Our holiday almost went with a bang

AFEW years ago, I, too, had a shock with a shell (Peterborough). My son, Stephen, and I were staying in the Somme for a few days. We visited memorials and cemeteries around Arras, and found the people, especially the elderly, happy to talk about local events and even show us their souvenirs of World War I. We marvelled at the vast and often lonely areas of countryside around the towns, and drove for miles along open roads which, in reality, were probably just farm tracks. During one of these excursions, the incident occurred which my son always refers to as ‘Dad’s shell’. Deep in the apparently deserted countryside we came upon a tumbledown building, about three metres square with a corrugated iron roof, the whole thing in imminent danger of collapse. It had obviously been a farm workers’ refuge. Next to it was a pile of artillery shells, rusty and daubed with yellow paint. They were all intact and were presumably live. We later learned that local farmers often unearthed these deadly items and that the authorities periodically collected them for safe disposal. My son handed me his camera and, picking up a large shell, posed for a photograph. Not to be outdone, I picked up a smaller shell and demanded that I, too, be photographed. Afterwards, I casually tossed the shell back onto the pile. Stephen went as white as snow and rather weak at the knees. I then realised what I had done, and we both gazed at the pile of shells. We threw ourselves into the car and left the area at some speed, with my son needlessly explaining to me exactly what could have been the effect of my carelessness. My excuse — that in one’s 70s one can be forgiven the odd mistake — was greeted with withering scorn. Robert Prole, Knighton, Staffs.