The site of the wreckage had attained a degree of holiness that few shrines could boast of or compete with. And so it should rightfully be. The mangled, twisted and convoluted remains of the Republic P-47D Thunderbolt represented more than a mere relic of the past. It had disintegrated in the air but not before engaging in a deadly dog fight with a Junkers 87 JU Stuka. Both the German and the American pilots had bailed out and ripped away at the chords that were part of their respective parachutes. But that was the last the world ever saw of either of the combatants. The Stuka with fire and smoke trailing its tail had plunged into the ocean just a few miles from the site where the Thunderbolt rested.
Year after year, thousands of people flocked to the spot to pay homage to the supreme sacrifice of a band of undaunted and unrelated brothers whose unparalleled courage and commitment gave a new lease of life to hope and harmony. The bouquet of flowers strewn haphazardly and the spontaneous tears were homage for neither Eisenhower, or Stalin or Churchill but for the thousands of unnamed young lions who placed humanity over horrors.
(Word Count: 200)
To read more of the stories based on this week’s prompt, click HERE