Blitz

Peter awoke with a start. Sirens cut through the silence like a wolf's howl. Suddenly the door burst open and his mother flew into the bedroom. ''Quick,'' she hissed ''Quick, we need to leave now!'' A crash from above shook his house to its roots. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Peter stumbled from his bed, following his mother blindly. He stopped only to collect the single photograph hanging on his wall.

It was of his family, the last time they were together. There was his Dad, standing tall and proud in his uniform. His mum in her finest dress with her hair combed and done up in her Sunday best. Peter was in his good trousers, shoes and shirt, the kind he only wore to church. his wide smile revealed his two missing front teeth. His Mum and Dad had surprised him with the photo for his eight birthday, during Dad's last visit, the best two days of his life. His Mum had the same content smile she wore when she read Dad's letters. He would write home every two months and it kept her happy. That is...until Three months ago, when the letters stopped coming. Mum didn't smile so much anymore...

Peter was wrenched from his thoughts by the groaning of a house giving way and collapsing behind him. He tripped and fell to ground, scrapping his knees on the hard cobble street. His mother heaved him up and he scrambled to his feet. One of his slipper came lose and peter was forced to continue on bare foot. Shards of glass dug into his feet, drawing blood. Peter fought back the cry of pain rising in his throat.

An engine screamed overhead and Peter clutched his mother's hand as the plane passed overhead. She dragged him onward through the destruction towards shelter. As an explosion devastated a building behind him, a piece of debris hit Peter in the back and his hand was torn from his mothers as he was flung forward. Peter lay dazed on the cold hard ground. His mother was looking frantically for him. He could see her calling his name through tear stained eyes. Peter tried calling out to her but the words refused to come.

Time seemed to slow down. Peter saw the planes above and the carnage they were raining down on the city below. Peter could no longer see his mother in the street. Tears ran down his cheek, carving lines in the grime on his face. Peter tried to rise but a stab of agony in his left leg cause him to come crashing down again.

Peter clutched the photograph in his bloodied hands. The glass was cracked and the paper was torn, but Peter ran his fingers over the faces fondly. Tears collected on the surface of the glass as they dropped off his chin.

Peter closed his eyes and tried to pretend he was back at home; that it was all a bad dream. That his Dad would come home. But with the screams and cries around him, it was a nightmare that never seemed to end.

The nine year old lay in the rubble. Alone.

''Help'' he sobbed, voice little more than a whisper. Barely audible above the chaos of the London blitz.

He called again, even as he realized there would be no answer.

''Help...''