David knew there was no sense in staying. His family was dead, the village burned to the ground. There was nothing for him there. He mounted Churchhill and rode quickly down the old gravel road to the southwest, seeking to survey the damage to the rest of the countryside.
On the road he passed a small child walking along a stream, singing a nursery song and picking flowers - as blithe and pacific a scene as he could imagine. Could it be that the attack was all in his head? Surely such a bombardment would have roused the whole of England, if it were real. But is was real. He saw it happen. He saw the fighters come screaming down out of the clouds and lay into the little town like hungry dogs. He watched his family, his friends, everyone he knew die. He had not imagined it.
But he knew, as much as the world gave him evidence to the contrary, that he had.
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