Remembrance Day. Sandgate 2011. - prose.

[Mal McLean]

Remembrance Day. Sandgate 2011.

The rheumy eyed old man shuffled his stooped way across the cenotaph lawn on his bandaged and sandaled feet. He wore a jacket over his frail frame as if even the warmth of the November sun could not cure him of the cold that had seeped into his bones and he leaned noticeably to his left giving me to wonder if the weight of his medals, or perhaps, his memories, pulled him so. His purpose was clear and unwavering as he made his way towards the rows of shaded seats and I started to rise to his assistance but a grey haired blue bereted veteran came to his aid and guided the ancient warrior to a place of honour in the front row, where many hands reached out to help him into his seat. The young reporter beside me scratched some notes and I wondered briefly if she understood the significance of what had just occurred or was just trying to interpret the pathos. I wondered what Charles Bean would have made of the same scene and suspected that Bean would have delivered a homily about Australian strength of character, discipline, determination and mateship.

At 10:45 sharp and without any apparent signals the ceremony commenced with the sub branch president delivering the still startling facts about Australian casualties in the Great War. The cenotaph rose starkly behind him against the clear blue sky. The names of the fallen, standing as always, strictly to attention on the memorial, served to sharpen my focus. A veteran of Korea and Malaya laid the first wreath with care and solemnity and was followed by the local pollies and their representatives. My sense of irony almost overcame me. The reporter scratched some more.

The lady Chaplain, whom I guess to be in her thirties led us in prayer and managed the obligatory reading quite well. I do not care much for this God of whom she speaks. Men kill each other in the name of God. I reflected on my view that wars are only fought for money or ideologies. The Lord’s Prayer began and I substituted Huey for Father and I felt much more closely connected. Huey sends me a little humour in the form of a breeze which threatens to lift the Chaplains dress and she has to leave her left hand pressed against her thigh lest she immodestly exposes the only other reason I know of that might have caused a war. More scratching.

The local Catholic girl’s school band struck up Abide with Me and both the words and the long remembered melody brought a tear to my eye. They do an admirable job. Then, one of the young ladies recites In Flanders Fields and I am forced to touch away a rising droplet from beneath my glasses. I am not the only one. At precisely 10:59 last post is sounded and as the plaintiff notes fade the town hall clock strikes eleven. An eerie silence. I glanced up as the reporter fiddled some notes and saw for the first time that a much larger crowd than I thought had gathered in the grounds. I felt a debt of gratitude to them all and felt strongly that we would never forget. We must never forget. I glanced across to the old digger and saw that friendly arms helped to support him and then I lost sight of him, perhaps forever. The Ode was difficult. Damn it, it always is. Perhaps that was the reason why I had not attended an Anzac or Remembrance Day service for many, many years. Decades, in fact. Or it might have just been the alcoholic father whose sanity was destroyed by World War Two service in North Africa, the Middle East and the Pacific and the subsequent horrors visited on my childhood. We, my brother and I, were not alone in that. The presence of the politicians suddenly irked me. But let’s face it, his was not the only generation of heroes abandoned and ignored by our governments.

Reveille snapped across the field and the old soldiers, many of whom had open but silent tears, still stood rigidly to attention until the call was complete. I smiled gently and reminded myself that this was the pride and the passion to which they were entitled.

The National Anthem. There was a folding of jotted notes and a smile and the young reporter was gone. Suddenly there was a hubbub to replace the solemnity and ex-servicemen and women were invited back to the sub branch for a few, well, refreshments. Old Jock, the vice present of the Rats of Tobruk Association and as spritely as many man would wish to be, urged me along but I declined, claiming other appointments.

The truth is, I was spent.

But I shan’t miss another one. No, not if I can help it.

I’ll just have to remember to take Huey for company and he’ll see me right, as any mate would.

Mal

[Heather]

Mal that is beautiful. I really enjoyed it. I could picture every minute. Fantastic.

Heather

[Mal McLean]

Thanks Heather. Your words make the writing worthwhile.

Mal

[Maureen K Clifford]

Probably duplicated across the country in many small towns Mal...a nice spot of writing and lovely to read. Perhaps you should submit it to the local paper. They could well be interested

Cheers

Maureen

[mummsie]

I felt the emotion in your words Mal, well written. There's something about The Last Post, doesn't matter where you hear it, gets me everytime.

Thanks for sharing Mal
Sue

[Mal McLean]

Thanks Sue Maureen and Heather - the old girl wants me to follow up with Jock...says I can't leave it hanging there.....we'll see.

Mal