I Will Remember Them

• Sophie Quinn, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2013

The soft pitter-patter of rain hit my sturdy umbrella as I stood in the bitter cold. Battling against the chilly wind, it guarded my body from the shower of bullets. I bowed my head in silence and respectfully uttered, “We will remember them.”

A reverent gathering of French civilians and Australian tourists echoed my words. We were all appropriately clad in dull overcoats, accessorised with woollen beanies, scarfs and gloves to repel the icy weather. As darkness began to fade, the sombre melody of The Last Post resonated throughout Villers-Bretonneux.

I gradually turned my frozen head to catch a glimpse of the rising sun as it peered over the horizon of verdant French farmland. The intense light made the engravings on the memorial almost illegible, but after my weary eyes had adjusted I could once again read the tens of thousands of names that crowded the walls. Poppies speckled the white marble, like droplets of blood, each one honouring the sacrifice of a soldier.

The Cross of Sacrifice stood steadfast against the battering wind. The final note of The Last Post, played by a lone bugler at the foot of the cross, reverberated, and a soft breeze slowly swept the mournful notes away until silence filled the air. Respectfully, he lowered his head, sparking a wave amongst the audience. As it reached me, I too found myself staring at the dew-covered grass. I closed my eyes and cleared my mind. For one minute, I honoured those who patriotically served my country. For one minute, I pictured the faces of countless soldiers who sacrificed their lives. For one minute, I expressed my gratitude in silence.

The sudden return of the bugle awakened me from my deep thoughts. As the bugler continued playing The Rouse, I noticed the elderly Frenchman who sat beside me, too frail to stand, look up towards the Cross of Sacrifice. Light bounced from his World War One Croix de Guerre that he had proudly pinned to his chest. His tearful eyes glistened like the morning frost as he softly uttered, “Ne l'oublions pas.” The old soldier bowed his head once again and I was left staring at a garden of stone.

Hundreds of gravestones surrounded the memorial, bearing the names of those who paid the ultimate sacrifice nearly one hundred years ago. The endless rows of white shone brightly, with each stone separated by a bed of flowers and beautifully crafted wreaths. I shuddered at a heart-rending epitaph that read: “Your spirit lives on in your loving wife and three darling children.” I did not dare to look any further, for this alone made me realise the significance of the sacrifices that these men made for us.

Suddenly, half the audience elatedly began to chant their national anthem. I could feel the pride exuding from the French civilians and it was not long before my fellow Australians and I emanated that same pride. We sang “Advance Australia Fair” patriotically with our heads held high, like a band of soldiers.

Once the jubilant audience had settled, and the service was concluded, my thoughts returned to the purpose of this gathering: to remember. Standing on the glowing, marble steps of the memorial entrance, I watched the sun continue to rise over the French soil that is home to so many Australians. I knew then that in years to come, when I stand at a war memorial on ANZAC Day, I will remember the experience of standing where Australian soldiers had fought and fallen. I will remember them.