Email from New Zealand Frank I. Sillay

Email from New Zealand

War Wound

By Frank I. Sillay

Duncan was a member of the WWII generation, and had served in the New Zealand Navy during that difference of opinion. When I knew him, he had a livestock farm about an hour from Wellington, and I always appreciated his seemingly endless supply of funny stories.

On one occasion, he spent a day in the city, dealing with a few matters that couldn’t be done over the phone, and found himself with an hour to spare at the end of the day. So, he decided to drop in on his brother, who worked at the Railways Workshop, not far from where I now live. Duncan arrived at his brother’s house a few minutes before the change of shift, and as the house was locked, he sat in the sun on the front steps to await the arrival of his unsuspecting host.

The gate by which the staff came and went from the workshop complex was just a couple of doors down the street from his brother’s house, so he soon saw the crowds of workers, who had just knocked off, pouring out the gate and was confident of soon enjoying a cup of tea when his brother got home.

The smooth flow of workers coming out the gate was briefly interrupted by the arrival at the gate of a man who appeared to be in some distress. He was hunched forward, as if he might be experiencing abdominal cramps. His gabardine overcoat was over his shoulders, but as his arms were not in the sleeves, it simply draped over him. He was accompanied by two friends, one on each side, supporting him by the elbows, and fussing over him solicitously.

The guard on the gate asked what the problem was, and one of the escorts said it was just an old war wound playing up, as it occasionally did, and they had everything under control. The guard offered to call the nurse to have a look, but the man’s friends said his sister’s house was just along the road, and he’d be better off there and soon be right as rain. The guard reluctantly let them go, under the press of workers anxious to get home, and the trio shuffled along the sidewalk toward where Duncan was watching with interest.

When they reached the gate leading to where Duncan sat, one of the men gestured in a way that clearly meant “OK if we come in here?”

Duncan gave a shrug of indifference, and the group entered the front yard, where the suffering veteran put down an anvil that had been concealed under his coat.