The Holiday

A deafening explosion shook the tour bus as the guests were clambering down the steps.
Geordie plucked the straps of his string vest and grinned.
“This is going to be a bloody good holiday!”
Picking his way over the debris of metal and bodies, Geordie heaved his leopard print suitcase out of the partially destroyed bus. The case was charred but still in one piece. The luggage label “Trench Warfare Luxury Holidays” was still attached.
Now that the dust had settled, Geordie looked round to see who else had survived the blast. The tiny blonde with the huge boobs was lying on the ground.
“What a crying waste!” Most of the other passengers were dead or badly wounded. The holiday reps were making their way through the bodies, identifying or bandaging.
Geordie shrugged, picked up his suitcase and squelched towards reception.
“Very authentic mud, “ he thought.
He grinned at the small man quivering behind the reception desk.
“Ow-do, mate!”
“Good evening, sir, may I have your name?”
“George Fortune, Geordie.”
“Excellent, sir. Single bunker, share communal latrines, side view of battlefield requested. That correct, sir?”
“Spot on, mate.” Geordie leaned in close to the receptionist who recoiled slightly.
“Now, I’m willing to pay top dollar or franc or euro or whatever it takes if you can find me one of those classy resistance girlies – the ones with raincoats and berets.”
“The Resistance Barn experience is down past no-man’s land at the end of the village, sir.”
Geordie winked and stroked his nose.
“Black market?”
“What might you require, sir?”
“What tickles their fancy, matey?”
The receptionist stiffened.
“I think you’ll find nylons and chocolate do the trick, sir. May I make a suggestion, sir?”
”Go ahead.”
“For real authenticity, perhaps try to cultivate a posh English accent, sir?”
Geordie walked away from reception, polishing his genuine First World War bayonet. Blood and it was only the first day.