Home Guard

by Rachel Canwell

Five brothers down to two. Just him and Eddie now, left to run the farm. Just those two trying to corral his parents and manage their bickering, to make the early mornings count; even after a night doing their stint with the Home Guard. It’s hard work, now made harder; every day there’s always something, pushing at his edges, making Stan wonder if he wouldn’t have been better off in a plane, or a boat, or wielding a damn great gun. Still doing his bit, but doing it far away.

But then he lets his eye run along the horizon, sees the sun climb up above the fen; watches the flaming sky touch the lighthouse and turn the distant marsh to molten gold. And he remembers why he chose to stay.

He stayed for this, for everything he can see and touch and feel. To keep it going and keep it safe.

This and his potatoes.

He’s always known they were special, always been the food of the family gods. Every meal boiled, baked, mashed and then at supper time fried. Nothing better than going to bed with a belly of tatties, waking up with just the hint of grease and salt on your tongue.

They grow their own here. Lads and potatoes; both strong and starchy, ready to sustain you through the working day. And though he’s told no one, that is at the heart of why he stays.

To stop Hitler getting his thieving hands on his spuds.

He knows people would laugh if he told them, but sometimes it keeps him awake at night. The thought of Germans sailing up The Wash and taking all the potatoes, eating the lot and leaving none for him. He thinks he really would die.

Stan knows the danger’s real. And it’s getting closer, too close.

He leans against the barn and listens. He can hear him, Hans, mucking out the stall next door. Used to sing in German but Stan had to put a stop to that; it upset his Mam. So now Hans whistles or otherwise he is silent. Goes about his work with his head down and just the occasional wistful smile. And hell, does he work; Stan has caught him standing still only once, watching a plane fly off from the base, soaring over the river and out to sea. Stan couldn’t help but wonder what Hans was thinking, wondered if he were wishing he was in the bottom of it going home or cursing it to hell. It’s hard to tell when they share so little language.

Prisoners of War on the farm. Most of the time he is used to it, but when a letter fails to come from his brothers and his Mam’s up weeping late, it makes him sore. The following day Stan keeps his distance and gives Hans the really mucky jobs. And then he feels ashamed.

But today he needs him. Eddie is away and there is a whole field of potatoes to plant, and despite his misgivings, he knows he can’t do it on his own. Yesterday they ploughed and harrowed, today it’s time to farrow and set in the seed potatoes.

He lets Hans hold Blossom, watches the man move, at ease with the throw of the great horse’s head, muttering something gentle in her ears that flicker against the early flies. German no doubt, but it stills her; Stan has to admit the lad is good with the beasts.

He, Stan, walks behind, dropping the chitted tatties in, one at a time, placing them carefully, looking for the eyes. It’s back breaking work and the sun is surprisingly strong for April. Three rows in and they stop, drinking water down in thirsty gulps. Stan from his stone bottle, Hans from his tin flask, the one with the dents and peeling paint. Stan wonders if it was with him over there, if it’s been to the same places as his brothers. He has a sudden urge to reach out and touch it, to feel them close and maybe bring them, for just a second, back to the land.

Hans sees him looking, raise his flask in salute and smiles.

Then without warning he is on his feet. Stepping past Stan, with one dirty hand Hans makes a grab for the potatoes.

Stan starts and chucks his bottle down, no time to stopper it and its contents soaks away, lost to the ground.

“Eh!” Stan is ready for him. This is his moment, it’s what he has suspected all along. His fists curl, and he sets his legs apart, one in front, a fighter's stance. The air hums around him.

Hans stands straight holding just one potato, rolling it around his palm, caressing it like a pebble. He looks straight at Stan and, calm as you like, lifts it to his lips, kissing it with his eyes closed.

Then without a pause he hands it over and as Stan takes it, says “Kartoffel.”

All the fear and the fight just fades away.

As, in unspoken agreement, Stan lifts the treasure to his lips, returns the kiss, and says ”Potato.”

Now they are just two men, in a field, standing on common ground.

About the author

Rachel Canwell is a blogger, reader, writer and teacher, but not always in that order. She is working on her first novel which was shortlisted for the Retreat West Pitch to Win Competition 2021. She is also falling in love with flash fiction a little bit more everyday.

About the illustration

The illustration is "Prisoner of war picking potatoes, Houlton, 1945", photographic print, from the Catherine Bell Collection, ca. 1945. In the collection of Aroostook County Historical and Art Museum, Houlton, Maine, USA.