Edward was standing at the bar with his second pint of warm beer. He looked out at the sea of green and blue uniforms. He was aware of the American airman behind him and tried to back out of the way so that the man could get to the bar to order his drinks. His crutches made moving awkward in such an enclosed space; the man was impatient, edging forwards, his shoulder jarring against Edward’s arm and spilling his pint.

“Careful, friend,” Edward said.

“What about it?” The man was drunk.

“Pushing and shoving isn’t going to get you anywhere.”

“Better mind your manners, cripple,” he said, indicating the crutches.

“Take it easy,” Edward said, trying to placate the man. He was tall and brawny and there were two other flyers in uniform standing behind him. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“Maybe you’re going to get some, anyway.”

The man hit him with a straight jab to the nose. Edward’s pint smashed against the floor as he staggered back against the bar. The American came forward as Edward dropped his crutch and fired out a right to the body and then a left to the jaw, both blows landing hard and sending the American reeling backwards. The bar was suddenly silent, and then hugely raucous again as the crowd parted, a space forming for the combatants and dozens of drunken soldiers struggling for the best vantage point.

Edward had to half hop on his right leg, but he still managed to stop the man’s rush with two straight lefts to the face, and the American, grown wary, responded by drawing the left, then by ducking it and delivering his right in a swinging hook towards the side of the head. Edward absorbed it on his forearms and hobbled forwards, firing out another one-two combination, but he was suddenly cold-cocked by a second man who emerged from the baying crowd from his left. The blow was high up but, when it landed, Edward felt the descent of the black veil of unconsciousness across his mind. For an instant, or for the slightest fraction of an instant, he paused. In the one moment he saw his opponent ducking out of his field of vision and the background of white, watching faces fade away; in the next moment he again saw his opponent and the background of faces. It was as if he had slept for a time and just opened his eyes again, and yet the interval of unconsciousness was so microscopically short that there had been no time for him to fall. The audience saw him totter and his knees give, then saw him recover and tuck his chin deeper into the shelter of his left shoulder. He stumbled into the ring of spectators and was shoved back into the space again, the crowd’s bloodlust not nearly sated enough to allow him an easy way out. His foot burned with pain and he shook his head to try and clear away the grogginess. The American came forwards, swinging powerful rights and lefts into Edward’s gut, driving the air from his lungs. A low blow followed, way below the belt, and, with Edward’s guard down, a powerful right cross connected flush on his jaw. The black veil fell again and this time he dropped to the floor, scrabbling for purchase amid the sawdust, spit and spilt beer.

A moment passed, then another. His awareness returned and found his crutch and struggled to his feet, his knees like water.

The crowd to Edward’s left parted as a man in British army uniform shoved his way through.

“Let’s be sporting and even the odds, eh?”

The American sized the newcomer up. “More the merrier,” he said. His two friends stepped forward with him.

The newcomer fired the first punch, a hook, with the twisted arch of the arm to make it rigid, and with all the weight of his half-pivoted body behind it. The American, caught on the side of the jaw, went down like a bullock hit between the eyes. The raucous audience whooped its appreciation. The new man could drive a blow like a trip-hammer.

One of the others came for Edward. He clinched to save himself, then, going free, allowed the man to get set. This was what he wanted. He feinted with his left, drew the answering duck and swinging upward hook, then made the half-step backward, whipping the crutch in his right hand full across the man’s face, the wood catching him against the jaw and crumpling him so that he fell backwards halfway over the bar.

Edward and his new ally stood shoulder-to-shoulder. The final American, facing both of them now, thought better of it. He raised his hands in surrender and helped drag his dazed comrades away.

Edward turned to the new man. “I had it under control,” he said, gasping for breath.

“Sure you did,” the other said with a hard laugh. He pointed at Edward’s face. “Your nose––”

Edward dabbed his fingers. They came back smeared with blood.

He grinned. “Jesus––”

“Here,” the other man said, handing him a handkerchief.

“Thanks,” Edward said, holding the fabric to his nostrils. “You’d never guess––I’m supposed to be a handy boxer.”

“You are?”

“Had a few bouts over here. Army Boxing Association. I was decent––well, until I got shot, anyway.”

“Your foot?”

“Jap bullet. Went right through it. I’m on medical leave.”

“Didn’t stop you then, did it?” the man observed. “That was a hell of a whack you gave him.”

“He left his chin open,” Edward grinned. “Rude not to take the invitation.” He extended his hand. “I’m Edward Fabian.”

The other man gripped it firmly. “Joseph Costello. Nice to meet you.”

“You want a beer?”

* * *

EDWARD AWOKE EARLY THE NEXT MORNING. He had a terrible hangover and he desperately needed the bathroom. He got out of bed, knowing he was going to be sick yet moving slowly because he knew just when he was going to be sick and that there would be time for him to get to the bathroom. The marble floor was cool against his naked knees as he crouched before the latrine and voided his guts, dunked his head in a sink of cold water and washed. He tried to remember the rest of the night. They had stayed for another few pints and then Joseph had negotiated a discount with a pair of Eurasian prostitutes. Edward remembered seeing Joseph’s girl pushing him down an alleyway for a wall job. Then there had been more beer, and he didn’t remember much at all after that.

He looked at his reflection in the mirror and couldn’t help but grin. His eyes were bleary, bloodshot and crusted with sleep. He imagined he could see a patina of green on his skin. His nose was purple and crusted with dried blood. It had been quite a night. He hadn’t had so much fun for months. Joseph was infectious company. A capital chap. He would be very happy to go out with him again that night.

When he eventually found his way to the mess for breakfast it was afire with gossip. The reports were that earlier that morning an American B-29 Superfortress named after the mother of its pilot had been loaded with what was being described as a ‘super weapon.’ They said that this weapon was an ‘atomic’ bomb, that it had been dropped onto a city on the southern tip of Japan, and that the city had been scraped from the face of the Earth. Edward did not believe it but, as time passed, gossip was confirmed that made it plain that something momentous had happened. They had heard talk of ‘secret weapons’ before, of course; Hitler had his V1s and V2s and everyone assumed that the Allied boffins were working on something similar. The concept of an ‘atomic bomb’ was meaningless to them then but over the next few hours astonishing details were added that made it plain that whatever this weapon was, it was no mere rocket.

The three days after Hiroshima were electric. Edward tried to temper his own excitement. People were talking about the end of hostilities but he limited his enthusiasm in case his hopes were dashed. They all knew that Jap was a ferocious, tenacious foe and they, more than anyone, knew that the word ‘surrender’ was not in his vocabulary. But then President Truman gave a second demonstration of his new toy and Nagasaki was flattened. ‘Little Boy’ and ‘Fat Man’ erased cities from the map and killed tens of thousands of civilians. They did in seconds what the Allies had struggled to accomplish in years.