Aces High
Kristina Jackson
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Smashwords Edition
Aces High - Copyright 2011 by Kristina Jackson
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Acknowledgements
Thanks to all my fellow SmashWords authors.
Thanks to my friend
across the pond.
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Aces High
T-shirts were all that were needed. The heat of the stone brought with it the aroma of the night; scented plants, good cooking smells and good friends. Overhead, bats swooped and ducked, picking off flying insects in the deepening twilight. A group of young men, all in their late twenties sat on benches outside a pub. They sat, watching the bats fly overhead; and as the shadows lengthened and the new moon rose in the sky, they drank beer and chatted about the day’s events.
"What did you think of St Govan’s Chapel?" Scott asked.
"Tranquil," said Jake. "You could almost hear the chant of prayers."
"Spooky if you ask me, just like the teacher we had when we were 10," laughed Bert. "No wonder you’re in the Am. Dram. Society Jake. Always so fanciful," Bert teased.
"Oh, I remember that teacher, she was weird," Jake replied.
"Positively gave me nightmares," Scott said.
"I could not find the rock that was meant to have rang like a bell, "replied Jim.
"Ha!" Scott said. "You were making enough noise pretending to be a marauding pirate. I am surprised the whole of the car park above didn't hear you!" Scott continued, with a wide grin on his face.
"It does make you wonder though why anyone, even some holy monk, would choose such a secluded spot to live and worship. Imagine having to climb those steps when the rain is lashing and the wind is whipping around your cassock. It was tricky enough today. A dry warm day, with barely a breath of breeze," Jake mused.
"Fanciful!" murmured Bert.
"How about you fancy getting us another round then Bert, before the pub calls last orders," Jake retorted laughing.
"Now that’s one thing I do fancy, another pint!" Bert said good-humouredly, nearly getting caught up in the roses that surrounded the door leading into the pub.
As Bert ducked his head to enter the pub, he had to stand to one side for a moment, as a few of locals were leaving, calling out genial greetings as they passed. He made his way through the clusters of round tables, which still held drinkers busily emptying their glasses and making moves to gather objects. Bert thought it was slightly strange that there was still a good fifteen minutes to last orders, and people were packing up already. He was not an imaginative man. He was an Air Traffic Controller. There was not much scope for imagination when dealing with lives of hundreds of people at any one time.
"Another four please luv," Bert asked.
As the barmaid busied herself pouring the pints the landlord came over.
"You, and your friends might want to come in and finish those?"
"We are OK thanks," Bert said "Still too warm in here. We’ll take the air a bit more before heading to our beds. It is a beautiful evening and our bellies are still full of the wonderful food you serve up".
"If you’re sure," The landlord said, warming to the compliment "The wife is certainly a good cook! One of the reasons I married her all those years ago."
"That was a good find then, Bill" Bert said reasonably. He was sure they had not had too much to drink, unless you can get drunk on fresh air and good company.
"That it was, she has been the making of this place. I don’t know what I would do without her,"
"And don’t you forget it William," said a cheerful female voice from the direction of the kitchen. "Come and give me a hand with this door, it’s sticking again and I want to shut it before we get plagued with bugs!"
"Coming now Sally," Bill said and strode off to the Kitchen.
Bert paid for the pints, and balancing them on a tray, headed out through a much more deserted pub than he had entered.
The rest of the guys outside where discussing what they would do tomorrow,
"I reckon we should go surfing," Jim said.
"What a surprise!" Scott groaned. "I don’t know where you get all your energy. Not only are you a P.E teacher by day, a football coach to your under 11’s and by evening you still find the time and energy to do goodness - knows - what other things you do."
"I can’t help it if some of us are lazy," Jim teased back.
"No, not lazy," Scott snorted. "Just appreciate the finer things in life, and my creature comforts."
"See, being an accountant has made you soft," Jim teased back. "Although not as soft as Jakey boy who puts tights on and dances around in a ruff for a hobby."
"Nothing soft about amateur dramatics!" mused Bert on his return. "Crikey! Have you felt the nylon in those tights, they chafe!"
They all laughed. All so familiar in each other’s company. Had been since childhood. Scott had been the wimpy kid hanging around with the bigger boys. The bigger boys finally decided he would make a good punch bag. Jim had stepped in, a huge bulk of a lad, and from that moment he and Jim had become firm friends. Bert soon joined them, finding that playing chess with Scott was a lot more fun than kicking a ball around getting all hot and sweaty. Jim was happy to kick the ball. He took Bert’s turn in most games if he could. Jake moved to the area that summer, and by the time school started the four of them were always together. Twenty years ago and still going strong. Their laughter and revelries were disrupted by the voice of the departing barmaid.
