𝙵𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝙸 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 | 𝐃𝐔𝐍𝐊𝐈𝐑𝐊 [Collins]

Chapter 9 - Relief

(revised)

It was already dark when we docked in the harbour of a small fishermen town. Soldiers were silently climbing out of the boat, too exhausted to express their relief to finally be at home. I was waiting on the landing, wanting to thank Mr Dawson before leaving for the station. The man had saved my life and I couldn't help but see him as a father figure. What he had done for me was something I would never forget. I took off my life vest which was now useless and stared blankly at the soldiers passing by when one suddenly spat his anger in my face.

"Where the hell were you!"

Once again, I said nothing, knowing that his comment was aimed to the entire RAF I embodied, not just me. What could I say anyway; what could I do apart from pretending his reproach did not affect me?

I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to be faced by Mr Dawson.

"They know where you were," he said, nodding towards the soldiers that were on the boat.

With that, he put his hat on, shook my hand and left, followed by his son, and I hoped he had seen in my eyes how thankful I was for having crossed his path. I remained still for a moment, not really knowing what to do next. My eyes landed on the stern of the boat I was on earlier, where black letters standing out from the white paint, formed a meaningful name. 'Moonstone.'

"It keeps an eye on us." I remembered Freya's words, those she had told me several weeks before on that trailer when talking about the moon. She was right, I thought to myself. Even if it was just a coincidence, it warmed my heart to think that there were signs everywhere in the world to remind me of her, that there was more than this war.

I finally decided to leave the landing and follow the flow of soldiers to the station, hoping I would be able to find a train for London there. Civilians were offering us tea, food and blankets on our way there, showing solidarity and gratitude. I just took a blanket that I knew would be useful to find some rest in the train, for my uniform was still wet, and I headed to the platform.

"London! Platform 1!" I heard a man shout. "This train is for London, please get on."

I boarded the train and made my way through the half-crowded coach, looking for a place where to sit. I spotted empty seats and dropped onto the one next to the window. I placed the folded blanket on the table in front of me, wrapped my arms around it and rested my head on top. I closed my eyes, hoping to fall asleep as soon as possible, but it was very noisy with all the soldiers talking and moving around. Exhausted, I left the blanket to lean against the window, waiting for the train's departure. I moved my hands to my neck to check if the chain was still there, under my shirt, and I took it out of its hiding place to observe it. The metal was warm against my palm, heated by my body, even if I felt cold. Was it a lucky charm? I had no idea, but I was sure it had something to do with me being alive. I closed my eyes again, but this time, my mind was full of images of Freya. Of her sparkly eyes, her shy smile, her delicate hands. I remembered our kiss earlier that day. The way she had looked at me and touched me. The tears on her cheeks, of both happiness and fear. I hoped she was not crying right now. I hoped she was not sad and frightened because of me not being back yet; that she was not assuming the worst had happened to me.

Voices pulled me from my thoughts, and I opened my eyes to see some soldiers looking at the free seats next to me.

"I'm not sitting next to a fuckin' RAF pilot," one said, looking at me with disgust. "I don't even know what he's doing here, he was not even fighting to protect us in Dunkirk."

"The fuckin' RAF pilot was fighting German planes over the Channel to prevent them from sinking vessels full of men like you, if you wanna know. And the fuckin' RAF pilot that I am doesn't give a fuck if you like it or not," I replied, fed up with being accused of not having done anything.