Lochs Ewe, Scotland, 10th March 1942

“I know, Father.”

The two of them looked at each other forlorn, a great contrast with the people around

them who were cheering, exchanging flowers or crying tears of happiness as the

Trinidad’s anchor was finally raised from the water. A bellow from the ship’s horn and

a toll of two bells let sailors know that there would only be ten minutes to departure.

Alfred Sutton grunted, his face creased with a mixture of anger and regret. “Come

back. Alive.” His mother, hands grasping his father’s wheelchair, nodded quickly in

affirmation. She was gripping the handles so hard that her fingers were already

white. Billy wanted to speak, but he could already tell that his father wasn’t in the

Stolen story; please report.

mood to stop.

“You shouldn’t have signed up. Why did you? Leaving me and your mother here like

a—“ She silenced him with a rough hand on his shoulder and he paused, if only for a

brief moment. “You know what happened to me. Right leg blown off in the final week

of the war. A stray artillery shell that I never thought was meant for me.”

“Father—“

“War is fucking sick, son. King and country and valour and glory and justice. It’s

fucking sick, son.” His father looked away, dejected and silent. The little tears that

brimmed at the corners of his wearied eyes spoke the words that Billy knew he

would never let come out of his mouth. “It’s—”

All three of them bowed their heads, Billy feeling that he could crush the sailor’s cap

he held in his hand with a single motion. Around them there was joy and tears,

laughter and cheerful small talk as kisses were had and goodbyes were said. Billy’s

mother was the first to break.

“Just…come back.”

And that was all he wanted- to come back home, look his father in his eye and say:

“I told you so.”