SHORT STORY: AIR RAID

AIR RAID

It is not often you get picked up at the station by a local female but this particular person was no nubile lady of the night. Every day she trawled Munich's main station ('Hauptbahnhof') where she hoped to 'pick up' prospective customers for her bed and breakfast in a nearby suburb.

Her apartment, she maintained, was neat and tidy, had a shower / bath and toilet (shared) and was reasonably priced. Times like this enforce a young traveller to choose ... do I head for the relative safety of a youth hostel ('Jugendherberge'), the camping ground or take my chances on a little old lady clearly in her 70s simply trying to make ends meet? I followed her.

Travelling can often be a test of nerves especially when you don't know the local language but that is surely part of the fun of it all. In recalling this, I am often reminded of a couple of interesting experiences. The first happened in a Spanish camping ground in the capital Madrid. A friend who was travelling with me at the time in his motor home was about to leave the camping site when he reversed into an aluminium light pole. In doing so he damaged the pole beyond repair and the light cover as well. Despite a rather tense situation, I was nonetheless amused to discover that the light cover was called a 'sombrero' in Spanish.

The manager and several assistants quickly appeared on the scene and started remonstrating in Spanish with my friend and his wife. No, the manager did not speak English! I tried it in French with him hoping to sort out the problem. The manager did speak some French, nodded when I explained the incident but point blank refused to reply in French. My Spanish was restricted to basic everyday phrases but they did not help one iota. The magic words 'guardia civil' were mentioned which raised my friend's blood pressure about 50 points. The prospect of a subsequent court appearance and spending a night or three in a Spanish gaol did little for his general health. I should add here that at the time the guardia civil were feared police officers and had a reputation for severe treatment of any suspect tourist.  Somehow however, in French, I managed to convince the manager that my friend was willing to pay whatever it cost to repair the light. A figure was determined - no doubt way higher than the cost of repair - but my mate stumped up for the cash and made good his escape from the campsite.

A far more amusing incident, also in Spain, again involved the same friend who went into a camping ground shop and found once more that the attendant did not speak English. My friend's Spanish was limited and so he resorted to mime. His practice in playing 'charades' should stand him in good stead (or so he thought!) and he set about ordering a dozen eggs through gestures and sounds. He flapped his arms and hands, clucked like a chicken, plucked an imaginary egg from behind his legs and held up 12 fingers. The attendant looked at him, held up a finger to indicate his understanding with an 'ah, si señor', reached down behind the counter and produced a toilet roll!

But back to my German lady ... Czech and German beers are world famous for their quality, the latter certainly because they are basically produced with natural products only. Festival beer, a darker variety, is a particularly famous brew in Munich and very popular at Oktoberfest time. It can be insidious, however, as German Festbier is often quite a bit stronger in alcoholic content than normal beer. In a downtown Munich beer hall, a couple of Mass Bier (big glasses!) along with some Wurst und Sauerkraut had been enough to upset my digestion somewhat on the night of my Munich Station encounter. At about 10 p.m. I stumbled back down the hallway towards my bedroom after a trip to the bathroom and an anxious Frau Biedermeier (let's call her that - alas the memory fades and her real name escapes me) - came out to enquire if I was feeling alright or needed some assistance.

"No, everything is fine," I lied as my tummy grumbled.

"Would you like to come and sit by the fire?" she asked. "It's nice and comfortable in the living room." In saying this, Frau Biedermeier played the 'gemütlich' card on me. 'Gemütlich' is one of the Germans' favourite words -- how could I refuse?

So by the fire we sat and we chatted politely for some time about Munich and travelling and I learnt in time that she was a widow who had lost her husband in the war. It was then that the conversation kicked up a gear. I had to be careful here because I didn't want to offend in any way but I was certain her story would be an interesting one. Knowing that places like Hamburg and Munich had undergone horrific damage from the allied bombing raids, I wondered how she had even managed to survive.

"You know, things were pretty tough in the war for us Germans," she continued.

"Yes, I imagine it must have been really hard. Losing a husband and other relatives perhaps."

"Yes, but also, food was very scarce, transport, everyday items in the shop, simple things like chocolate that we take for granted today were just not to be found anywhere. And fuel for the fire to keep warm. You know how cold it can get in Munich in the winter."

"Yes, you must have really been affected by the cold."

"You have heard about the air raids of course?"

"That must have been really awful!"

"Well, there was lots of damage to the buildings in the city but I was lucky. My house remained untouched in the bombing. But, it wasn't totally bad, you know?"

