Strike, flare, burn. That's one. It takes less than a minute to die down.
Strike, flare, burn. Two.
Strike, flare, burn. Three.
Strike, flare, burn. Ow. Four.
Strike, flare, burn. Oof. Five.
That one's going to leave a blister, that is. Cor, be more careful, Peter. You need those fingers.
Strike, flare, burn. Six.
Football match? Yeah, I'll be along in 15 minutes, LeBeau. Tell the English lads to start without me.
Strike, flare, burn. Seven.
Strike, flare, burn. Eight.
No, Schultz. No monkey business here. I'm sitting by myself, quiet as a lamb, on a nice sunny bench. What, this match? Don't worry, Schultzie. It'll burn out.
Strike, flare, burn. Nine.
Strike, flare, burn. Ten.
Oh, lord, he's coming toward me. And I'm not done yet. On your feet, lad.
Good afternoon, Guv.
What am I doing? Ahh, just striking some matches, Sir.
No, I'm not bored. Not really. Just thinking, Sir.
Well, there's a lot going on when you strike a match, Guv.
Oh, yes. Carter explained it to me once. And yes, sometimes I actually am listening when he's nattering on and on.
Well, Sir, a match head is all chemistry, it turns out. So naturally Andrew would know all about it, in nauseating detail. Look, I'll show you.
Strike, flare, burn. Eleven.
You can smell the sulphur, can't you? It's like rotten eggs. And there's potassium something-or-other and powdered glass, if you can believe it. And gelatin, like what your Mum puts in a wobbly jelly. The jelly's a binder, he said. It holds all the ingredients together in the match head. Otherwise the flame would spread and burn your hand off.
Then you've got to strike the match on something, right? The striking surface is made of sand, more powdered glass and I think he said red phosphorous. You drag the match along it…
Strike, flare, burn. Twelve.
… and that phosphorous is so volatile that it ignites in the air and turns white.
Oh. You're wondering why I'm lighting match after match, are you? Well, it's May 7, isn't it?
Look at it, Sir. The way it dies down. It starts out so bold and strong. Then it just fades.
Just look.
Ow. Blimey, not again.
Strike, flare, burn. Thirteen.
May 7? Oh, I see, I didn't explain, did I? Well, I'm remembering someone, Sir. Someone important. To me, at least.
You know how you might go to church and light a candle? Well, I can't very well do that, can I? And we're low on supplies. So I thought, matches. I've got plenty of those.
Oh, not much longer, Sir. Just nine to go.
Strike, flare, burn. Fourteen.
Me, Guv? No, no, of course not. I'm not going to set fire to anything. Not at all, Sir.
No, nothing's troubling me. Just thinking.
It's who, not what. My uncle, Sir.
Strike, flare, burn. Fifteen.
Ooh, big flash, that one.
Because he'd have been 50 years old today, Guv.
Normally I just light a candle. But like I said…
Cor, that one was pretty.
Strike, flare, burn. Sixteen.
Close to him? No, Sir. I never met him.
Just six more, Guv. Please?
Strike, flare, burn. Seventeen.
No, it's not ridiculous. Really, Sir, it's not.
It just helps me concentrate, that's all. Like burning a candle.
No, I don't want to extinguish it. I just want it to burn out.
Ow. Blimey, Guv. You distracted me. Sir. I meant Sir.
Strike, flare, burn. Eighteen.
Just four more after this, Guv. I'll be all done.
Why 22? Well, because that's how old he was. When he vanished. In the Great War.
Charging the enemy, I suppose. I never got the whole story. My old man wouldn't tell me. He was there when it happened. They were in the same unit. He went over the top and just never came back.
You want to… what? You're lighting the next one?
All right then. Have at it.
Strike, flare, burn. Nineteen.
Careful, Guv. You're holding it a little high.
Told you. It's all right. I already burnt myself several times. We'll live.
Strike, flare, burn. Twenty.
You don't have to, Sir. But I'm glad of the company.
Yes, it is beautiful, watching it flicker away.
Burnt yourself again, did you? We're a fine pair.
Yes, go ahead. Do the next one.
Strike, flare, burn. Twenty-one.
His name? Oh. Well, it was Peter, Sir. Same as me.
Let me do the last one, all right?
Right then.
Strike, flare, burn. Twenty-two.
It's awfully young, isn't it? Twenty-two. I was older than that when I went in.
A bloody shame. Flickered away like a flame, he did.
Yes, Sir. That's it for me. Till next year.
We'll need to tape our fingers up, though. Wilson can help us out.
H=H=H=H=H
Author's Note: This story ties into a couple of other stories I've written. The match-lighting scene is referred to specifically in chapter 19 of "Mavis, Are Your Bloody Well Kidding Me?" This scene actually germinated as an un-funny response to the "I am stuck on band-aid" challenge (#135). The character of Newkirk's uncle is not my creation. Dust in the wind introduced him in her superb story "Esk Road: The Rest of the Family," where he appears in Chapter 20.