Morpurgo War Stories
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Оглавление
Michael Morpurgo. Morpurgo War Stories
CONTENTS
Contents
Friday, September 10th 1943
Sunday, September 12th 1943
Thursday, September 16th 1943
Friday, September 17th 1943
Monday, September 20th 1943
Tuesday, October 5th 1943
Monday, November 1st 1943
Monday, November 8th 1943
Saturday, November 13th 1943
Tuesday, November 16th 1943
Tuesday, November 30th 1943
Wednesday, December 1st 1943
Wednesday, December 15th 1943
Thursday, December 16th 1943
Saturday, December 18th 1943
Thursday, December 23rd 1943
Saturday, December 25th 1943
Sunday, December 26th 1943
Monday, December 27th 1943
Tuesday, December 28th 1943
Thursday, December 30th 1943
Friday, December 31st 1943
Wednesday, January 12th 1944
Wednesday, January 19th 1944
Monday, January 24th 1944
Thursday, February 10th 1944
Friday, February 11th 1944
Thursday, February 24th 1944
Friday, March 3rd 1944
Tuesday, March 7th 1944
Wednesday, March 8th 1944
Wednesday, March 15th 1944
Monday, March 20th 1944
Wednesday, March 29th 1944
Thursday, April 20th 1944
Friday, April 28th 1944
Monday, May 1st 1944
Wednesday, May 10th 1944
Saturday, May 20th 1944
Monday, May 22nd 1944
Friday, May 26th 1944
Tuesday, June 6th 1944
Thursday, October 5th 1944
Friday, October 6th 1944
POSTSCRIPT
Acknowledgements:
Contents
Paco
The Dance
Toro! Toro!
Sauceda
The Black Phantom
Postscript
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Отрывок из книги
Private Peaceful
Little Manfred
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Afterwards we all gather round the grave and Father’s lowered down, and the vicar won’t stop talking. I want Father to hear the birds for the last time before the earth closes in on top of him and he has nothing left but silence. Father loves larks, loves watching them rising, rising so high you can only see their song. I look up hoping for a lark, and there is a blackbird singing from the yew tree. A blackbird will have to do … I hear Mother whispering to Big Joe that Father is not really in his coffin any more, but in heaven up there — she’s pointing up into the sky beyond the church tower — and that he’s happy, happy as the birds.
The earth thuds and thumps down on the coffin behind us as we drift away, leaving him. We walk home together along the deep lanes. Big Joe plucking at the foxgloves and the honeysuckle, filling Mother’s hands with flowers, and none of us has any tears to cry or words to say. Me least of all. For I have inside me a secret so horrible, a secret I can never tell anyone, not even Charlie. Father needn’t have died that morning in Ford’s Cleave Wood. He was trying to save me. If only I had tried to save myself, if I had run, he would not now be lying dead in his coffin. As Mother smooths my hair and Big Joe offers her yet another foxglove, all I can think is that I have caused this.
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