"No, why was that?" I volunteered, a little staggered by her comment.

"Because during the air raids when others were seeking the safety of the air raid shelters, I saw this as a chance to go out and collect the timber from the destroyed buildings so I had enough fuel to see me through the winter."

Unbelievable!

SHORT STORY: I WAS JUST PLAYING WITH YOU THEN

I WAS JUST PLAYING WITH YOU

Ah, here he comes, the cartoons must be over. He's got his tennis racquet with him - hope the neighbours don't complain. They've been pretty good so far. He's got a lot of energy this one. Not a reader like his brother. My God, he's like his grandfather. Ossie loved his sport too and he even looks a lot like him ... jet black hair, medium height ... he's not going to be tall and a bit bandy, green / brown eyes, can't sit still for long. His grandfather adores him. He can probably see it too. Reminds him of his Welsh background he always bangs on about. Yep, he's not going down to the beach, he's going to be hitting up against the wall to the entrance of the flats.

"Hi Nan, I'm just going to have a bit of a hit up against the wall here. Is that OK?"

Check Nan out, hey, she's got her knitting again, sitting in the old rocker. Wonder who's going to score this jumper? Must be my turn soon. My last one has just about had it and Greg and Fred both have new ones. They are so warm. Wonder where Pop is? He must be having his afternoon sleep. Reckon he didn't sleep too well last night. I heard him screaming again in the middle of the night and Nan had to get up and go calm him down. Probably dreaming about France and the explosion that took two of his mates and left him deaf in one ear. It's good he has been able to go back to work again recently after his six months in the rehabilitation hospital. Mum says he suffers from bad nerves. Who would have thought he had played cricket for NSW schoolboys and first grade rugby for Manly. Who would have thought he had almost made it to the Olympics for swimming and would have done so had he not got the flu and was beaten in to second place by a club mate he beat regularly every week? He is a wreck now, and can hardly get up out of his chair and walk to the bathroom. It must be tough, war. Mum remembers the look on his face when Uncle Fred announced he had enlisted in 1939 to go and fight the Japanese. His face had turned a funny shade of grey apparently.

"Good shot, Honey! Don't know how you managed to get that volley back. Oh Oh!"

Damn it, too hard, it's going over Pittwater Road, I'll have to tackle the traffic.

"You be careful going over the road. Look both ways before you run. There's lots of traffic here at this hour."

"Yes, Nan."

"You found it?

"Yep, it was in the gutter on the other side. Might have a break, it's getting a bit hot now, wouldn't mind a drink, Nan."

Stay there, you sit down and I will go and get you one. Lemonade?"

"Yep, that'd be really good."

"There you go Darl!  Drink up. You know what ? I was just playing out there with you."

"Excuse me, Nan, what did you say?"  My God, Nan's losing it ...

"You know, Honey, as you get older and your body can't do what it used to do, your mind and spirit remain forever young. In my heart, with a little bit of imagination, I was playing out there with you, going shot for shot."

"Really Nan?"

"Really!"

SHORT STORY: FAMILY LEGEND

A GOOD YOUNG COLT

In the late 60's as in every era, it was a fairly regular occurrence for most young pupils to strive for immortality by etching their names into their school desks. Maybe it would be a 'tag' today, . The local Deputy Principal decided there had been too much of this graffiti of late and embarked on a 'crack-down'. 

"Now, right, you young blokes, listen here; we've been telling you about writing on the desks lately and this is your last chance. Any more of this and it's six cuts! Do you get that? Six cuts! No more mucking around with you blokes, we've got an inspection coming up in the school soon and we want the desks and the classrooms to look spick and span. We don't want the school getting a reputation as a hang-out for young ruffians and hoodlums. No more mucking around, six cuts!" Do I make myself understood?"

Most of the school assembly were used to the Deputy's ranting and raving and many wore a slight smirk on their faces but they all knew just the same that he meant it. Get caught and it was 'six of the best'. 'No Mucking around'! In the late sixties and seventies, teachers were still able to administer corporal punishment in the form of hitting pupils' hands with a 'light cane'. I had been on the end of it a few times during my 'education' in primary school and to be caned was traditionally called 'getting the cuts'.

It all came to pass a couple of days later. The class was running out of puff in the lead up to the morning break ('recess')  and the last of the exercises were being completed. Out of the corner of his eye, the first year teacher suddenly caught sight of one of his students carving his name into the desk. He had progressed about half way through his name, when he looked up to make eye contact with the teacher standing next to him. A sheepish and very guilty look flooded his face.

