Remember, Remember, The Fifth ………

The rocket climbed its graceful arc high into the black velvet sky

At its peak, the golden tail disappeared into the myriad of green stars that it spawned. All this, the flight, the eruption and the cascade of incandescent emerald fireflies were reflected in his eyes as he gazed heavenward.

The sudden burst of light giving his skin a ghostly sheen.

“Look at that Alf!”

His companion did not answer, it mattered little, and he himself was lost in the pyrotechnic display.

Lights flared with a thousand different colours, painting their brief, but beautiful designs upon the night sky.

“I do so love Bonfire Night,” murmured young Tom. His head swinging from side to side, trying to anticipate from where the next burning surprise would appear. The sharp staccato reports, he listened to, seemingly so close to Alf and himself.

He hadn’t got his own bonfire this year, he’d had no time to gather wood and rubbish to make a pyre, so the two friends sat and listened to others.

He remembered the fires of previous years, how high they had built them, and the Guys…oh the Guys, some had been veritable works of art, and he smiled at the memories.

“Remember the Guys Alf.?….we made some good ‘uns, didn’t we?”

A huge rocket turned the night to day, but the light it cast was blood red, throwing all around into hellish sharp relief.
Young Tom found himself holding his breath, as the devils lantern slowly fell back to the darkness of the freezing earth.
He exhaled, his breath hanging for a moment, the ruby light turning it into the breath of a dragon; he shrugged against the cold, burying his neck deeper into the upturned collar. He rubbed his mittened hands together and showed his palms to the small brazier they had lit, his neck protesting at the strain he had inflicted upon it in his skyward searches.

“At least we’ve got some tatties, mate.”

He prodded the ashes, lifting out the charred potato; an Arial mine whistled its banshee shriek as it flew skywards, his eyes snapping to the direction from where the noise came.

“Bugger!” he exclaimed.

He had dropped the hot potato and watched with dismay as it fell, plumb into the centre of the fire, lost forever to the flames.

He looked longingly at the remaining spud.

“Alf….Alf? You’re not really bothered about your spud, are you?” he prodded the last of the ashes from around the dark object.
Alf made no reply, and Tom took this as permission to eat his friend’s supper,

“Cheers… old mate!” his hand already fishing the vegetable from its cooking. The heat forcing him to toss the thing from one gloved hand to another. He broke the ashed skin from its surface and gingerly bit into the soft interior, before Alf had a chance to change his mind.

“Luverly this!” he mumbled through a mouthful of hot potato,” Now you’re sure you don’t mind?”

His question was left unanswered, as the whole sky seemed to light up with renewed splendour. Everywhere he looked the heavens were ablaze and the night was filled with deafening noise as one explosion after another shook the very air.

Tom was lost to the spectacle.

Something deep within him suddenly snapped and abruptly he stood, looking towards the stars, tears coursing freely down his dirty face, the potato dropped from unfeeling fingers and unchewed potato dropped from his gaping mouth.

And he realised what had given way…. His very soul…

And he looked around himself, seemingly seeing clearly for the first time in a very long while….

And he saw the squalor… and he saw the dirt…. And he saw the rockets, clearly reflected in the dead eyes of his friend….

And suddenly he saw the futility of it all!

And he knew that this would be his last Bonfire Night.

It was Monday the Fifth of November 1915, in a trench, somewhere in France.