Second time around
In celebration of my having internet in the apartment on a non-pirated basis:
At the behest of The Dark Lord, an expansion of yesterday's fic, more suited to being a published chapter someday perhaps.
It still fits after all these years. Perhaps not as well as it might have when we paraded to the Guildhall after the yomp to Stanley, but I have not quite gone to seed. I rarely wear the colours anymore, save for special occasions. It was special that day so many years ago. We returned home heroes, and we looked the part. My wife must have thought so too. Our youngest was conceived that night. I resigned my commission the next day.
I celebrated life that night. The real heroes though, were the honored dead, fallen far from their homes on a small island of little strategic importance. Such is the fate of soldiers. Though they may fall in far off lands, their loss is always felt most keenly at home.
We are here at the Church today to honor the fallen. Boys from this village, and many others throughout the counties boarded planes and jumped into the fire some 40 years ago to make sure that England would not be ruled by tyrants. They were the few to whom we many owed so much. They spilled their blood all over Europe that I might raise my children in peace. All over the country, and all over the world, they will mark this day as a day of remembrance. They will tell tales of honorable soldiers who fought to make the world a better place.
My generation of Englishmen lived in relative peace, thanks to our fathers, who lived through bombs and blitzes, offering nothing but blood, toil, tears and sweat. Thanks to them, my children had the chance to live in peace. But it seems, even in their generation, tyranny found a face.
My children should have been normal English schoolboys, but they weren’t. They are veterans of a war that most people don’t know about. What I knew of war was a life on the ocean wave. Marches, drills, gunfire, and soldiers clashing in honorable combat. Perhaps my fathers knew some of the same. I wish that were true for my sons.
The war my children fought brought thugs to my home. They attacked my wife. They meant to slaughter my sons before my eyes, and then kill me. I watched my youngest lose his eye. I watched a spirited young girl who would become my daughter forced to fight her father. I watched that same man disown his daughter with language that would have shamed the toughest man in my regiment. I wish my story were unique. But there are far too many graves filled with victims of such reckless hate.
My boys never really took after me. Military men sometimes are forced to be somewhat removed from the rest of the world. Perhaps it is simply a soldier’s fate to be reserved, lest the world take that which bullets could not.
That wasn’t so for my boys. They are their mum’s lads. They’re terriers. They grab on to things and never let go. I still remember the first time I held each of them. I held my fingers out for their tiny, perfect hands. Each one, without fail, gave me a firm grip, an indication of things to come. In times of trouble, I still remember the feeling of those perfect hands holding my finger.
I thought growing up might mellow them, take away some of that youthful spirit. I should have known better. All these years later, Wendy has lost none of the fire that let her be a Marine’s wife, and then a Constable’s wife.
Colin is still as feisty as ever. Pansy doesn’t seem to mind. I look over at them, cradling my granddaughter. Every old soldier in the building looks over at them, and in their hearts, they know they did not fight in vain.
Dennis is different. He’s become more like me, perhaps of necessity. I have to remember that he is a soldier now. I forget, sometimes, when I remember that little hand holding my finger. He’s gone quiet. He’s proud of having fought, but ashamed of his wounds. I’m proud of him, and so is everyone else. It’s hard for him to see that sometimes. After all, he lost more than an eye in that battle.
We were surprised to see him today. He comes very rarely. Being an Auror is serious work. I see the way he looks up to Harry and Moody. I can’t help the twinge of jealousy that comes up when I see him with them. He used to look at me that way. But all young men must leave their father behind at some point in their lives. I wonder if, perhaps, the wicked men with wands may have hastened that process for Dennis.
I suspect that today resonates with him. Perhaps he feels most comfortable honoring the fallen and surrounded by those who have seen the fires of battle.
Elizabeth Perkins walks over to him. They exchange a quiet greeting. They were at school together until Dennis left for Hogwarts. Her mother is still the village teacher, and practically raised every child in the village. Liz is very much like her, and works by her side. One day, I know she will dote on my granddaughter the way her mother doted on my sons.
They don’t quite touch, but they do stand side by side for the singing of the hymns, heads bowed in quiet reflection.
Wendy wipes away a tear at the sight. I put my arm around her. After the horrors of war, it’s amazing how beautiful some simple sights appear.
The singing ends, and people being to file out. Dennis turns, and
our eyes meet. We do not share the look of a father and son. We
share the same look I shared with the man back at the docks at
Portsmouth. We share the look between old soldiers, survivors. It
may not be a bond as strong as that of blood, but it has a power
all its own. I have not lost him yet. There is still far to go, but I
have faith that we will come there in time.
After today, the colours will go back into the closet for another year. I look at my wife, my sons and my beautiful granddaughter. I fervently hope that I will never be a soldier again.
