1997

The damp air has a moody swing to it. Drew drags on his cigarette and hoists his pack back over his shoulder. The rear garden is filled with debris thrown there by unseen hands over the years and the shed door lies open, spewing forth its contents into the slimy little pond. A small apple tree is in fruit by the wall near the bushes. A bare strawberry patch is beyond that. Bricks. Wheels. Broken toys. The others gather behind the boxes in front of the back door of this unnamed house and keep out of sight. I pitch up in the shed and look up through the open window, keeping the tree in sight and letting Drew take up a position behind the garage. The shed smells of creosote and shellac. Tins of paint that belonged to happier and more optimistic days. A clock with a picture of a clown.

Outside I can hear one of the guys – probably Pops – being sick with either excitement or fear. Perhaps it’s the pain in his knees. I’ll never know. He’ll not make it.

I hear the heavy footsteps of a laden group on the other side of the wall. An open and inviting ladder lets them over and into the yard where they can shimmy down the tree in the dim half-light and into the fields that lie beyond us.  No one breathes. No one even thinks. The first comes up over the wall, but I wait until his leg is right over and his weight is committed to the crossing. Then, as he drops I pot him with the muffled snap of the springs by my ear and he falls to the ground. The second is shot as he is about to pick an apple from the tree. The look of surprise on his face is astonishing. This is easy. The third is shot twice before he lands.

And so it goes on until there are eight of them lying dead or dying at the bottom of the tree. I let the ninth climb right down and stand on the bodies of his colleagues first. This lets him realise what is coming next and lets us watch him wet himself in fear. He tries to get back up the tree but I stand up and let him have it in the back of the head, the result of which blows his face out. Drew and I walk up to the others, break the heads of the couple of survivors with the rifle butts and then rob them of their tags, ammo, money and cigarettes.

Three days later I get a medal for being a war hero.  I wear it often, with pride.