Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me and no copyright
infringement is intended.
Spoilers: In Excelsus Dio
Archive: Yes.
This is in honour of my father, who fought in WWII and Korea, and my
grandfather, who fought in WWI.
Lest We Forget
The day was unseasonably warm, and dry. An auspicious day for
the commemorations, he thought. He glanced at the people
scattered around the memorial. There were many more of them than
usual. No, they had not forgotten.
Further away, he saw the old men, with walkers and attendants,
waiting. Wrapped up in warm coats, despite the sunshine of the
day, they waited. And remembered. They had not forgetten
either. Their memories were ancient now, but they still
remembered what could never be forgotten. Would that be him
someday? Would he become a relic of a long ago era, with his
medals hanging precariously on his chest, the ribbons faded and
failing with age?
He selfconsciously adjusted the row of medals he had pinned to
his coat that morning. His medals were not yet polished
smooth with age and handling, not like the ones in museums, the
ones pinned on the chest of the ancient men further along.
Today always brought mixed feelings; a desire to remember the
most hellish time of his life and a desire to forget. The guns
and the blood. The confusion and fear. The closeness of the men
he served with.
The return home to find that he was, to many, not a hero, but a
butcher. The honour that should have been his was gone, tossed
aside in the anger that young men had been sent to fight and to
die on far away shores for the ambitions of men in high offices.
There were so many names on the memorial. So many names of men
he could barely recall now. Yet once, they had been close. The
trust that bound them together hadn't faded in the quarter
century since he had last seen their faces.
He was about to turn away from the memorial when he saw a couple
of familiar faces. An elderly blond woman was touching the
carvings halfway up the wall with gentle fingers. The fingers
trembled a little, but they traced out the names with
loving gestures. The woman dropped her hand, and turned to the
younger man with her, burying her face in his coat.
He hesitated for a moment, not wanting to intrude on her grief.
The younger man with her caught his eye and he knew he was
welcome to share their memories.
The ceremony was not long, nor was it filled with speeches and
events. As the eleventh hour approached, the small crowd fell
silent. The bugle's notes began and ended, and still there was
silence. There were no words to fill in the silence, only
memories.
Lest we forget.