1944 [n.h]

chapter one

The summer of 1944 was long and hot. We were in the middle of a world war, and at that time, I had been sure it was never going to end. I had been just 12 when the war had started. I was 17 now, practically a woman in every right.

Most wouldn't see 1944 as a specific year for anything. But it was the year —the summer— my life changed completely. It was your typical love story of boy meets girl, but what most people don't know is that many don't have a happy ending.

My mother owned the bakery in the town square. We were the only one in town and during the war, stocks had been low. We always seemed to be busy and thus it was my priority to help out. I didn't mind it, baking and decorating, it was something to do during the day.

I lived in a tiny village on the outskirts of Surrey. Our town was the only thing for miles around, surrounding us was nothing but fields. Our minute village became even smaller when the war started. Every man we'd ever known left to fight, my father and older brother being two of them. My youngest brother, thank the lord, was only a baby when the war started. He was 6 now so we had no worries about losing him like we'd lost so many others.

Everybody I'd grown up with had gone to war. Our town was full of women, apart from the odd man who was either too old or unfit to fight. Nonetheless, life was lonely. When my mother was 17 she was already engaged to my father, yet here I was, with virtually no boy experience whatsoever, spending my days baking bread and sorting through rationing cards. The closest I had ever gotten to a boy was from the books stacked high on my shelf; stories of running away and falling in love, it was from that I got my daydreams.

That was until one unbearably hot August day when I met him. And God, was he something.

The government had set up an army training camp just outside of the village. We had the right landscape to train the soldiers up. Every few months they'd ship men who had enlisted over to us, only about forty or so, train them up for a couple of months, and then... well, then they just send them out to die.

The men came from all over. We once had a man all the way from America training at our camp, he came into our bakery quite a few times. He had a thing for our scones, said they were the best he'd ever had. But then he left, and I never saw him again. I don't know what happened to him, but I like to think he went home, and was now with his family, back in his home in America.

I dreaded to think anything different had happened to the man, for such a lovely soul to have such a fatal ending was a horrific tragedy and I refused to believe it might have happened, I refused anything but fantasy endings.

But this boy was something different.

...

It was a Sunday morning and I was slouched over the front counter in the bakery, my face resting on my hand and my elbow leaning on the table, it mustn't have been a very attractive sight for anyone looking into the shop. My apron had stains of dried dough and flour on it and my hair was tied up, tousled strands falling in front of my face. 

The wide view of the road leading out of town had been barren all day.

That was until the khaki truck jumped down the road, followed by another one, rattling into town. They were filled to the brim with men, all dressed in green uniforms, slouched on seats and chatting, looking over at the people in the town.

I straightened my back ever so slightly before walking out of the bakery, standing by the door as I watched them pass by, leaving a trail of thick smoke behind them and fresh tracks on the gravel road. New soldiers.

My mother soon appeared next to me, rushing from inside as she craned her neck to get a look. I glanced at her and sighed. My mother was something else altogether.