I first read the following in the Football Record, published on Anzac Day 1940. It is a very poignant reminder of war and conflict and how it can touch us and this probably refers more to WWI, because of the date.
Today, most Australians have no idea, no concept of war; How loved ones did not return, how football mates never played again and if they did make it back, they could have been maimed either physically or mentally.
Under the flag-draped casket lies the unknown soldier.
A nations pays him honour. He lies with the great dead, a medal of honour upon his breast.
Guns fire salutes, stern generals, gave officers, care-burdened leaders join in paying homage.
An unknown soldier. Nameless. Just one of the soldiers who wore his country’s uniform and died in the service.
For him the flag hangs at half-mast.
For him the solemn strains of the funeral march.
For him the uncovered heads and the orations.
For him the reverence and the tears of a great people.
An unknown solider. No! No! No!
You knew him and loved him. He played with you, carried you on his shoulder, dropped sweeties on your lap as he passed you. You knew him by name and called to him often. You never thought him as great. He never thought of himself that way. He was your friendly playmate.
He passed you daily on his way to work down at the corner or in the city or on grand dad’s farm. His work clothes were the clothes of a worker and his hands were soiled and brown when he passed by at evening. But still he smiled at you.
Remember him now?
When the call to war came he said nothing about it. He gathered up his few things. There weren’t many. A few shirts and handkerchiefs and a couple of photographs and bunched them into an old suitcase that was held together by one strap. He smiled goodbye to you as he passed on his way to camp.
Remember him now?
You missed him for a while. You heard that he was out at camp and as you wound the brown wool that your mother was knitting into socks you hoped he would get a pair of them. He did. He had then on, when they picked up and tagged his poor broken body and buried it with a little white cross marking the place.
Don’t you remember him now? Why he’s the one that didn’t come back the day the boys marched home, the band playing, the flags flying and all the mothers and sisters cheering and the fathers jumping up and down and shouting madly. He’s the one the gold star is for on that honour board that hangs in the local hall.
He’s the one. The very one you know.
He’s every boy who went out when he was called and laid down his life in the struggle to carry though the duty that was his.
Died doing his duty, the boy of Australia. The boy who whistled and sang and played with you.
Remember him now?
That’s the boy. For him the heads are uncovered. For him Australia proudly mourns. Her unknown son.
LEST WE FORGET.
Last Modified on 24/04/2014 16:36
