“At the Home 70 Years Later,” Barry Basden
The bomber pilot remembered coming back to London’s East End, his house gone up in smoke and ash. Sirens, the crunch of broken glass, fire hoses, men in tin hats. Strawmen sitting cross-legged in saffron robes, chanting, the smell of gasoline in the air. The little girl running toward him, arms outstretched, howling, skin peeling from her body. And his grandsons, something about the Khyber Pass.