At the behest of The Dark Lord, an expansion of yesterday's fic, more suited to being a published chapter someday perhaps.
It still fits after all these years. Perhaps not as well as it might have when we paraded to the Guildhall after the yomp to Stanley, but I have not quite gone to seed. I rarely wear the colours anymore, save for special occasions. It was special that day so many years ago. We returned home heroes, and we looked the part. My wife must have thought so too. Our youngest was conceived that night. I resigned my commission the next day.
I celebrated life that night. The real heroes though, were the honored dead, fallen far from their homes on a small island of little strategic importance. Such is the fate of soldiers. Though they may fall in far off lands, their loss is always felt most keenly at home.
We are here at the Church today to honor the fallen. Boys from this village, and many others throughout the counties boarded planes and jumped into the fire some 40 years ago to make sure that England would not be ruled by tyrants. They were the few to whom we many owed so much. They spilled their blood all over Europe that I might raise my children in peace. All over the country, and all over the world, they will mark this day as a day of remembrance. They will tell tales of honorable soldiers who fought to make the world a better place.
My generation of Englishmen lived in relative peace, thanks to our fathers, who lived through bombs and blitzes, offering nothing but blood, toil, tears and sweat. Thanks to them, my children had the chance to live in peace. But it seems, even in their generation, tyranny found a face.
My children should have been normal English schoolboys, but they weren’t. They are veterans of a war that most people don’t know about. What I knew of war was a life on the ocean wave. Marches, drills, gunfire, and soldiers clashing in honorable combat. Perhaps my fathers knew some of the same. I wish that were true for my sons.
The war my children fought brought thugs to my home. They attacked my wife. They meant to slaughter my sons before my eyes, and then kill me. I watched my youngest lose his eye. I watched a spirited young girl who would become my daughter forced to fight her father. I watched that same man disown his daughter with language that would have shamed the toughest man in my regiment. I wish my story were unique. But there are far too many graves filled with victims of such reckless hate.
My boys never really took after me. Military men sometimes are forced to be somewhat removed from the rest of the world. Perhaps it is simply a soldier’s fate to be reserved, lest the world take that which bullets could not.
That wasn’t so for my boys. They are their mum’s lads. They’re terriers. They grab on to things and never let go. I still remember the first time I held each of them. I held my fingers out for their tiny, perfect hands. Each one, without fail, gave me a firm grip, an indication of things to come. In times of trouble, I still remember the feeling of those perfect hands holding my finger.
I thought growing up might mellow them, take away some of that youthful spirit. I should have known better. All these years later, Wendy has lost none of the fire that let her be a Marine’s wife, and then a Constable’s wife.
Colin is still as feisty as ever. Pansy doesn’t seem to mind. I look over at them, cradling my granddaughter. Every old soldier in the building looks over at them, and in their hearts, they know they did not fight in vain.
Dennis is different. He’s become more like me, perhaps of necessity. I have to remember that he is a soldier now. I forget, sometimes, when I remember that little hand holding my finger. He’s gone quiet. He’s proud of having fought, but ashamed of his wounds. I’m proud of him, and so is everyone else. It’s hard for him to see that sometimes. After all, he lost more than an eye in that battle.
We were surprised to see him today. He comes very rarely. Being an Auror is serious work. I see the way he looks up to Harry and Moody. I can’t help the twinge of jealousy that comes up when I see him with them. He used to look at me that way. But all young men must leave their father behind at some point in their lives. I wonder if, perhaps, the wicked men with wands may have hastened that process for Dennis.
I suspect that today resonates with him. Perhaps he feels most comfortable honoring the fallen and surrounded by those who have seen the fires of battle.
Elizabeth Perkins walks over to him. They exchange a quiet greeting. They were at school together until Dennis left for Hogwarts. Her mother is still the village teacher, and practically raised every child in the village. Liz is very much like her, and works by her side. One day, I know she will dote on my granddaughter the way her mother doted on my sons.
They don’t quite touch, but they do stand side by side for the singing of the hymns, heads bowed in quiet reflection.
Wendy wipes away a tear at the sight. I put my arm around her. After the horrors of war, it’s amazing how beautiful some simple sights appear.
The singing ends, and people being to file out. Dennis turns, and
our eyes meet. We do not share the look of a father and son. We
share the same look I shared with the man back at the docks at
Portsmouth. We share the look between old soldiers, survivors. It
may not be a bond as strong as that of blood, but it has a power
all its own. I have not lost him yet. There is still far to go, but I
have faith that we will come there in time.
After today, the colours will go back into the closet for another year. I look at my wife, my sons and my beautiful granddaughter. I fervently hope that I will never be a soldier again.