A couple years before he died, my Grandfather told me a story. He was, in the way that old soldiers often are, a no-nonsense, upright man of few words. It was the morning following my twentieth birthday, and he telephoned me at nine-thirty, on the dot, requesting my presence at his house on the outskirts of Salcombe – approximately half an hour's drive. I arrived, nursing a hangover from the previous night and he offered me a cigarette. When I hesitated, he just laughed and told me that he knew I smoked, and that he would not tell my father. We sat together on his porch and smoked in silence, watching the waves crash against the Devonshire coast. Eventually, he stubbed out the butt of his Silk Cut and produced a shoe box, which he handed to me.
"I want to tell you about the war," he said, his speech slow and slurred from a minor stroke he had suffered two years prior.
Knowing how he felt on the matter (for he had not even congratulated me on my successful application to join the army, several weeks prior), I said, "Grandpa, you don't have to-"
"I need to," He said, "open the box."
I obliged. Inside was a beret, wrapped around three items. A key, a tubular bundle of tissue paper, and something heavy, in oilcloth. I put the box down and picked up the key, admiring the intricate brasswork and unusually complex blade.
"The only other person that knew this story was your Grandma, and she's gone now. I won't be around forever either, you know. It's important... people know..."
We were silent for a couple more minutes. It sounds selfish, but I hate when old people talk so fatalistically. That said, my curiosity was piqued by the grim, show-and-tell atmosphere. He lit another cigarette, letting the flame of his match linger just long enough that the wood about its head had begun to curl and blacken, then he shook it out.
"I joined the war too late," he said, "all through school, my friend Nick and I just wanted to be heroes. When the time finally came, and we were gearing up to fight the Nazis in France, our damn unit was diverted."
"Where were you sent?" I asked. He took a deep drag on the smoke.
"Channel Islands. The only part of the British Isles to be occupied by the Germans. Coinciding with the liberation of France, we were preparing to attack the Isle of Jersey when the Jerries surrendered. Just a few hundred of them, holed up in their rat-warrens in the cliffs. We marched right in and rounded up all the troops."
He paused and tapped the cigarette with a forefinger, so that glowing ashes tumbled from it and were snuffed out by the wind like miniature, dying stars.
"The night after the surrender, Nick and I were sitting in the pub, being bought drinks by the locals, when a woman burst in from the rain, crying and shouting for help. Naturally, we asked her what was wrong, and she told us that her children had been taken hostage. A bastard by the name of 'Pater Seher'. He was some kind of priest that the Nazis had brought with them when they'd landed, or so she said. Nick asked where he'd taken the kids, and she said that he'd stolen a rowboat and was on his way to a little offshoot island called Babel Rock. She was sure that he was going to kill them."
"Nick and I ran to our superiors, but as soon as we mentioned 'Babel Rock', they wanted to call for help from the Americans, and wait until light. They took our rifles away and told us to forget the whole thing, but I would sooner have been court-martialled than let some American G.I have the glory. This was our fight – our war – and no matter how small it was, how insignificant in the grand scheme of things, we would fight it. This was our home, you know? We stole a boat of our own and set out into the storm. I wish I'd stopped to think about things for a second, but I was young and stupid. We both were."
