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Sam thought that being on blackout duty was like reading the gossip column in the newspaper. Better really because, with the war raging into its fifth year, there was precious little society gossip left to report.
Blackout inspection took Sam from one familiar cottage to another, with permission to peek into windows and knock on back doors if he saw so much as a spark of light showing.
“What are you trying to do?” he’d ask. “Why don’t you light a big bonfire so Hitler’s bombers can really see where they’re going? Did you think they were never coming back? Well, you were wrong. Took them three years, but they’re back. Wouldn’t want them to miss London, would you? Wouldn’t want them to give poor old London a night off?”
The homeowner, suitably chastened and fearing that Sam might report them as possible German spies, would hasten to drop the blackout curtains and plunge the village into darkness.
He was on his way to carry out his duties when he saw the indistinct shapes of two girls crossing the village green, arm in arm and giggling. The village was blanketed in winter darkness, but the two girls seemed to know where they going despite the blackout and the lack of light.
“Who goes there?” he called, his breath misting in the cold air.
The girls giggled. “It’s just us, Mr. Ruddle. We’re not German spies.”
“Don’t be making jokes about German spies.”
“Sorry, Mr. Ruddle.”
“Approach and be recognized.”
They laughed again. Not a serious thought in their empty little heads.
“Where are you going at this hour of night?”
“To the dance at the village hall.”
He lifted his shuttered flashlight and shone it briefly on their faces. Yes, he knew this one. He recognized the spray of freckles across her nose. This was Carol Elliot, whose mother ran the village shop. They grow up so fast, he thought. He remembered her being just a little kiddie, toddling around among the newspapers and penny candy.
And the other one? Yes, that was Vera Chapman, whose mother had once been quite a looker. The girl was growing up to be just like her. Dark hair tortured into curls, and a skimpy winter coat, probably cut down from something bought before the war, before rationing made new clothes impossible.
“It’s my birthday,” Vera said.
Lipstick, Sam thought, she’s wearing lipstick. Little hussy.
“I’m seventeen today.”
Seventeen. Oh, to be seventeen again with all the world ahead, and him knowing nothing about the two world wars just over the horizon. “Happy birthday,” he said. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“I’m going to dance with a Yank,” Vera declared.
“And that’s something you wouldn’t do,” Carol chimed in.
“No, I wouldn’t,” Sam agreed. “Too little and too late, that’s what I say. Didn’t do a darned thing, did they, until the Japs hit them? Well, we held our own in 1940 and we’ll hold our own now. We don’t need them.”
The girls giggled.
“We need them, Mr. Ruddle.”
“Oh, go on with you. But you be careful. They’re only after one thing.”
They ran from him and his stern warning, tripping lightly across the green toward the dark shape of the village hall. As they opened the door, music and light spilled out for just a moment, and then the night returned to darkness.
Sam looked around at the huddled cottages and up into the unfriendly skies. This new war, he thought, was stealing their youth, just as the old war had stolen his.
“Happy birthday,” he said under his breath. “Keep dancing while you can.”