ÃÛÑ¿´«Ã½

This is a true story and, though my words are written as an adult, this is, nonetheless, my earliest memory of life as a boy of three years of age. The events that follow happened in London’s East End, situated on the north bank of the River Thames, in late 1940. It is a story that many have experienced in many places, including the invaders of my homeland. I hope that none in this, my adopted country, will never have to endure such events as my first real introduction to the savagery that dwells upon this planet.
I dedicate this to: The children, now born and yet to be born, no matter where they may live and hope to thrive; to my three Daughters who, I hope, will never have such memories as these; and to the Men and Women who fought for the freedom of many. I am, and will be, Forever Grateful for what They did between 1939 and 1945. I hope that their courage will not be wasted by our foolishness.

â€Ô¨·¡³§°Õ·¡¸é¶Ù´¡³Û----°Õ°¿²Ñ°¿¸é¸é°¿°Â?â€�

And remember: the sirens always came first.

“I have eyes with which to see, the world mankind has made for me.�
A siren’s scream cuts through dusk’s beginning like a banshee’s cry, heralding a night of terror — manmade.
Bombs fall... set on courses determined by bombsights cold and unfeeling. High pitched tones, the whistled voices penetrate the skies, reaching ears that will come to dread that awesome whine: The Voice of The Devil.
Explosions erupt... houses flattened... eardrums shattered. Eerie voices raised as masonry crashes; bodies crushed, eyes that no longer see; feelings non-existing... and yet, “I have eyes with which to see.�
Incendiaries, the pathfinder’s flaming tool, pinpoint targets with cruel accuracy. Their malevolent light revealing such as I —nestled in false seclusion— to the many following bombers’ sights... fingers poised, bombs primed. Death shall ride the skies tonight.
Barrage balloons, like silent gas filled elephants, swing high upon their hawsers; cables linked to one all, a spider’s web of steel waiting to sever the propellers of the alien and yet familiar crafts, winging above their manmade inferno... “The world mankind has made for me.�
London’s voice screams out in defiance despite her torment; her ravaged buildings shudder like trees before the woodsman’s axe; her pride flows freely like the blood of her people. And the citizens of England mourn her destruction by the Luftwaffe’s might. London is now a Charnel House.
Discordant shrieks echo through structures wrecked; a cacophony of terror, sounds too hideous to recall... and yet… “I have ears with which to hear... the cries of those who share my fear.�
Corpses, once filled with emotions of love, then hate, then fear, lie forgotten and bloody among bricks and mortar, not now resembling human lives, a recognizable form; but food for a plague of hungry rats, their appetites whetted by stagnant pools of gore —a reservoir of cooked body fats and incinerated, human bloated flesh... an unexpected feast.
Anti-aircraft guns thunder in savage revenge —their hunger undiminished— hurling projectiles upwards into a sky locust thick with droning flying machines, each hell bent on a City’s destruction and a Nation’s annihilation. Whoosh. The metallic objects ascend, their casings invisible to the naked eye... and yet, the action bears a final air, akin to sensuality.
Searchlights pierce the flickering darkness high above, punching their thin and eager beams through acrid, eye searing smoke, silently seeking out the heartless airborne invaders, relentlessly working hand in hand with the hot-barrelled guns. Flashes, like the ending of distant and a minute star, bear witness to the speeding shell’s ultimate caress —more final, hardier than any lover’s touch. “And I have the eyes to see... the things they tried to do to me.�
Amid the whirlwind of destruction and violent death, the yapping of a lonesome, frightened canine mingles with the cries of a newly orphaned child, both victims in innocence and fear, both luckless volunteers in one man’s dream of world domination. “And I have the eyes with which to see...�
One male child, secure beneath the stairs, watches his mother flung along the hall; one bomb, more personal than the rest, has found their home at last... invading their final privacy. Her cries are lost, the blast’s too great for him to hear her last gasps for life, her empty hand outstretched to him... “Her wreckage so much debris.�
Bells clang; white vehicles, red crossed, cavort amongst the gleaming red fire trucks as their hoses spout the fire’s eternal foe upon its devouring flames. Policemen, Wardens and ÃÛÑ¿´«Ã½ Guard, lend a hand to those who cannot control their shattered minds nor bleeding bodies, “The world mankind has made for them, for me.â€�
The bombs have ceased their punishment of land and flesh; the banshee’s bleat is heard again. Still the buildings and the people burn, their pyres their ruined habitats. The only silence to remain comes from the gaping mouths of London’s dead. The still proud City grunts and groans as buildings fall, crushing those who still strive below. “And I still have the eyes to see.�
Wide-eyed humans surge from stations underground, their faces full of hope... only to find despair. At the siren’s call they come; the signal that ALL IS CLEAR as dawn breaks upon the turmoil of the night... “The one mankind had made for them… for me.�
Rubble raised; tear drenched eyes search and seek for those that had stayed behind. Shock, Sorrow, and Sadness displayed at contents of gruesome discovery. Some laughter joins the tears of joy... the dog’s tail wags as it is found and none can explain to it that London’s Blitz has only just begun.
My father comes... beneath the stairs I am safely found. This night’s morbidity would, in the many, many nights to follow, repeat its deadly delivery upon my Beloved City. And, fortunately like myself, it would survive.

“I hope that my three Daughters shall never see,
a world like mankind had made for me.�
S
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LITTLE CHILDREN TO
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Word Count: 1,022.
© Mike Karel. 2003
shadowtraveller@unexplained.info

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