Dulce et decorum est?

He stands at the front of the cathedral, one sleeve pinned up in an attempt to stop it billowing as he walked up the long knave past everyone waiting to hear his story. He stands tall and proud despite his blatant affliction, not leaning on the lectern as most speakers do and I wonder how anyone could be so strong, to go through such a life changing event and not weep with self-pity every time they talk about it. He speaks calmly and clearly, he’s obviously given his testament to others before. Other who like me were curious to know whether it was an IED or an ambush. The red poppy of remembrance stands out clearly against his blue uniform, mirroring the sea of red faces not sure where to look, trying not to look at where his arm should be. He talks about duty and honour and how brave the men were who fought in The Great War and the one that followed to quickly after. He reads out the list of those fallen from the local area in all warfare since 1914. It’s a city and I’ve heard the list before but it always shocks me how long it is, every year there’s another name, another son or father lost fighting for peace.
 I expect him to finish but he doesn’t. He doesn’t turn and bow at the decadent altar and smile at the priest, he doesn’t tell us to keep holding out hope, he doesn’t even walk away quietly contemplating his journey with the military. Instead, he pauses for a while and everyone holds their breath wondering if this is it, if this is the part where he finally breaks down. He stares ahead, looking not at his audience but at the large oak door at the back, the door where if he needs to he can run out of at any time. After a while he starts speaking again and everyone’s eyes fall to their shoes or to tie the laces on their child’s shoes. He’s speaking about the leaders that don’t ever cross onto the front line and witness the horror of warfare first hand, the widows he sees walking around the streets in the foreign countries and how he always wonders whether it was his fault they have no one to look after them or their children. He talks about coming home and the survivor’s guilt he feels and how everyone says he should be proud of fighting for his country and it all comes tumbling out. The resentment, the dismay and the loneliness. That nobody understands the horrors he sees at night or confusion he feels when people ask why we went to war. He says, “You asked me here to tell you my story and this is it.”
 As the tears finally burst through the strong exterior and silently pour down his face like the rain does against the stained glass window, I turn and look at my father in his own uniform, sword by his side but there’s no poppy on his lapel anymore. I look down. It’s in his scared hands. Lying in tatters, his frustration taken out on it. He looks down at me and sees my shocked face.
 The guest is finally being escorted away by his wife, the priest is looking bewildered and the congregation are looking uncomfortable or bored. As he walks down the steps to his seat he catches my father’s eye and my father nods his head in return. They’ve never met, but they understand.
 My father turns to me as quiet whispers break out, “They gave their tomorrow so that we may have today and what are we doing with today? Fighting another war with the same mistakes led by fat old men. We remember but we don’t seem to ever learn.”