Charles Thompson

Charles Thompson’s rusty, old Spitfire had just plummeted into French soil. The slightly built twenty-three year old now had no chance of being able to see his wife Joanne and his two young children Harold, three and Marie just seven months old.

His light brown hair blew in the wind as he turned and faced his plane. His hair turned a shade of grey as the ash and smoke leaking from the engine blew past his dusty face giving him octogenarian-like hair. His burnt, once porcelain-coloured hand was aching as he tried to relieve the pain by using a piece of his dusty, dark green jacket to cover it. As he tried to stand up his brain started feeling like fireworks were going off inside.

He wished he had kept his job as an engineer. He yelled and slammed his fist against his plane's wing. Even if he did get found by his comrades his stomach would most likely still kill him, he was starving. The forrest reminded him of the backyard outside his little villa in Napier. His very good sense of hearing could hear the rumbling of tyres....

He woke up staring at a white tiled roof ceiling. 

“How are you,” bellowed a low voice. He slowly lifted his head to find General Jonesey standing right in front of him.

General Jonesey held up a mirror. Green eyes, brown hair, freckles.

“I’m fine,” Charles looked on his lap to find a tiny leather box.

He opened it to find a small gold cross with ‘Bravery’ carved into it.

Jonathan, Year 6, Room 11, 2010