Soldiers Pride

He hated to be called Poppy, firmly reminding her every time the words came out, that just Pop would be enough. Of course she was too young to realize that he didn’t need the reference. She was like any other child, intuitive enough to realize something was wrong, but placated by the stories they told her. ‘Pop’s going away to a special retreat with some friends.’ Everything had its place, its explanation, ‘Pop walks in his sleep sometimes, just stay out of his way.’ Of course everything was normal, why on earth would anything be wrong?

It’s a kind of dawning awareness. At four, it was a struggle to stay quiet through the parade, but Nanna was always there with a flower for her. Besides, all of Poppy’s friends were there to pat her on the head and say how sweet she was. At six she was old enough to be in the parade; marching proudly in her Girl Guides uniform. Back then it was all about the marching, smiling proudly at being involved and smiling proudly. At 10 she had been aware of the importance and the meaning for some time now, and kept an inquisitive and almost pompous respect for those marching. At 16 Pop died, at sixteen Anzac day was a mess of emotions. She stood there, the memories rushing through her mind. At sixteen, it was serious.

No matter which grandparents she visited, there was a definite morning routine. With pop, it meant getting up as soon as you woke up and sneaking out to the dining room in your Pj’s. Pop would be in the pool room, with the double doors open and the TV switched over to the news, reading whatever book had most recently caught his interest. The trick was in moving the armchair as close to the TV as you could and then switching the channel to the cartoons without alerting him to the game. As much as a ‘Good morning’ was a loss, not that she lost often. You only lost if you made a big noise and she was good at moving the chair quietly. You won if all you got was a grunt when you changed the channel over, and that was it for the morning. Eventually, right before everyone woke up; Pop would move into the kitchen and cook himself bacon and eggs, and her fish fingers. Once the food was cooked, she could talk.

It was a strange routine. No one in the family really understood why they kept playing after all this time. Especially when she hated fish; she only ever ate fish for Poppy, and even then it was drowned in tomato sauce and wolfed down before the fish taste could connect. Everyone told her she should let him know she didn’t eat fish, but it was their own private ritual, and she liked it.

She’d been 7 when she’d seen his medals for the first time, He had 6 of them, all lined up on a single clip. They were hidden, folded up in cloth at the bottom of his sock drawer. He’d walked in to find her poring over them, and he’d taken it upon himself to explain to her. She’d sat quietly while he explained what they all were for; understanding dawning as she thought back to Nanna saying that pop had saved his friends life, his captain. He’d explained it to her in the same way he did everything. With quiet gentle explanations, he’d made sure she understood him without scaring her or upsetting her. It was so special to her, she was like an adult; Pop was telling her his secrets.

She’d looked up at him with wide eyes, “Poppy, did you ever,” She paused, watching his face carefully to see if she should keep talking, “um, kill someone?” His face had been unreadable to her young mind. Reaching out he held her hand, so small against his.

“When you go to war, you have to do bad things for the right reasons. I did bad things so that everyone at home would be safer.” She’d looked up at him, still curious. It couldn’t be true; Pop was quiet, efficient, friendly, everyone liked him, he was her protector, scaring the bad dreams away on the nights she stayed with him. He couldn’t kill someone, not if they were good people. They must have been bad people.

Today, she wished she could still make the distinction. It was her turn, as the oldest of her siblings, to march in Pop’s place, and the medals weighed her down discordantly. She’d been asked to speak, fighting the nerves she stepped forward as the last’s chords of the last post sounded.

“Today we remember the Anzac’s who made the ultimate sacrifice in service to our country. The men who faced death in a way we can’t possibly understand. We remember the men who came home wounded and found a way to pull their lives back together. Today I ask that you remember not only the soldier, but the men themselves. My grandfather was never proud of the things he had to do when he was away, but he was proud of what we did with the opportunities he fought to give us. Today we remember the Soldiers, the men and the families. We may never understand what they went through, and the things that they did, but today we remember their sacrifice with pride.

At the going down of the sun,

And in the morning

We will remember them

Lest we forget.”

Author's Note

I wrote this in response to some of the poems I've read recently about and by war veterans and soldiers. Really, it's a memoir of one of the best men i'll ever know. I'm at Uni Pop, I made it. <3 RIP.

Reviews

[Craig2591]

I love how I have no idea what's going on at the beginning of your stories and you just keep feeding me little bits of information until it all comes together at the end. I also like how your stories are so real!

A very nice tribute to veterans without over doing it!

[Kaya]

Thank you so much, I worry I'm being to vauge sometimes so i'm glad to hear that you like it!

[Adam Crate]

A very touching piece. The speech at the end was beautiful. I really liked how you started with her as a young girl and then as she grew up she began to understand more of what was happening around her. The faults I saw (grammar and sentence structure mostly) were easy to overlook because I was interested in the material.

Well done, and good read!

[Kaya]

Thank you so much. Grammar and sentence structure are things that i completely detest, but I'm working on them. I'm really glad you enjoyed it.

[Coyote Poetry]

A beautiful and powerful story you shared. I like to sit with the old Soldiers and listen to their story. Their knowledge need to be remembered. I like the description of the medals and the honor he held for defending his land. Thank you for sharing the excellent story.
Coyote

[Stanley Wilson]

great work really enjoyed it