大象传媒

This story was submitted to the People's War website by a volunteer of the Stoke CSV Action Desk on behalf of John Pound and has been added with his permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions.

It had seemed a small thing then to give him bread, that gaunt and ragged figure watching while I fed. Ignoring uniform he locked his eyes on mine, so it seemed a kindly thing to give him bread.
A young man still he came, a crutch for leg, a decent face that coloured shame that he must beg. So I shared with him of what I had as with a guest, A nod to nod of thanks and left the rest.
But it was no small thing he did that night; Brave guards 'gainst vengeful foe who still would fight, called quietly out to my patrolling as we passed, "Achtung, mein Herr, not that way, meinen!- blast!"
It had seemed a little thing to give him bread, that enemy, defeated, starving, that I'd fed. And now in an exchange for that he gave me life! Lost friend, made friend of foe and saved me my life!
Thus little things we do are sometimes great, some careless, off hand actions guide the hand of fate and change the course of destiny from death to life...
Though says not Holy Writ that Bread is Life?

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