A Medal For Leroy
READING AGE 4+
When it came to it, I wasn't entirely sure what we were doing walking up that hillside in Belgium. Christine's hand came into mine as we walked. Were we burying the past, righting a wrong, or simply paying our respects? Were we doing it for ourselves, or was it for Maman and Papa, or Auntie Pish, or Grandfather Leroy?
It had happened somewhere in this field, definitely this field - we knew that much from the maps. We knew Leroy had run on ahead of the others, that he was leading the attack. But where exactly had it happened? Closer to the crest of the hill, near the trees? Probably. Nearer the farm buildings? Maybe. We had so little to go on.
Jasper had run on ahead of us, and was snuffling under a fallen tree at the edge of the wood. Then he was exploring along the tree line on the crest of the hill, nose to the ground.
"Wherever Jasper stops," I said. "if he ever does, wherever he next sits down for a rest, that's where we'll do it. Agreed?
Unfold
I grew up in the 1940s in London, just after the war. When I was a boy, my friends called me 'Poodle'. I didn't mind that much. I'd have preferred they called me Michael – it was my real name after all – but they rarely did.
I didn't have a father, not one that I ever knew anyway. You don't miss what you've never had, so I didn't mi……
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