Fan Fiction ❯ Echo ❯ Chapter 1

Echo

By steelphoenix

 

Author's Notes: This was written after going to an Anzac Day Dawn Parade. Anzac Day is April 25th, and is the anniversary of the landings at Anzac Cove, Gallipoli, in the First World War. It is a day of remembrance of the ANZAC (Australian and New Zealand Army Corps) members who died at Gallipoli, and in conflicts since.

I was struck by the way many of the veterans behaved during the service. They made an extreme effort to become what they had once been, to honour their fallen comrades. I would like to honour both that effort and the fallen of the ANZACs.

RSA stands for Returned Services Association.

 

 

The morning is clear, the sky still dark, though with the silver streak that indicates the coming of the dawn. A few scuds of cloud are all that mars the perfect midnight blue. Breath smokes in the icy cold, and there is the slightest hint of frost on the grass verges.

A pair of pedestrians pause to let a veteran go by. He's leaning hard on the young man beside him - probably his grandson. Both wear uniform, Army uniform. The khaki hangs loosely off the elder, creased where it wasn't designed to be. It is all smooth planes and straight creases on the younger.

Next to the tall, strong young man, the veteran looks small and shrivelled - almost pathetic - but he proudly takes his place in the marching order. His medals clink lightly as he turns to greet the man beside him, obviously an old friend - and perhaps comrade.

Then there is a riffle of drums, and the bagpipes squeal, letting out the first strains of a marching song. The parade coordinator barks out, “Parade… SHARP!” All in the ranks of four abreast snap to attention.

And the years fall from the old man.

He straightens, and the uniform once more hangs the way it is supposed to. His face clears, becoming stern and staunch, and half the wrinkles disappear. His chin lifts, and the proud tilt of his head allows the fiery glint in his eyes to be seen.

“By the left… MARCH!”

Then the parade moves off, and he steps out well. Beside him, his grandson steps out in exactly the same manner, and the echo of the elder flickers through his descendant. Suddenly the veteran seems as young as his grandson, and he, too, is an echo.

But this is an echo of his younger self.

The eager young man going off to fight a war `For King And Country' is clearly visible. The spring in his step, the slight tilt to his lips that is a suppressed smile, the arms swinging perfectly in time with the drums' beat.

“Parade! By the left… HALT!” The parade coordinator's bark is clearly that of a sergeant who has done this many times, and the veteran responds accordingly. He takes the last step, and his feet stop dead, perfectly to attention.

“To the left… TURN!”

With a smart snap, he wheels exactly ninety degrees.

“Parade… At EASE!”

The left foot steps out, and he settles into a long-remembered pose. Hands clasp exactly over the back of his belt, and muscles relax just enough to allow rest without losing the smartness of attention.

The prayer is said, and `Lest We Forget' begins to play. The attendees with programmes sing tentatively, but the veteran's voice is strong, and he doesn't need to look at the sheet of paper. The words flow out of his mouth, smooth and practised.

And every time a verse ends, with “Lest we forget, lest we forget,” there is a slight twitch, and a wince.

The ANZAC dedication is said, and the ode.

“They shall grow not old,
As we that are left grow old.

Age shall not weary them,
Nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun,
And in the morning,

We shall remember them.”

With each phrase, the veteran's head bows a little more, and when he repeats the last line, his chin rests on his chest.

“Please be seated for the address of the commander of the Hauraki Regiment.”

Those with seats lower themselves with a ruffle of cloth. The veteran and his comrade remain standing, though some in the line move carefully to the rows of chairs. The veteran's head remains bowed, and the grandson looks down at him, concerned. He leans forward.

“Grandad, are you -”

“I'm fine.” The reply is more an interruption than anything else, and the grandson moves back to his place, a slight frown on his face. The strength in the old man's voice is surprising.

As the Major begins to speak of the battle at Gallipoli, the veteran's head remains bowed. Throughout the speech, there is no movement from him, save a small shudder at certain phrases.

“…under a hail of fire…”

“…artillery bombardment…”

“…rivulets of blood ran down the gullies…”

“…cost of a thousands of lives on both sides…”

With each shudder, the expression on the grandson's face grows a little more concerned. He knows well that the veteran wasn't at Gallipoli himself, but at El Alamein - a different - though equally bloody - standoff. The Allies had won Alamein, and lost Gallipoli, but the veteran's reaction is the same.

The speech ends with an admonishment to remember and respect both those who died and those who returned.

The messages from the Governor-General and Prime Minister are read out, floral tributes - mostly poppies and wreaths - are laid, and still the veteran's head is bowed.

The band strikes up with `God, Our Hope In Ages Past'. Again, most singers are tentative, not knowing the words. Though his head is still bent, the veteran's voice is clear and strong, and he has no need of the programme's prompt.

Then the clear, solemn notes of the Last Post play, and at last the veteran looks up. The bright dawn tints the top of the flagpole, as the Navy cadets lower the flag to half-mast.

And then, silence.

Not a person moves. The flutter of the flag, and a sparrow winging its way over the scene are the sole signs of life.

The veteran's eyes are fixed to the half-mast flag. The grandson's are too, and though they think different thoughts, both contain the highest respect for those New Zealanders who paid the ultimate price.

Then Reveille sounds. Quick, lively notes, utter contrast to the slow, mournful tune of the Last Post. The flag returns to the head of the flagpole, where it flutters gently, its red-and-white stars tinted gold by the sunrise.

Life comes back into the crowd as the chaplain says the benediction.

A pair of Harvards, planes from the Second World War, fly low across the gathering. The magnificent rumble of radial engines causes all to pause and watch their passage. As the veteran looks up, the two planes drop one wing in salute.

In their wake, the band again strikes up. It is a familiar tune, the National Anthem. The words are known to everyone, and the singing is much more enthusiastic. Some drop away when the Maori words are sung, but nevertheless, the voices are joined strongly.

The veteran faces straight ahead, his singing clear as it has been all morning. Behind him, his grandson's voice is equally strong, and they sound eerily similar. Again, the young man echoes the old, and the old echoes his younger self.

The song finishes, and the president of the RSA asks everyone to remain standing for the march off. The drums sound a riffle, then a marching beat emerges, and the pipes skirl up into the clear morning.

Then the sergeant's voice growls into action. “Parade… SHARP!” All the soldiers, sailors and airmen - whether old or young - snap to attention.

“To the left… TURN!”

The smart wheel is again exactly ninety degrees.

“By the left… MARCH!”

The step out is firm, purposeful. The veteran's march is easy and practised, the grandson's slightly less practiced but no less confident. The line slowly steps out, disappearing behind the RSA clubrooms.

“Parade! By the left… HALT!”

The feet snap into attention.

“Parade… DISMISSED!”

And the echo falls from the veteran. The straight posture slumps, back bending over into the slightly-hunched stance of an old man. The chin droops a little. Once again, the uniform doesn't fit quite right.

The grandson turns from his place just in time to catch his arm and steady him.

As they walk slowly back to the clubrooms, there is new respect in the grandson's eyes, for he has seen the echo.