in the style of Tim
In my dream I am seeing through someone else’s eyes. A solider who, with hundreds of his comrades, has escaped from a prisoner of war camp. We can look down into a valley and see the POW camp quite clearly through binoculars. He speaks, “You mean they still haven’t noticed that we’ve all escaped? Amazing!” There are plumes of white smoke rising from the valley.
The scene changes. The soldier is returning to the escapees’ temporary camp. The building they are using is institutional – it reminds me of a hospital – it is empty, all the escapees have disappeared, been spirited away, caught?
Through his eyes I see his panic, through his ears I hear approaching footsteps on the linoleum. We look for somewhere to hide – in a cupboard, under a bed, behind a curtain – all are dismissed instantly as too obvious. We are seen by a small boy wearing shorts, a shirt and a short back and sides. He runs away to bring the adults.
The scene changes. Through the soldier’s eyes I see a courtroom and all his comrades reunited. To a man they are wearing floral 1950s dresses, as is my soldier. As the judge states, we are in a neutral country and as non-combatants are free to return to England, much to the enemy’s disgust. Our comrades, many of whom sport glorious handlebar moustaches guffaw and, slapping us on the back, congratulate my soldier on his quick thinking. Thank goodness he thought to put on a dress before he was caught.