"You'd better go down and explain to the Deputy what you've been doing." A sullen expression replaced the guilty version as the student stood up and sloped out the door. One minute later the bell rang and the rest of the class left the room for recess, a little quieter than usual as one of their mates had clearly fallen foul of the Deputy.

Another two minutes later the Deputy appeared at the door. "Now what's all this about this young feller writing on a desk?" he spluttered. The Deputy always spluttered.

"He maintains he didn't do it!' The hairs on the back of the young teacher's neck rose in anger. "Look here, look at this desk. He'd only got half way carving his name there when I caught him out!'

"Good enough for me, young feller! Thank you," and out he stormed.

Recess concluded some fifteen minutes later and the siren rang for the daily assembly out in the playground area. The Deputy took up his usual stance at the microphone on the dais and cajoled the stragglers to get into line.

"Right now," he started ... "about two days ago, I warned you blokes about writing on desks. Well, only today, one of our new members of staff, a vigilant young bloke, good colt,  happened to notice one of his students carving his name into a desk. Now I warned you all what would happen if you got caught doing this ... six cuts! That's right six cuts! Now I'm not going to mention any names here and embarrass the student. Get into my office S. I'll deal with you shortly! Start warming up your hands!"

"Good colt that new staff member. A good young colt!"

"Alright the rest of you, that will do for today. Keep your scribble off our desks or you'll be in there with your mate, now off to class and hurry up about it!"

SHORT STORY: A GOOD YOUNG COLT

A GOOD YOUNG COLT

In the late 60's as in every era, it was a fairly regular occurrence for most young pupils to strive for immortality by etching their names, and maybe a 'tag' today, into their school desks. The local Deputy Principal decided there had been too much of this graffiti of late and embarked on a 'crack-down'. "Now, right, you young blokes, listen here; we've been telling you about writing on the desks lately and this is your last chance. Any more of this and it's six cuts! Do you get that? Six cuts! No more mucking around with you blokes, we've got an inspection coming up in the school soon and we want the desks and the classrooms to look spick and span. We don't want the school getting a reputation of a hang-out for young ruffians and hoodlums. No more mucking around, six cuts!" Do I make myself understood?"

Most of the school assembly were used to the Deputy's ranting and raving and many wore a slight smirk on their faces but they all knew just the same that he meant it. Get caught and it was 'six of the best'. 'No Mucking around'! In the late sixties and seventies, teachers were still able to administer corporal punishment in the form of hitting pupils' hands with a 'light cane'. I had been on the end of it a few times during my 'education' in primary school and to be caned was traditionally called 'getting the cuts'.

It all came to pass a couple of days later. The class was running out of puff in the lead up to recess and the last of the exercises were being completed. Out of the corner of his eye, the first year teacher suddenly caught sight of one of his students carving his name into the desk. He had progressed about half way through his name, when he looked up to make eye contact with the teacher standing next to him. A sheepish and very guilty look flooded his face.

"You'd better go down and explain to the Deputy what you've been doing." A sullen expression replaced the guilty version as the student stood up and sloped out the door. One minute later the bell rang and the rest of the class left the room for recess, a little quieter than usual as one of their mates had clearly fallen foul of the Deputy.

Another two minutes later the Deputy appeared at the door. "Now what's all this about this young feller writing on a desk?" he spluttered. The Deputy always spluttered.

"He maintains he didn't do it!' The hairs on the bac'sk of the young teacher's neck rose in anger. "Look here, look at this desk. He'd only got half way there when I caught him out!'

"Good enough for me, young fellar! Thanks you," and out he stormed.

Recess concluded some fifteen minutes later and the siren rang out for the daily assembly out in the playground area. The Deputy took up his usual stance at the microphone on the dais and cajoled the stragglers to get into line.

"Right now," he started ... "about two days ago, I warned you blokes about writing on desks. Well, only today, one of our new members of staff, a vigilant young bloke, good colt, happened to notice one of his students carving his name into a desk. Now I warned you all what would happen if you got caught doing this ... six cuts! That's right six cuts! Now I'm not going to mention any names here and embarrass the student. Get into my office S. I'll deal with you shortly! Start warming up your hands!"

"Good colt that new staff member. A good young colt!"

"Alright the rest of you, that will do for today. Keep your scribble off our desks or you'll be in there with your mate, now off to class and hurry up about it!"