Dad manned a Pom Pom gun in the Navy, scanning the skies for the enemy. He and his compatriots would engage a Focke-Wulf or a Stuka that would howl down from the grey. They’re called Pom Pom guns because that’s the sound they make as they pummel the air in an exercise yard drill. Bullets doing star drills in the air seek the enemy, counting the feet traveled from the barrel, but really that’s small stuff…..

I ‘m thinking about those big grey turrets that resemble Doctor Who’s Daileks….. the baseball bat of a barrel ready to club death into an enemy miles and miles away. The reloading procedure with clanking metal belts, the smell of cordite fresh in the air as if someone just let off a fireworks show, a veil of smoke obscuring the air. Dad used to say the reload was the most dangerous part, several compartments of explosive and wadding were squeezed into the chamber and then the barrel was locked off like a launderette dryer, squeaking comms units communicated to the bridge “ready to fire”. The turret was electrically aligned gliding and grinding its way around a silvered ring. The elevation was adjusted according to instructions from the bridge and KAPPOW!, the whole boat shakes under their feet a shockwave of firepower energy striking through bone and nerve. The package of destruction dispensed in an elegant arc toward the target.

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