Open Writing

'I'll never tell my children about it,' says one.

'You're not even married,' says the other.

'No . . . but when I am I won't want them to know what I went through . . . Anyway I can't describe it.'

'Nor me. I can't find the words. When I think about it, it's as if I've got a great ball of fire in my head, all blazing red and orange

'Well, I don't want to think about it . . . all those men blasted to pieces . . . arms legs heads smashed and exploded . . .'

'The screams of the wounded we had to leave behind. They knew they'd had it and they shouted after us don't leave us you bastards, don't leave us . . . Oh, Jesus.'

'Now, now, don't cry . . . Come on, have another drink . . . Let's try to forget the bloody war.'

'Yes, you're right . . . Hey, look . . . look who's come in.'

'It's Reg Appleton, isn't it?'

'Yes, Softy Appleton, the bastard who wrote that book - '

'About the retreat from - '

'I'd like to have a word with him.'

'No, no, better not.'

'Yes, just give me a minute . . . Hey, you, Softy . . .'