Written by Flynn Hampson, 13

2nd Place in our Summer Writing Contest over on our Outreach Page

Answering the prompt, “A Perfect Summer Day”

The fields of Normandy still carry the scars of war. It is said that you could still hear the echoes of bombs rebound back from the cliffs of Britain for years after they dropped, though on this day  the hum of tractors and the toll of quarterly church bells soundtrack our games.

As 3 brothers on holiday, waging our own private battles, the craters weren’t so much a memory of darker times, but rather a playground. We tumbled down their slopes and scurried through the ditches, picking up scraps of sharp metal as we went, though our older brother was somewhat more refined. Inevitably, the brutalism of Nazi bunkers had succumbed to the ivy and brambles that own France. It was as if nature itself conspired to transform them into castles: grand fortresses for jousts with sticks in which one of us could always be king, that verdant green of plant life ever-present in Norman life – only suspended by the fringe of yellow sand that highlights the coast, and the unbroken blue stretched beyond.

 While our parents didn’t share (or appreciate) our sense of adventure they found their own joys in the much simpler cliches: baguette and camembert eaten barefoot on the beach, washed down with calvados and rough local cider. Instead, My brothers and I took shelter in our very own trench. Buckets on heads and water guns at the ready, our loud tommy voices would shout “Fall in line, private!” and “Over the top, lads!”, unsurprisingly met with the typical French look of disapproval. Though the beach now distinctly lacked barbed wire and landmines, razor shells and our strategic potholes strewn across the sand managed to suffice as an enemy deterrent. As tide and twilight crept in, we retreated to our home village of Cormeilles. Nestled among hills, it offered little nightlife—bistros closed by nine—but beneath strings of lanterns the streets held more magic than Paris ever could. Now a nightly tradition, we went on a walk, just the three of us.

Three brothers. We went nowhere in particular; how could we choose when we wanted to see everywhere? The slanted shopfronts, the ancient lavoir we’d eaten breakfast in earlier, the haunted bat house, the church atop the hill- it didn’t matter, we were together.

My older brother had moved to Paris two years earlier; we had just picked him up from the station that morning, glad to find he hadn’t changed. We had our comrade back.

The roads of Cormeilles (or rather a cunningly devised route) had taken us right back to our house in the centre square, where the aroma of Moroccan tagine greeted us. Inside, dad had already set up a game of Monopoly. My little brother’s favourite, probably just because this particular skirmish he always won. The church bells chimed again- midnight. Bedtime, at least officially. Off to the barracks! Tonight’s movie would be Stand by Me, and I knew that that’s something that will always stand true.

 That my brothers will always stand by me.