April in Ireland is a grand thing. I’d never before seen such lush greenery. My buddies joined me as we boarded the Jeep and headed toward a small village.
Fred Gallo drove. I sat next to him with Tommy Sullivan and Bobbie Benson in the back. One thing about Ireland, the roads were narrow.
We four were lucky. Instead of serving on the front lines, we helped the orphans. No sadder face could you imagine than that of a child who’d lost both his parents because of Hitler’s bombs. Most of the time we were outside of London, but this week found us drinking Irish ale.
Fred drove a little too fast as he careened down a steep hill toward an old rickety bridge that spanned a small brook.
“You’d better slow down, Fred,” Bobbie said.
“And thank the Leprechauns for letting us pass,” Tommy said.
Fred and I burst into laughter.
“You’re joking,” Bobbie said.
“We’re in Ireland.” Tommy was dead serious. “You’d better say thank you before you drive onto that bridge.”
I opened my mouth to tell Tommy he’d had too much Irish ale. Fred maneuvered the Jeep on to the bridge. Next thing I knew, we were falling. Bam, the jeep landed smack in the middle of the brook. None of us were hurt, but we were pretty shook up.
“I told you,” Tommy said, “to thank the Leprechauns.”
Word count is 233…I’m a little over.
This is a true story that my father told minus the names of his buddies. My father was an only child and I assume that is the reason he didn’t see any action during WWII. I’m sure the bridge was in worse shape then the one pictured, but I couldn’t resist its beauty. I hope you enjoyed the story. I took the liberty to embellish it a wee bit.
Thank you, Colene, at The Journey, for hosting this blogfest. Now check out all the other St. Patty’s Day blogfest participants by clicking the picture at the top left.