Poppies

Harry ran, aware he would be late for the ceremony unless he hurried. He tried to pin the poppy to his lapel as he went. Passing the lines of service men and women, he gave the ladies in their uniforms an appreciative glance as he rushed by. No one seemed to be aware of the tardy young man. Finally he reached his battalion. His CO had not noticed the latecomer; his eyes were fixed ahead of him watching the parade.

Harry managed to fix the poppy to his uniform. Not a paltry, paper and plastic poppy for him this year! He admired the real flower that adorned his uniform. Delicately veined, ruby red petals that fanned out gracefully from the black centre, its head slightly bowed on the slender green stem. Strange Harry thought, how those blood red flowers, weeds really, had grown from ground destroyed by shells and thousands of feet. How they had thrived in the ruins that war had created and were nourished by the lives of the fallen. How surprised the young soldiers must have been that first spring seeing how the small red flowers flourished in the shattered lands. And on each grave, British or German, the poppies bloomed, brief in their glory.

Harry watched as the parade passed, proud Gurkhas, Chelsea Pensioners in bright red uniforms that almost outshone the poppies and a group of veterans on mobility scooters. Now there was something, thought Harry. How wonderful, men, who a few years ago would have sat on the side lines or would have had to be pushed in wheelchairs, were now free to join the parade under their own steam. Some veterans had medals which they wore with pride but every single man and woman in the parade wore a poppy. Most wore their poppies on their left side, to be nearer the heart, Harry remembered. All those brave hearts beating not just for themselves but for their friends and comrades who had fallen.

Harry watched as the Queen laid her wreath of poppies at the Cenotaph, always so solemn and respectful. He had met her in person a few years earlier and found her to be a lovely lady. He couldn’t say the same for some of the politicians who were present. They were all there, with their ‘sombre’ faces on; presumably they were giving their other faces a rest that day! At least they were all dressed appropriately in black or grey, well, except for that ghastly Blair woman. Purple! What had she been thinking?

Harry had heard the media talking about how different this Remembrance ceremony was, because it was the first time that no veterans of the First World War were present, the last three having died the year before. What utter rubbish, thought Harry. Were they really so detached that they couldn’t feel the spirits of the fallen around them.

He looked at his best friend Tommy, who stood next to him. His cap on over his bright ginger hair, he hadn’t changed a bit since the last time Harry had seen him. Harry had tried for so many years to blot out the vision of Tommy being blown to pieces with two of their comrades, and of the sharp burning pain of the shrapnel that hit him at the same time. All over now, Harry thought to himself. He was glad to be back with his battalion, the Duke of Cornwall's Light Infantry. It was good to be young and whole again. Having died the previous year at 111, he had been done with the physical life. But that didn’t mean Harry Patch couldn’t appreciate the lovely things in the world, like pretty service women in their uniforms and beautiful blood red poppies.