The village and its church
lay at the bottom of the hill, which was steep, and so the parade must go
slowly or else the elderly could not keep up. Everything was wet from the rain
of the night before, the grass was soggy and the stone damp and mist hung in
the air which made our sheet music in the band go soggy and limp. It was far
warmer than people had expected from early November. The normal uniform of
heavy coasts and two scarves, gloves and four layers proved impractical for the
day. You could see the warmth from the marchers faces when the parade had
finished, the British Legion looked pale and faint and wheezing, the various
cadets had sweat on their brow and the kiddies in the St. Johns Ambulance were
red faced and panting with wide open mouths like tired little dogs.
The vicar was a woman and was short and stocky. She
wore a dark hooded cloak over her shoulders, but this was removed when the
service moved into the church and she wore her usual white robe. The church was
small and so the many people who had attended the service were crammed onto the
pews, including my weak and frail grandparents and many had to stand. We in the
band had to sit to the side usually appointed for children to read books and
play with quiet toys and puzzles during services and for the twenty-two of us
it was far too cramped and our playing showed our dislike of the position.
The vicar, ten minutes into the service, took to the
pulpit and began her sermon for Remembrance Sunday. She fiddled with the
microphone, somewhat confused with the instrument, and cleared her throat:
“We are gathered here today to mourn the tragedy of
war. Our brothers, sisters, sons and daughters, fathers and mothers and
grandparents have all suffered from war, as have many among us here today. They
sacrificed their youth and often their lives for their nation, out of courage,
out of loyalty and patriotism, and, most importantly, out of love of God.”
Half of the band sighed and I smirked, only to be
scowled at by the conductor. It amused me how many of the band were like me and
saw no link between respect for the dead of war and the Church. The assumption
that the vicar had made was ridiculous, even my grandparents were wide eyed
with shaking heads.
“As many of the sins we fall for come from materialism,
consumption and greed, so does war. Possibly the greatest of sins, war is a
beast. It takes what does belong to it and gives nothing back but more sin,
more greed and death, misery and grief. War is exactly what our Lord God stands
against; the mistakes that we, as mortal beings, make must atoned for before
the Lord so as he can forgive us. For, without His forgiveness, what else can
we take from war?”
Ten minutes of similar drivel was spoken, condemning
humanity for brutality and acting wrongly before she left us to mull the whole
philosophy over. When I left the church I saw two of the British Legion members
talking to current serving soldiers. They smiled and laughed, shook hands and
patted each others shoulders, the old and the new. I overheard a bit of the
conversation –
“Sometimes I worry about my soul. But in Helmand you
don’t really have enough time to think about it too deeply, you just get over
it and deal with it later.”
“Yes, indeed, when I was in France during The War I
killed a man, a German obviously. But I didn’t worry about my soul and still
don’t now because I didn’t actually kill a man, I killed the enemy and that was my job and that was that.”
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