lest we forget' by kausthub krishnamurthy

2
‘Lest We Forget’ I still remember the November days, when our blatant reluctance to cram into the school hall would erupt as our teachers ushered us in. We hated being forced to sit on the wooden floor panels, squeezed between our friends but why they made us sit like that we never quite figured out. But regardless of age and gender, we were all restless, laughing and chattering to each other, completely oblivious to the significance of the occasion. We realized, through the solemn air that enveloped us, that this wasn’t an ordinary assembly. Maybe it was the ring of flowers fastened to the pedestal. Maybe it was the now subdued faces of the teachers. It took us a while, but eventually we fell silent and watched with a mixture of curiosity and boredom as dad stepped onto the stage in full regalia and started speaking. At that time what he was saying and why he was saying it was the least of our worries. I’d heard it a hundred times before. First from grandpa... now from dad but never understood why I had to be there, why we parroted the words “Lest We Forget”. I watch now as Eisenhower’s dominoes fall one by one with voices like ours to encourage their speed. My eyes open again, and open further still, as I carefully unfolded the letter my dad kept in his uniform at all times. A letter from grandpa. ********** 26 th January 1919 Cpl Trevor Brashaw I never thought, this time last year, that I’d be sending my next “Happy Australia Day” message from Paris. But here we are... it’s all over. I wish I could be there to see the two of you still. I just hope Jimmy hasn’t started walking yet. I need something to look forward to after all of this, and I’m the lucky one. That charming British bloke Wilfred... Do you remember him? I can’t stop his voice echoing in my head, accompanied by the dreary rhythm of boots across the streets like some kind of remnant reverberation of guns long silenced. “What passing bells?” he’d ask. I strain my mind listening for the ringing, pitying the doomed youth that once mocked us all for being cattle, only to be led to the slaughterhouse himself. But I hear nothing... No monstrous anger of guns. No stuttering rifle’s rapid rattle. ONLY SILENCE... Silence, ringing through the halls of memory. Silence, drowning out every last thought from my minds, leaving me to wander aimlessly through these streets alone. I didn’t know him for long but a he was a firm friend. He was a poet you know? Just like me... we used to converse in poetry. Nobody else is around these days. Many of the boys have just left... or never got here at all. Me and old Tom Baker from down the street really wanted another drink or two with Lt Owen, but the worst has happened and he’s no longer with us. This is it... the end of the war. A sweetness bittered by the news of our friend. Knowing him, the Lieutenant would have made something of this atmosphere. Some poem... something... Only me and Tommy are left, hoping that somehow our friend would be remembered.

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Year 12 Short Story

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  • Lest We Forget

    I still remember the November days, when our blatant reluctance to cram into the school hall would

    erupt as our teachers ushered us in. We hated being forced to sit on the wooden floor panels,

    squeezed between our friends but why they made us sit like that we never quite figured out. But

    regardless of age and gender, we were all restless, laughing and chattering to each other, completely

    oblivious to the significance of the occasion. We realized, through the solemn air that enveloped us,

    that this wasnt an ordinary assembly. Maybe it was the ring of flowers fastened to the pedestal.

    Maybe it was the now subdued faces of the teachers. It took us a while, but eventually we fell silent

    and watched with a mixture of curiosity and boredom as dad stepped onto the stage in full regalia

    and started speaking. At that time what he was saying and why he was saying it was the least of our

    worries. Id heard it a hundred times before. First from grandpa... now from dad but never

    understood why I had to be there, why we parroted the words Lest We Forget.

    I watch now as Eisenhowers dominoes fall one by one with voices like ours to encourage their

    speed. My eyes open again, and open further still, as I carefully unfolded the letter my dad kept in

    his uniform at all times. A letter from grandpa.

    **********

    26th January 1919

    Cpl Trevor Brashaw

    I never thought, this time last year, that Id be sending my next Happy Australia Day message from

    Paris. But here we are... its all over. I wish I could be there to see the two of you still. I just hope

    Jimmy hasnt started walking yet. I need something to look forward to after all of this, and Im the

    lucky one. That charming British bloke Wilfred... Do you remember him? I cant stop his voice

    echoing in my head, accompanied by the dreary rhythm of boots across the streets like some kind of

    remnant reverberation of guns long silenced.

    What passing bells? hed ask.

    I strain my mind listening for the ringing, pitying the doomed youth that once mocked us all for

    being cattle, only to be led to the slaughterhouse himself.

    But I hear nothing...

    No monstrous anger of guns.

    No stuttering rifles rapid rattle.

    ONLY SILENCE...

    Silence, ringing through the halls of memory.

    Silence, drowning out every last thought from my minds, leaving me to wander aimlessly through

    these streets alone. I didnt know him for long but a he was a firm friend. He was a poet you know?

    Just like me... we used to converse in poetry. Nobody else is around these days. Many of the boys

    have just left... or never got here at all. Me and old Tom Baker from down the street really wanted

    another drink or two with Lt Owen, but the worst has happened and hes no longer with us. This is

    it... the end of the war. A sweetness bittered by the news of our friend. Knowing him, the Lieutenant

    would have made something of this atmosphere. Some poem... something...

    Only me and Tommy are left, hoping that somehow our friend would be remembered.

  • ***************

    I look at the paper once again feeling that somehow grandpas words were unfinished. It just didnt

    feel right. The kind of unfinished feeling like when you set up a row of dominoes... the same itchy

    feeling like a finger toppling the intricate set up. As I place the paper in my fathers uniform I feel the

    edge of another paper carefully held to the crest over the heart. Again I gaze at the words scrawled

    in grandpas handwriting...

    ***************

    An Ode to Memory or What Wil would have written--- by Brashaw and Baker

    La Guerre Mapoo

    La Guerre Fini

    Maybe for you

    But still not for me.

    Now I grow too old,

    Along with those that are left.

    Age has made me wary

    Weary of years condemned.

    At the going down of the sun,

    And in the morning,

    Nothing much happens then.

    Must they forget?

    Must they forget?

    Yet we that keep on going

    Keep the flame lit bright and true

    At the sunset and the morning

    The memories come anew.

    **********

    As my eyes followed my grandfathers words, the dominoes began to fall out of control with the

    realization of the permanency of war and the haunting life that stood before me, printed on paper...

    in the form of my name on a draft card.

    Trevor Brashaw Jr...