A thousand suns

Chris nodded. That would probably do it. News Fortnite readers generally seemed to be of the blue-rinse variety or elderly, medal-wearing vets. If the mention of legal action didn’t cool her enthusiasm, the possibility of alienating her readers would. He wasn’t looking forward to lying to her. He respected Elaine, but the lie would keep things uncomplicated.

Chris decided he would hand some of the advance back to the magazine, and keep a couple of thousand to cover the costs he had incurred in the last week, including paying Mark. That seemed to be the best he could do in the circumstances. And once he’d dealt with Elaine, he was going to have to drop Mark back home in Queens and then return the car to Hertz.

After that, he fancied maybe he would grab a plane at JFK and go back home to London. The old man, Wallace, was right about one thing, though — it might make for a good book. He could always have a go, write up the tale Wallace had told him, as a work of fiction, of course.

Chris turned the dog tags over in his hand and studied the name stamped into the brass surface. He had found them on his bedside table, a parting gift from Wallace.

‘M. Kleinmann, I guess whatever it is you did, or didn’t do, is.. well, I suppose it just never happened.’

He turned away from the sea, as rolling surf once more reached out for his feet. He began to make his way back across wet pebbles and drying sand towards grass-topped dunes and the roadside beyond, where Mark was gunning the engine impatiently.

Without a story behind it, it was nothing but a disc of brass with a name stamped in it. He ran his finger across the indented name one last time before tossing it away as he took a step up out of the dunes and headed across hard gravel towards the jeep.

The little brass disc rolled down the side of the dune, gathering a miniature avalanche of loose sand in its wake. With a gentle tap, it came to rest against the base of a weathered, old, wooden cross that poked out of the sand and was embraced by the coarse grass. The cross had been crudely fashioned from two pieces of driftwood nailed together a long time ago, but had stood the test of time. Engraved on the coarse wood by a boy with a penknife was a simple sentence. The letters now were worn by the elements, scoured by wind-borne sand, but still legible, just: Here was found the body of an unknown airman. Died April, 1945.