Hallo Pascal

 

He stepped out of a darkening, out-of-focus sky redolent of the smoke of battles fought and lost.

His first almost shouted word was "Stalingrad!" The Walloons Division. He had been one of them.

"Hitler Jugend!" was another proudly announced declaration. He knew and admired them greatly.

He had been a sergeant. His rifle was always loaded. He had ridden the best of tanks. Hallo Pascal. 

I thought it curious that Pascal sported a ring on a finger of his right-hand which bore the flag of Great Britain. Fingers on his left-hand were bedecked in mostly heavy silver rings, plus one gold one. His clothes belonged to another era. As did he. He didn't have anything much to say about the English, save their 303 bolt-action rifles from WWI, still being used in WWII, were utterly useless. He wanted to reassure us that he had never actually shot anyone, but had stabbed a great many. With that assurance taken on board, we bade him farewell, but not before his insistence of bumping fists. It was best not to refuse Pascal his chosen style of adieu. "You owe me a drink!" was his parting remark. The Stalingrad-like sky started to descend again as Pascal dissolved into his darkening surroundings 

I had made a thirty minute film of our encounter from which these images are taken. I showed it to some friends. Keith listened to it down the 'phone, and said it sounded like static. Arthur did not respond at all, but that isn't unusual for Arthur. He doesn't respond to much he is sent. Laurie, on the other hand, was most vocal. "It sounds like the rant of an incoherent drunk," he proffered. I explained that Pascal carried just a bottle of water, adding that the Belgian could speak at least half a dozen languages fluently, three of them whilst in our company (English, French and German), had travelled the world, and had an education which only life could provide. Weighing up everything, I was obliged to entertain the possibility that it was some sort of time traveller we had bumped into on the cliff top.