"Better go in, you don’t want to encounter the Lone Solider."
They thought she was teasing, but there was an edge to her voice that even got through Bert’s thick skin. Although no one made an active move to go in, they did seem to move closer together.
The twilight had turned to full darkness. Their pints had less than a quarter left. The guys were all getting ready to drain their glasses and retire to the pub’s bedrooms for the night, when they became aware of footsteps on the road. Scott turned to see who was coming. "Just an empty road." He laughed nervously.
"Now I am getting spooked by the creaking of these benches."
"That sounded more like footsteps," Bert said "Probably the landlord coming to drag our backsides inside so he can lock up for the evening."
An icy coldness crept over them, causing the hairs on the arms to stand up on end.
"It’s getting cold," Jim said, draining his pint "Time to go in." As he stood up they became aware of a figure across the road. A dark trench coat; the colour indistinguishable in the light of the pub’s floodlights. It seemed to be standing in shadow. A rifle slung over its back,
"It’s not got a head," Jake stammered.
They all were unable to move, whether by fear or by some unseen force. It was not possible to tell. The figure stood there for what seemed like an age, gazing up at one of the windows in the front of the pub. Then it just faded. The guys were still unable to move, they swore later it was as if they were glued to the spot. From the darkness came the throaty sound of a Merlin engine and there was something iconic about that sound that stirred their blood.
"A spitfire or a hurricane," squeaked Bert. "But what are they doing flying at night, and from where?"
Scott went to reply but his answer was drowned out by the sound of not one but five engines. Accompanied by the silhouetted of five dark shapes, flying in formation. They stood there, partially in fear, partially in awe. The sight of the Spitfires soon faded out of sight, heading towards the coast. The noise of their engines was replaced by the sound of a distant gunner firing from the cliffs. The last round heard seemed to break whatever spell, had been holding the lads.
Inside the pub they stopped, hearts racing, a cold sweat on their brows. The landlord walked passed them, locked the door and then addressed his wife:
"Sally, pour us five large brandies. Our boys here have encountered the World War II spectacle."
"What!" Bert said. "The figure had no head. Was it a trick?"
The landlord laughed, "You are one of life’s sceptics. They all were ghostly in origin, sit down and drink your drinks and I will tell you what I know.
They all sat down, careful not to catch the other’s eye. Once the drinks were put in front of them and sips had been taken, the landlord, joined by his wife, started the tale.
"Back in 1942, during the Battle of Britain our lads where fighting on bravely. Someone throwing stones at her window disturbed the daughter of the then owner of the pub. Opening the curtains she saw the image of her boyfriend standing there. She initially wondered why he had not written to her that he was coming home. Then she was aware that she could see the hedge behind through him. Fear began to mount. She was about to scream, when he called up to her
‘There is a squadron of Nazi bombers coming up the coast, the radar has not picked them up, warn someone.’ As he turned to go, the head she had previously seen had disappeared. In such a conflict of emotions she raised her parents and told them what had happened."
"She was known as being a sensible lass, hard working and not given to fancies. In addition, her father had heard of similar tales. He raised the warden, who cycled over to the airfield and raised the squadron’s leader. The squadron was just about to taxi off when official word came through that bandits had been sighted. It was thought that the extra half an hour’s warning was what had saved some of the points along this coast from worse destruction than they suffered." Sally said, "I know this story to be true, the warden was my Great grandfather. He wrote a diary my brother has it. The whole event is in it."
The four young men went away from their stay in St Govan’s with not only a deeper bond in friendship, but also a greater respect for the people who had fought in that Great War. Also a great regard for those who were left behind, doing their own piece on home soil.
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About the author:
"One day you will write your own book, just let your heart guide you."
They were the words of Kristina’s teacher in the 5th Year of Primary School. Her short story had just been published in the school magazine. Kristina knew she had wanted to write since she could put together sentences. Twenty-eight years later she is now realising that dream.
Kristina lives with her husband David, and their two children. She has several pets, one of the cats, Bono, is her writing companion. He is often found sharing her laptop.
Kristina took the hint that she should be writing after her illness POTS (postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome) had to a greater degree disabled her. As physical doors have shut the mental ones have opened. She swears the characters in her head are trying to run away with her remaining sanity. Kristina has so many ideas it is anybody’s guess where this will now lead.
Connect with Kristina Online:
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/home.php#!/wyndwitch
Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/KJackson
Twitter: http:// twitter.com/kj_author
Blog: http://kristina-jackson.blogspot.com