Vox Meditantis

England, 5th June 1944 — The Eve of D-Day

The barracks hummed with nervous energy, thick as the cigarette smoke that curled towards the rafters. I sat on my bunk, polishing my boots for the third time that evening, though they’d likely be caked with French mud before dawn broke tomorrow. Around me, my mates were doing much the same—cleaning rifles, checking kit, writing letters they hoped would never need posting.

“Right then, lads,” came a gentle voice from the doorway. Chaplain Morrison stepped into our quarters, his collar gleaming white against the khaki sea of uniforms. He was a slight man with kind eyes that had seen too much already, though the war was far from over. “Gather ’round, if you would.”

We shuffled closer, grateful for any distraction from the weight of what lay ahead. Through the windows, I could see the silhouettes of aircraft lined up like sleeping giants, waiting to carry us across the Channel. My stomach churned—whether from nerves or the tinned beef we’d had for supper, I couldn’t say.

“I know your minds are elsewhere tonight,” the chaplain began, settling himself on an empty ammunition crate. “So I thought we might talk about something rather different. Something sweet.” His eyes twinkled with mischief. “I want each of you to describe your dream chocolate bar. No rationing, no war—just pure imagination.”

A few of the lads chuckled, and I felt some of the tension ease from my shoulders. Chocolate—now there was a subject worth pondering. Back home in Liverpool, Mum would save her ration coupons for weeks just to buy Elsie and me a small bar to share on Sundays. The memory of that rich, creamy sweetness seemed like something from another lifetime.

“You first, Jameson,” the chaplain nodded to the red-headed Yorkshireman beside me.

“Well,” Jameson scratched his chin thoughtfully, “I’d want something with nuts. Proper hazelnuts, mind you, not those measly bits you sometimes find. And thick—thick as my thumb.”

“Brilliant,” Morrison smiled. “Henderson?”

One by one, my mates shared their confections of imagination. Henderson wanted white chocolate with strawberry pieces. Williams dreamed of dark chocolate so bitter it made your eyes water, filled with coffee cream. Each description grew more elaborate than the last, and I found myself transported far from this cramped barracks, far from the weight of my parachute pack and the Sten gun that would soon be strapped to my chest.

When the chaplain’s gaze fell upon me, I felt my cheeks warm. “Tommy? What about you, lad?”

I closed my eyes for a moment, and suddenly I was eight years old again, standing in Mrs. Patterson’s sweet shop on Bold Street. The glass jars lined the shelves like jewels, filled with humbugs and sherbet lemons and chocolate drops that cost a penny each. But behind the counter, in a place of honour, sat the chocolate bars—Cadbury’s Dairy Milk, Fry’s Chocolate Cream, and the occasional exotic Toblerone that seemed impossibly sophisticated.

“Well, sir,” I began, my voice steadier than I felt, “it would have to be milk chocolate, smooth as silk. But not just any milk chocolate—it would be made from the cream of cows that graze in meadows where the grass grows sweeter than anywhere else on earth.”

The room had grown quiet, my mates leaning in despite themselves.

“And it wouldn’t be just one flavour, see. It would change as you ate it. The first bite would taste like home—like my mum’s kitchen on baking day, all warm and safe. The second bite would taste like adventure, like the sea air when you stand at the Pier Head and watch the ships come in.”

I could feel the words flowing now, carrying me along like a current. “The third bite would taste like laughter—proper belly laughs with your mates down the pub. And the fourth…” I paused, thinking of Elsie’s gap-toothed grin, “the fourth would taste like love. Not the soppy kind, but the real kind. The kind that makes you want to be better than you are.”

Henderson let out a low whistle. “Bloody hell, Tommy. That’s some chocolate bar.”

“But here’s the thing,” I continued, warming to my theme, “it would never run out. You could break off piece after piece, share it with anyone you met, and there’d always be more. And everyone who tasted it would remember what it felt like to be truly happy, even if they’d forgotten for a while.”

The chaplain’s eyes were bright with unshed tears. “And what would you call this miraculous confection?”

I thought for a moment, then smiled. “The Tomorrow Bar. Because every bite would remind you that no matter how dark things get, there’s always something sweet waiting just around the corner.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable—it was the kind of quiet that comes when something true has been spoken. Outside, I could hear the rumble of lorries and the distant shout of orders, but in our little circle, time seemed suspended.

“You know what, lads?” said Williams finally, his voice gruff with emotion, “I reckon we’re all fighting for the same thing, aren’t we? The right to dream about chocolate bars that taste like home and love and tomorrow.”

Morrison nodded slowly. “Indeed. And perhaps that’s the most important thing to remember as you board those planes tonight. You’re not just fighting against something—you’re fighting for something. For the right to sit in sweet shops and argue about whether milk chocolate is better than dark. For the right to save your ration coupons and surprise your little sister with a treat. For the right to imagine impossible chocolate bars that taste like all the good things in the world.”

As the chaplain rose to leave, he placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Tommy, lad, I have a feeling that when this war is over, someone ought to make that Tomorrow Bar of yours. The world could use a bit more sweetness.”

After he’d gone, we sat in contemplative silence for a while longer. Then, one by one, we began our final preparations. I checked my kit once more, wrote a quick note to Elsie, and tried not to think about the fact that in a few hours, I’d be dropping into occupied France with nothing but my training, my courage, and the memory of a chocolate bar that existed only in my imagination.

But as I lay on my bunk, listening to the nervous breathing of my mates around me, I found myself smiling. Tomorrow—whatever it brought—would taste sweeter because of tonight. Because sometimes, in the darkest moments, the most powerful thing you can do is dream of chocolate that tastes like hope.

And perhaps, if we were very lucky and very brave, we’d all live to taste it.

The End

Bob Lynn | © 2025 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved.

Photo by Peter Burdon on Unsplash