fearing all was lost.  I could not hear a
     sound, not even my grandfather's snore.  I trembled, whined,
     "Grandfather." Then, I heard him, snoring naturally.  I reached
     toward the sound and he was there, sleeping.  It was still
     dark.  Maybe I hadn't slept long.

     But I had to get up.  I had to go to the loo to pee.
     "Grandfather.  Grandfather." He wouldn't awake.  "Grandfather,"
     I began to shake.  I shook the bed.  "Grandfather."

     The door opened.  The Sergeant stood in the doorway.  The light
     seemed to grow (fast) around him.  My eyes hurt from the glare.
     Then, they adjusted and their pain stopped.  The light in the
     hallway had rushed into the room, the moment the Sergeant had
     opened the door.  He stood there, just a few seconds before I
     heard him say over and over," I'm sorry, Jane.  I'm sorry.  I'm
     sorry."

     As he came closer, I noticed, he wasn't wearing his American
     uniform, but another uniform.  A second light came from down
     the hall, brighter than the hall light.

     "The other calls," he spoke as if he was talking to him self.
     The light got so bright that I could barely see for a few
     minutes.  "I must go," he said.

     He took me.  I cried for Grandfather.  He pulled me from the
     bed.  I tried to grab for my grandfather, to wake him.  I
     struggled and screeched.  The Sergeant carried me down the hall
     to his room.  I screamed.

     His room was lit with lights and there was another who looked
     like him in the room.

     "Germans." That's what I thought they were, but the one who
     carried me now had the comforting look.  He looked at me the
     way he looked when I was scared, frightened to my bone during
     the worst of the blitz, and afraid of every sound that was made
     and everything that moved.

     "Jane!" he said.  He then asked the man carrying me, "Explain
     this?"

     "I thought she should know," the man carrying me said, and put
     me on the bed.

     "Sergeant," I said in a shout, just below a hysterical yell.
     "Let me go!"

     "Jane -"

     "Grandfather!" I screamed and kept screaming.

     The second him sat beside me, tried to comfort me, but I
     struggled and pushed him away.

     "Jane.  Hush.  Jane.  Jane."

     "Your grandfather can't hear you now," the first man said
     bluntly.  "You need to know not to be afraid.  There's no
     reason for fear.  Stop, Jane.  Stop."

     Yes, I thought.  I'd screamed so hard for so long that my mouth
     and throat and head hurt, and I knew I couldn't scream any
     longer.

     "We are helpers not hurters," the first man said.

     "What are you?  Colored Germans?" I still trembled.

     "Not as weird as colored Germans," the first him smiled.

     "The war will be over and you will be all right," the second
     one said.

     "Ur...  Uh...," I spoke in a nervous voice.  "Why did you have
     to kill Mr.  Churchill?  Are you going to kill my grandfather
     too?" I almost felt like I was about to throw up, or really
     make a fool of myself by wetting my knickers.

     The first one said, "Jane, you are going to be all right, and
     your country is going to be all right."

     "Mr.  Churchill is all right," the second one said.  "He had
     worn himself out.  Drinking, smoking, the tension.  His heart,
     his lungs, his brain had worn themselves down and were about to
     give out."

     "You murdered him?"

     "No.  An improved heart, an improved lungs, and improved brain,
     an improved him."

      The second him said, "An improved new Mr.  Churchill, just as
     strong and as determined as the first."

     The first man said, "You should know this.  You are not a
     little fool.  The war will soon end and you shall be whole."

     "If you're telling the truth, how did you get Mr.  Churchill
     here without anybody seeing him but me?"

     The first man smiled, "We're from out there -"

     "Up there," the second him said.  He grinned, "You can call us
     angels."

     Suddenly, there was a brilliant burst of light that grew
     brighter and brighter and brighter until I had to cover my eyes
     with my hands.  How long?  I don't know, but when the light was
     gone and I had removed his hands, the Sergeant was gone, both
     of him were gone.

     "Something wrong, little one?" My grandfather's voice.  He had
     come up from behind me.

     "Oh, er, not really," I mumbled.

     "Just day dreaming?" he asked.  "We have to clean this room.  A
     Yank captain is coming this afternoon.  The room's been empty
     for months, I have to let it.  We have to."

     "Grandfather."

     "You miss the Sergeant?  He's in France."

     "The war will be over soon, won't it, Grandfather?"

     "Yes, little one."

      My grandfather never learned who Sergeant Miller really was,
     or what he really did to help win the War and save the world.

                                  -end-
                   Copyright (c)1993 by Franchot Lewis