The Fight

It was the village carnival and gymkhana, in which everyone took some part as it was for charity to help widows and children whose husbands had been killed in the war. Mark’s family and other local farmers were taking a large part in organising this event, bringing their produce to be on display and with hope, win a prize. It was a beautiful summer’s day which brought people from miles around. Lots of stalls selling anything from toys to foodstuffs, ice cream, fish and chips, candyfloss and even a beer tent for the grown ups. Mark and friends decided to sample the local brews in the marquee.
As they walked in they had not realised that there would be so many people, and to their annoyance could not get to the bar as many had stayed there blocking others from being served. They were a very noisy lot of what Mark called townies, working in finance or some businesses, never done a proper days work in their lives. Laughing and shouting, and in the middle orchestrating them was Ossie; when he saw Mark he pushed his way through to him. With his arms and palms of his hands wide open and showing a big smile on his face he said “Let bygones be bygones” and stood there in defiance. They had not spoken to one another for over a year and that was all Ossie, with his head swaying, could say. Mark was in such a rage, he had a flash back of his three mates lying dead in their tank and all those men killed and dying in the prisoner of war camp. Even poor Edward, who had volunteered to go into the army, his way of shaming Ossie, had been killed on the beach at Dunkirk. All Mark could see now was Ossie’s grinning face and all his pot bellied cronies drinking champagne. How was it possible men like this made such a lot of money and became very wealthy when all around them other men were dying or being killed? Mark, turning into a massive green hulk, swung his right arm with a closed fist right on Ossie’s left side of his face. There was a loud crunch, and as he was falling over on his right side, Mark let go with an almighty left hook smashing into the other side of his face, making the sound of crushing bones; Ossie collapsed on the ground.
Sam and friends had now recovered from the shock of what had happened. It had only been seconds before they grabbed Mark and rushed him out of the marquee, where they found a quiet place to sit and calmed him down. Sam, gave him a drop of brandy from Roger’s pocket flask. Mark, looking at Sam with both hands covering his face, as though he did not wish to hear the answers said “Have I killed my own brother?”.
As luck had it, Saint John’s medics and an ambulance was on standby for the carnival; they rushed in and came out with Ossie on a stretcher. “How is he?” Roger enquired. “He’s conscious so I think he’ll be OK, but I don’t think he’ll be talking much for a while, we are taking him to the hospital” said one of the medics.
“The police are here” said Sam. After a while, the police came out saying “As usual nobody saw or heard anything, we’ll have to wait until the injured party can speak”.