Many people die at twenty–five and aren't buried until they are seventy–five.
(Benjamin Franklin)
Henry Hopkins' dad had come from Northumberland to Ontario in the late 1880ies; his mom and her parents had immigrated from Down in 1892. There had never been any doubt about their Britishness, even if they were living and working in Canada now. Henry and his siblings had grown up in this spirit. When the Great War had erupted in Europe, Henry's elder brothers, Fred and Charlie, had – of course – volunteered. Henry would gladly have done the same, but he had still been too young. By the time he had finally been considered fit for service, Fred had just been killed at Third Ypres. To Henry's exasperation, war had ended, before he could be shipped to Europe.
Nevertheless, he had been a soldier and had subsequently joined the veterans. – Charlie, wounded, captured by Fritz in the Battle of Arras and found unfit for his former job after repatriation, had become a local functionary in the Great War Veterans Association. Thus, Henry had always been close to the inner core of the war veterans and had accompanied their struggle for better support, although he himself hadn't qualified for any benefit. – When had the veterans turned away from Britain? Well, it had all started when the commies had crushed the Churchillian struggle for freedom. And Red Albion's takeover of Canada had certainly been the final straw. The glorious Britain one had fought for in the war wasn't the Britain of the SUP for sure, even if the commies hadn't abolished monarchy.
And now one was fighting the oppressor. Who else – apart from the henchmen of the tyrants – was capable of serving an artillery piece than the veterans? Henry had been trained as gunner, although he had never fired a shot in anger back then. But today he was serving a heavy howitzer. The chief gunner was seventy–two, a former career NCO. The gun layer was sixty–seven, a former sergeant who had fought at Arras twice, in 1917 and 1918. Henry, a veritable junior compared to these old crocks, was hauling shells. It was demanding. These frigging shells were heavy and unwieldy. And the enemy was indeed shooting back...
One had executed a change of position half an hour ago. That had even been more exhausting. Playing soldier definitely was no reasonable activity for men beyond the age of fifty. Henry was exhausted, hungry and thirsty. Many people he knew had already run away to the marmites of the US. That conduct was perhaps cleverer than battling the Reds. But he couldn't leave his comrades alone, could he? – He was just wiping sweat from his forehead, when he spotted a bunch of riflemen running in their direction. Where they retreating? What were they shouting? Tanks? Tanks! Holy shit!
Henry looked at Eddy, the chief gunner. "Get the truck!" barked Eddy. Henry darted off. It took him several moments to find the truck. The driver was a young lad who wasn't where he should be. Henry cursed. He knew how to drive a truck, but he never had driven a military vehicle. – When the truck was finally rolling, he caught sight of a compact dark shape where the gun should be. The tank! He jumped from the truck, hurt himself, crawled to cover, panting and bleeding. Boom! That was... – had been the truck. Henry had made it to a side road. He was jogging now, as fast as he could – until he was choking.
Damn! He was an innocent civilian, wasn't he? He dropped his military jacket, his helmet and his gun – and continued his way walking slowly, like an old man. Okay, that was that. And now? To the US, what else... Man, he needed something to chow... Fudge! He checked his watch. Four hours still until dusk. No people around... Where was everybody? What a mess...
