Restoration
by Ian Curtress
We moved into
this lovely old house six months ago and are
slowly restoring it.
A labour of love which I enjoy apart from the
difficulty I have in getting a good nights sleep
I have been watching too many war films I thought,
after another restless night.
It had been a nightmare.
First World War. I was in a trench, noise was
unimaginable, it was one mortar after another and
we were taking casualties.
Then the mortars stopped and for a moment an
uncanny silence.
Too late we realised the trap.
We thought we could overrun their mortar
positions and gain an important vantage point.
With this in mind we were to make a quick attack.
Over the top we went only to be cut down by a
heavy machine gun set in a bunker.
It was in such a well prepared position there
would be a massacre.
The nightmare became a ghastly mix of shouting
and rapid machine fire
I had dropped my rifle and was running……
The explosion was horrendous, a ringing in my
ears which deadened the pain that was a
background to this mad scenario.
Then suddenly it all stopped. The machine gun
bunker had disappeared and I was in smart uniform
again.
There were people around but I couldn’t see
their faces.
This is where I awoke every time.
That was a couple of months ago and the dream has
been less frequent of late.
I had turned my mind to the planned schedule for
tackling the restoration and had made a start on
the sitting room wooden floor.
The planks were in a surprisingly good condition
but had warped and shrunk in several places.
Once I had managed to lift the first couple the
job became easier and fortunately the beams were
sound. They certainly knew how to build houses in
the past I thought.
I was using an industrial vacuum to remove the
years of historical dust which made me think of
the lives and people who had lived and sat
talking in the room..
I was rudely shaken from my thoughts when the
vacuum rattled noisily and stopped.
Fortunately, being an industrial appliance it was
used to “foreign bodies” and had an
easily removed cover to clear them.
Inside was a shredded coloured ribbon attached to
a dirt coated disc which was obviously some kind
of medal.
With shaking and excited hands I carefully
removed and began cleaning the worst of the grime.
It was a DSO medal. Second only to the VC in the
British Army.
I have now cleaned it up properly, it is superb.
The name is clear but I won’t mention it
here as we are in touch with Military Records to
know the full story.
How had it found its way under the floor. Had
they searched without success.
How distraught they must have been.
Now, I have an open mind on some things we don’t
understand, even more so now as I have not had
that dream since recovering that medal.
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