REMEMBER: WORLD WAR ONE

A dense mist settles over an empty park on a cold winters morning, an elderly gentleman sits upon a lone bench with his wrinkled hands resting on has walking stick. His thumb runs over his creased skin as he looks down to the pigeon at his feet, pecking at left over bread crumbs on the grass. “Do you remember it as I do?” He looks to the mist through his horn rimmed glasses just as he looked upon no man’s land on his first day in the trenches. Overcome by a mix of emotions he holds his nerve. “Do you remember the mist....the cold....the looks of fear upon us all as you fly overhead with messages of the fallen?” “We lost so many good men, some from battle, others from the cold and our poor living conditions, it was tough days. I remember this one lad, Richard Thompson, good old Richy, silly muppet couldn’t hit a thing, no matter how big it be.” He chuckles to himself as the pigeon continues to peck at the ground for food. “The major used to keep him in the trenches telling him to shoot any man that ran back, it wasn’t much of a threat he would miss us even if we did.” His chuckle turns into a wheezy cough. “Back in my day, the animosity......” His cough worsens. Once he conquers his cough he’s startled by the noise of an overhead plane flying by in the distance. He turns his head as quickly as his stiff neck allows, hunting the cloudy skies with his fear stricken eyes. “The Albatros, the sound of their 164 kilowatt pusher engines torment me to this very day. Even the sound of my kettle reminds me of those wretched German whistles signalling an incoming attack.” “The truth is I was petrified out there, but Donald; a very good friend of mine, my best friend actually used to say to me ‘Mike, it’s shoot or be shot’ so when the general yelled ‘charge’ we ran out there with our SMLE’s and fought and died for our country, some of us were luckier than others. I’d have thought it’d been mighty fine for Donald to have come back with me but.....but unfortunately.............unfortunately....he er” He coughs as his voice grows croaky. He fixes the glasses resting crookedly on his nose, making sure they rest comfortably, unpins his poppy from his tweed jacket and looks upon its fake red petals. “I’ll tell you something, there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think to myself ‘Mike, you’re one lucky bugger, to live to see the smiles of your grandchildren, and Donald would tell me that’.“ The sun begins to rise, shinning through the woodland trees casting a shadow of the elderly gentlemen. "I hated the war but I will forever love and honour my fallen brothers.” He raises himself off the bench with the help of his walking stick and raises his arm to salute the sky.