Lest we Forget - 11 November

Today is Remembrance Day. It is the day on which World War I officially ended, and has become a day in which Commonwealth countries remember members of their armed forces who died while serving on the battlefront.

While it serves as the inspiration for this piece of flash fiction, today should also be a day when we remember all who have given their lives to serve their countries. Sacrifice comes in many forms, and death is only one of them.

Lest We Forget

Blue eyes, remarkably clear, observe us, gauging our reactions as the old man tells us about the wars in which he has fought, of friends who have fallen and comrades left behind long ago. The crags and wrinkles lining his skin come from age, exposure, happiness and grief. His hands tremble as he pours us tea and absent-mindedly adds milk and sugar, forgetting we preferred none.

He is not of this time, and no longer of this world, but he tells us where his citizenship lies and makes us swear to keep his secret a little longer. It is a secret he has hidden for over sixty years and one he will hide to the grave.

We know his tale. It is not a long one. He served this country in a world war and in the conflicts that followed, and then he served in forces from a world other than our own, returning when their task was done.

His story is one of conscription into battles he would rather not have seen, but refused to ignore, since ignorance would have meant disobeying his country and his queen, or consigning his beliefs, his worlds and all he held dear to something he considered unholy, unjust and diseased.

He fought his battles, obeyed his commanders and lived to command. Now he rests, living quietly, hiding from the status of hero he has earned and watching the world pass him by.

Once he tried to play a guiding role in the world that followed the wars, but this world did not have a place for him so he answered the call of another. When he returned, he realized his home was still not ready to meet the worlds beyond, and allowed himself to sink into restful waiting, watching as mankind grew to maturity and using what contacts he could to ensure no one disturbed us.

He is old now and will soon sink into eternal sleep. We will not remember him or the part he played in our past,  nor will we know of the battles he fought for our future. Most of us will never even know his name. In that, he is not so different to the warriors who do belong to this time and to this world.

The battles they fight on our behalf, or for their country, cost them and those who dare to love them more than most would care to pay. The peace and progress they pay for is paid in blood and sacrifice: death for some, lost limbs for others, hearing or sight taken, births they don’t see, first steps they can’t admire, first words they never hear, children who treat them like strangers, partners who cannot live with separation or who are preyed on while they are gone, and scorn from those who don’t want to understand.

Of those who do not fight, some remember the conflicts and some what caused them. Some recall outstanding individuals or actions, while some judge what they do not know. Not every soldier who gives their lives, whole or in fragments, is remembered.

This old warrior tells us his story and the stories of all those he remembers, but as we finish our tea, he says he will speak no more of it. He swears us to silence until he has passed, having paved the way for our future by being part of our history and watching over our present.

He is the only one we could find. We looked for the others, but they had already gone, having lived their lives as quietly as their comrade. As we rose from his table, he bade us look to our own unsung heroes, the soldiers from a myriad of wars.

“Lest we forget,” he said as he showed us to the door.

“Lest thee forget,” he whispered as he closed the door behind us.

I could feel him watching us as we walked from his garden into the street.