Remembrance

As the minutes slowly ticked by, the old man stood in absolute silence. As always, standing proudly as he had done many times before. Perhaps too many for anyone else to remember, but he remembered every occasion.

Those who stood with him also remembered, because every year they stood with him. They remembered also all of those who could no longer stand with them, the hardships that they had endured, and the good times that they had shared. Each one of them still clearly etched on their minds, still feeling them with every beat of their hearts.

They’d lost count of the many times that they had cheated death. The passage of time had taken its toll. They had been robbed of what little strength they had left to continue with the fight, so death had eventually won.

When the eleventh hour began to chime, those who stood in line bowed their heads and called to mind those who never came home, and those who came home changed. They knew that they would be standing there with them in spirit if not in body. That was no consolation, because they would have given the world to stand once more with them.

As the eleventh chime faded into silence and the haunting notes of the last post whispered in his ears, the old man shed a tear because he was reminded of old friends long gone. Those who made this journey every year to honour their fallen came not because they felt that they had to. They needed to, they wanted to.

To a great many people, they were just old men who would dress in their finest with their medals proudly displayed on their chests. Each one had a story to tell anyone who could spare the time to listen. Sadly, the stories were often dismissed as the nonsensical ramblings of old men, but in their hearts, they were considerably more than that. They were proud veterans of a war long forgotten, but more importantly, they were brothers.

The old man brough his hand down and clasped the hand of a boy no more than five-years-old. The boy had asked if he could march with him and wear his old beret. This was the greatest of all the honours that he had received. As he looked down at his grandson, he smiled briefly. The boy was standing in absolute silence and taking it all in. He wanted to know what it was all about. He wanted to ask, but good form dictated that he wait until the two-minute silence was over.

As the bugler played reveille, the boy looked up at his grandfather and tapped his leg.

“What’s it all about, Grandad?” he asked, as he removed his grandfather’s old beret to reveal a mass of golden curls.

“What do you think it’s about?” the old man replied.

“I think,” the boy replied. “That it’s about a great many things, but I think the most important thing is remembrance.”

“That’s right, Harry,” said the old man as he and his grandson walked away from the cenotaph. “There’s one more thing that we have to do before we leave.”

“What’s that, Grandad?”

“We have to share a drink together,” the old man replied. “How does a glass of lemonade sound?”

“Is it a part of the ceremony?”

“No, it’s just something we do.”

“Then why do it?”

“Remembrance, Harry, remembrance.”

Shaun McBride

Author of The Chronicles of Dreyfus