Voyage One - A Son, A Father by Michael Brohier

Soon the conversation turned to the war. Not be outdone, I boldly ventured an opinion, although I had the flimsiest grasp about the politics of this war. “Of course, Hitler will invade, and I will be there to stop him”.

Hoots of laughter!

Egged on by my friends, made bold by the potent arrack and the palpable sense of excitement in the air, I said. “I’m nineteen and I could enlist in the Royal Air Force tomorrow. Just like that”.

Derisive laughter!

Soon the conversation turned to other things, the war, a receding memory.

But not for me!

The germ of an idea had been planted and I simply could not budge it. That is me! Stubborn! And I can see that stubbornness in my son, Michael. Stubborn to a fault. What if I turned up at the British Embassy tomorrow morning, bright and early? What if I enlisted into the British Air Force? I thought of the look on the faces of my friends when I told them. I didn’t think of the war, only of the admiration of the girls, of uniforms, esprit de corps, and combat training! Death, fear, were not options. I woke with a start at exactly 5 am the next morning. I had been dreaming of war; my sleep, restless, vivid, disconnected and yet strangely logical. I had not been able to shake the light-hearted conversation from last night about enlisting. My chaotic dreaming merely had strengthened this idea. And now I was awake, sitting bolt upright in bed and gripped by a trembling sense of excitement; the feeling one has when about to step out into the great unknown; that carefree sense of letting go and being open to the risks ahead. Strangely, I felt less uncertain than I had been about anything before. I crept out of bed, visited the toilet, splashed water on my face, slicked my hair down and quietly dressed in my work whites; pressed and fresh. I grabbed the rucksack, hurriedly packed before I had gone to bed, mentally listing, toothbrush, bylcream, underpants, socks, jacket, and passport photograph of myself. Gingerly opening the door to the bedroom of my great aunt, I memorised her serene face, deep in sleep. I felt an immense sense of love and gratitude towards this person who had stepped in to care for me and my sister, Sybil, after our mother had been institutionalised, only to die soon afterwards. Grabbing a plantain* on my way out of the house, I gently shut the front door, opening and closing the front gate with care, making sure I lifted the creaking side. Little did I know then that I was leaving the sheltered life I knew, forever. There would be no going back. But such is the breathtaking beauty of youth, there being no place for uncertainty. The early morning air was crisp and fresh, the beautiful hiatus before the oppressive heat of a Colombo December. Diminutive Morris Minor taxi cabs with their yellow tops were parked in crazy fashion by the small Kadeh* where the drivers sat on their haunches drinking sweet, hot, ‘milk tea’ and talking in Singhalese. It was the calm before the Colombo cacophony of noise that would break The carelessness of youth!

MICHAEL BROHIER

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