Summer Idyll with Weapon of Mass Destruction.

This is one of aseries of blog posts under the heading of #100blogfest.
After war reduced our city home torubble, we lived in a converted wooden railway wagon, perched on cliffsoverlooking the sea on the coast of East Yorkshire. A paraffin hurricane lamplit the main room where our parents slept after we were in bed; candlesilluminated the rest. Oil in drums fired the cooker. There was no electricity,and therefore no TV. It was heaven.Our makeshift home on its metalwheels stood two paces from the cliff edge. A mile north lay a shallow ravineguarded by tank traps; though we had no idea what they were. Over a dozen hugerough concrete cubes wedged lopsidedly in soft yellow sand: giant sugar lumpsforming a playground for fantasies of every kind. My big brother could scale thelowest blocks without help. The rest of us needed hands below or above; both inmy case. Long evenings in May, June andearly July were our favourite times. The beach was ours until summer holidaysbrought day-trippers with soft-soled feet and skin that reddened under sun. Noshoes for us. We walked the beach to school and swam in surf until winterturned the blue-brown sea grey. Even at that age, I tended to thestudious and would take a library book with me. I'd rest my back against atilted block of sun-warmed concrete and lose myself in words. Sometimes I readalone: often I relayed printed words to those who gathered round to listen. Andmy imagination led our games of make-believe as I transformed the monstrousblocks into pirate galleon, tree house, warship, fort or forest as the playrequired.  One bright soft day of ripplingon-shore winds, a sphere of black corroded metal washed in on gentle waves, itsrusting spikes menacing. There was enough of the sinister in that orb to makeus wary. But my brother, defender of the gang, saw it off with a long barestick of driftwood and pushed it back out to sea. The tide returned it. Charlie, the skipper of an ex-armyamphibious landing craft, had been at Dunkirk and often regaled us with talesof the landings, as he treated us to free rides in the bay before the summerhordes arrived to pay their fares. He seemed to come from nowhere that day,long white mane flowing behind him. He grabbed my brother's stick and pushedhim away. 'Leave it! Get away from 'ere, allo' you! Bugger off. Go on! Or you'll not ride Duck again!'Charlie never raised his voice orshouted. This rage was alarming in a man respected for his gentle ways. But histhreat to stop our rides in his DUKW was enough to make us leave, puzzling athis strange behaviour. Later, describing the scene to parents and learningtheir alarm, we understood how kind Charlie had been to chase us off. Next day, we occupied the cliff topand watched soldiers build walls of sand around the mine, whilst one brave manfastened wires to its bulk. The explosion, even at that distance, hurt ourears. It scooped a crater big enough for us to hide in, till the sea invadedand removed all trace.These blogs are all about fun and sharing.Thank you for reading a '#100blogfest' blog. Please follow this link to findthe next blog in the series: http://martinkingauthor.com/blog/7094550076