Robert Thomas
Fabula Argentea, Jul./25
Dad opened the weighty scrapbook, while my son Leo bounced on the couch beside him.
“Pay attention, Leo. I’m going to tell you about the time I was in the navy, in the Second World War. It was a long time ago. We were fighting the Germans. I was on the high seas.”
Leo was distracted as ever but leaned on Dad’s knee. “What are those pictures?”
“That’s me in uniform. That’s the ship I sailed on. That’s me beside my Bofors gun. I was an air gunner. I shot at the airplanes that were attacking our ship.”
He turned a dusty page.
“Ah, that’s my ship’s company. And there’s me. And see that dog in front? That was our mascot, a big St. Bernard.”
Leo began to migrate a short distance to the armchair, crawling on top and turning himself sideways. He tried to look in Grandpa’s direction.
“That’s me posing with a knife.” He flipped through some more pages. “And look.” He held up the book. “That’s the submarine we sank. It was trying to attack the cargo ships we were defending.”
And so it continued, cloudy words lifting from the pages. Sometimes precise. Sometimes hazy and uncertain. What were the pictures? What year were they taken? He unfolded a thick parchment carefully and spread it out on the coffee table. His war record. A big grid filled with lovely handwriting in fountain pen.
After a brief glance Leo was soon on the floor, reaching for some Lego. Dad returned to the scrapbook and carefully picked out some letters. He didn’t even try to read them aloud.
“These are letters to my sisters, Leo.”
Leo looked up.
“But Grandpa’s dead, Dad. I don’t know him. He died a long time ago. I don’t know about those things.”
“Yes, Leo. Your grandpa died many years ago.”
I looked down at the dusty scrap book on my lap.
“He would have loved telling you these things, Leo. He used to tell me all about these pictures, and lots of stories too. I’m doing my best to remember what all the pictures are about.”
Mom walked into the front room from the kitchen.
“Leo, it’s very important for dad that you know about his father, your grandpa. Your dad’s preserved that book very lovingly over the years, so you’d know.”
“OK,” was the boyish reply. And he turned back to his Lego.
“Alright gang,” I said after a clumsy pause. “Let’s get our things. We have to get to the cenotaph to get a good seat.”
“Why do I have to go, Dad?”
I looked him in the eyes.
“Why did Grandpa have to go, son? We do the things we need to do. That it is our duty to do. Now get ready.”
I slammed the old scrapbook shut. A cloud of dust… I massaged it briefly. I set it gently on the couch beside me. I looked at it and gulped. I got my coat. And my poppy.