Real Fear

My grand dad was a robust man with pitch black hair who in his early forties had fathered 19 children and was rumoured to have the strengh to knock down a horse with a single punch.
One dark night at the end of world war two he cycled home on his old crappy bicycle from Eindhoven to his farm near Valkenswaard when the allied planes came over to bomb the Phillips factories that the nazies had turned into ammunitions producers, with bombs exploding all around him he dove into a ditch where he stayed untill the first rays of sun.
When he got home and looked into a mirror he saw a ravaged old man`s face and his raven black hair had turned completely gray.
It was the night he learned the meaning of Real Fear.