THE MAGIC SHOES: 9) MEDALS
Meltdown Monday Madness
From Bryars & Bryars antiquarian travel books and The Beatles in Liverpool, I don’t get very far.
Several doors down is an indigo-colored shopfront with gold lettering that says London Medal Company.
This is where my magic shoes come to an abrupt halt.
I have just enough time to briefly gaze at rows of ribboned medals and embroidered insignia through the display window before the shoes walk me through the door and plant me before the stern-looking proprietor.
With his ramrod straight posture, he clearly takes pride in an overbearing military persona represented by his ample collection of vintage medals from various wars.
Each decoration means something—meant something to someone, somewhere sometime.
I look down at my shoes.
They won’t budge.
And a new thought occurs to me.
I say to the proprietor, “My uncle was in the Royal Air Force. But I never met him because he perished over Burma during World War II.”
The proprietor nods. He probably hears these stories every day.
“What kind of medals would he have earned?” I press.
The proprietor is curt and asks crisply, “Where did he serve?”
“India,” I answer. “He was based in India.”
“His rank?
“Flight Lieutenant,” I reply. “He piloted a bomber—a B-24 Liberator.”
The proprietor consults a large reference manual on his counter. Within a minute he has an answer, drawing my attention to a couple of pages. “This one, this one. And this one.”
“Do you have any of them here?” I ask.
He nods. “I believe I have all three.’
“How much?”
“Ten pounds each.”
“Done.”
Within a few minutes, I am holding in my hands three ribboned medals that my uncle would have or should have been awarded, while he was still alive, or posthumously.
Feeling somewhat emotional, I become lightheaded and need to sit. “I’m feeling a bit dizzy,” my voice quivers. A tear forms in my left eye. “Do you have a chair?”
“Come through here,” he points to a break in the counter. “Use mine.”
I sit on plain wooden chair and close my eyes to ease the dizziness; elbows on my knees, head leaning forward, hands covering my face.
I feel a strange rumbling beneath the floor.
A tremendous roar of engines fills my ears and vibrates my bones.
And when I open my eyes… I am utterly astonished to find myself in the cockpit of a rattly old plane, soaring through a night sky illuminated by a half-moon and searchlights shooting up to the heavens from the ground below.