Jerry Bag

Jerry Bag a WW2 Love Story

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Jerry-Bag-G-H-BRIGHT-ebook/dp/

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Published 2014

G. H. Bright is identified as the author of this work.

Cover Photo; (TBC) adapted by G. H. Bright

Thanks go to Shelly for all her assistance in this work and to Jay and

our friends in the village for their continued support.

JERRY-BAG

Introduction;

Jersey; late April 1945.

I didn’t so much as have the love of my life snatched from my arms, but I did have him led away from me to his death.

An hour beforehand and we were planning our lives together. In fevered excitement and near silence he changed out of uniform and into civilian clothes in my front room. I made egg sandwiches in the kitchen with the supplies we pooled between us. My heart hammered in my chest. I was surprised he could not hear it even from a room away, the thumping was so loud.

We were going to run away, take a small boat and sail to England and start a new life. That was the plan, anyway

At the first sound of trouble Franz put his fingers to his lips, indicating I should be silent. Then he crossed the room and kissed me full on the lips, something I had only allowed him to do a handful of times, and hugged me close.

There was that one night when I let him kiss me repeatedly and although that night was only two nights previously and I had given myself to him, it seemed a world away at that moment in time.

Words were not needed; I knew what had to be done, we both did, and a longing kiss, although much needed, was not one of them. Franz had to placate his fellow countrymen; there was no other choice. There was no time to change clothes again and he would face them as a civilian. Words, I doubted, would be needed there either. They were drawing closer, time was of the essence.

He slipped from the room and into the dark void of inky moonless night. I never saw him again.

I heard two men; his so called friends as I thought of them, shouting at him. I didn’t understand the language but I understood the sentiments exactly, all the same.

One of the men dragged Franz away; I could hear his feet scuffling, the other almost marching, and then the other friend came in to the house. I knew how many of them there were because I could hear every step of the heavy boots on the stony gravel outside, and I felt almost more than heard the backdoor fly open and bang against the flint wall. His own soul mates had turned!

One of them walked above me, the dust from the creaking floorboards fell between the cracks onto me and I held my breath in case I coughed as the dust entered my throat.

He searched everywhere, upstairs and down and even went to the outside loo to look for me, but he found no one. I heard his heavy breathing as he came back inside the house and then, I heard him slam the door shut and march off after Franz and his comrade.

I lay there for a very long time. I still have no idea how long I lay there under the little door in the floor but when I eventually came out I was cramped with cold and fright.

I quietly let the door go and replaced the carpet Franz had pulled into place, then I noticed Franz clothes, his uniform, missing. I looked through the kitchen window into the still blackness of night, not caring if I was to be seen. Quite what I thought I might have seen I have no idea, but I did see something and it chilled my heart to stone.

I saw a flash of light in the distance, not white and not quite red, but somewhere in between. In my minds eye I recall it as burnt orange but that is probably incorrect. Too many movies and too much television over the years have washed my brain of reality, replacing it with what other people think I should see and remember.

I try to forget Jersey, nothing can change that, but I will always remember that night, how could I forget? Try as I might, I have never really buried that night or my roots.

I may not recall the colour of the rifle fire exactly but I can still hear the gunshot like it was only a second ago and my heart still clutches whenever I recall that night. Try as I might, that night comes to me more often than I would like. It seems to be a constant in my life, something I must never forget.

I have buried my past as best I can and moved on. I started again, but that gunshot remains with me, seemingly forever, a scar in my mind, on my heart and in my soul.

Franz was executed on the pathway to the beach. My life effectively ended right there and then too, one bullet, two lives. At least, that is what I thought then. Hated by my own people and without the man I loved I spiralled into a world of self-recrimination and doubt, of hate for others and a longing in my heart to be reunited with Franz.

I was forced to leave for England. The death I so wanted, but could not bring upon myself, did not visit my door, so I did not join Franz on the other side. Instead I found I was offered a new beginning, wanted or otherwise. I escaped the Isle of Jersey and the taunts of others. With the help of an Uncle, and not without a little loathing of others I don’t doubt I began a new life in England. I did not see a future, I did not even see the next day, I just knew that I could end my days somewhere where people would not mock me and spit in my face.

I didn’t die, obviously, and my life started over again. I never thought I would return to my place of birth, but then, I never thought I would have any kind of real life, either. Franz was the love of my life and he died for me, deserting the German Army, intent on being with me and making me his wife, he gave up everything, including his life, and I did not deserve to live.

I still feel guilty at times for having a life without him; of loving another man and of living the life I have lived. My life has been full of joy as well as sadness and, Franz death apart; it has been a life worth living. Then again, had Franz not died my life would have been completely different.

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