Free Prelude by William Coles

serious operation, and that somehow the scalpel was left in my guts. For although the stitches are long gone and the scar has faded to nothing but a white slash, I only have to press against my old wound and I can feel the keen knife-edge of the scalpel, just as sharp and just as unforgiving as it was all those years ago.

PRELUDE 22,
    B Flat Minor

    WHAT A YEAR 1982 was for news.
    Though perhaps I’m biased. It was the year that I started buying four newspapers a day and, if you truly immerse yourself in a subject, then you can become fascinated by almost anything.
    I had become so dedicated to the Falklands that I was quite capable of reading the identical story in The Sun , Mail , Guardian and Times . But the Falklands aside, that summer term of 1982 was still an extraordinary time for news. Just off the top of my head, there was Prince William’s birth, John McEnroe at his foul-mouthed best at Wimbledon, the World Cup, and the IRA blowing up the Household Cavalry in Hyde Park.
    One night, I was indulging in two of my favourite pastimes: listening to the chart round-up on the radio while at the same time gobbling up the newspapers’ analysis of the Falklands. It seemed that Argentina had yet to score a single hit and Britain was already gearing up for a full-scale invasion. Meanwhile, in the States, Ronald Reagan had promised support and ‘Materiel’. I loved that word and liked to say it out loud: “Materiel!” It smacked of high-tech bombs, heavy-duty guns and exotic weapons of mass destruction.
    The only other news was that a total exclusion zone had come into force around the Falklands.
    What that meant, I did not know. But Sap was about to tell me all about it.
    Sap’s real name was Anthony Parrish, but he was known as Sap—short for Sapper, an army engineer.
    Sap was not one of my natural friends, but we got on well enough because he was the only other boy in my year who was also apparently destined for an army career. But while I shilly-shallied, he had as good as signed up. He already carried himself like an officer, shoulders squared to attention and hair trimmed every fortnight.
    Sap’s face was flushed with excitement when he barged into my room. “Have you heard?” he said. “It’s bloody incredible.”
    “We’ve dropped the bomb on Buenos Aires?”
    “We’ve sunk a boat. A heavy cruiser, the General Belgrano. ” He was so excited that he couldn’t sit down. “She was in the exclusion zone. One of our subs torpedoed her and down she went.”
    “Jesus!” I said. “How many on board?”
    “Hundreds,” Sap replied. “Two torpedoes and bang, that was it.”
    Before I could say any more, Frankie had come in, stinking of cigars and red wine.
    He gave us a sloppy salute, a Brigadier greeting two subalterns in the mess. “Hoped I’d find you two,” he said. He was still in his grey suit, stick-ups and clumping black shoes. “Well, the General Belgrano, eh? What do you make of it?”
    “Fantastic hit, Sir,” Sap said.
    “About time too,” Frankie commented. “Mind if I take a seat?”
    I gestured to the sofa and Frankie sat while Sap perched on the end of the bed.
    “Must be the first ship we’ve torpedoed since the Second World War,” Frankie mused. “It’s what you live for, isn’t it boys? You put in years of training and then finally you get a chance to put it all into practice. Lucky sods.”
    “Did you ever fire a shot in anger, Sir?” Sap asked.
    Frankie shrugged. “Never. Never got the chance. One quiet year in Northern Ireland, and for the rest of it just a tour of Germany and a stint in London.”
    “Bad luck,” Sap said.
    “That’s what happens if you sign up for a short-term commission. Hopefully you two will fare better.”
    “We can only hope,” Sap replied.
    I just sat at my burry, watching the pair of them. In my mind’s eye I was still picturing the Belgrano as it slipped beneath the sea. The oily waves in flames, and the men freezing to death in the