ATF Alternate Universe
Disclaimer: I do not claim any rights over the Magnificent 7 characters used in this story, which has been written for the joy of writing only (whether it be good writing or no) and for no other purpose (such as monetary gain). The Mag 7 characters/aspects of the story are owned by Trilogy Entertainment Group, the Mirisch Group and MGM.
Comments: Remembrance Park is fictional. The Tomb of the Unknown Warrior
is based on the memorial in Hyde Park, Sydney - though the statues there
are set in alcoves around the chamber. The line 'green of the spring' is
taken from, "Aftermath" by Siegrfried Sasson (1920). The whole poem can be
found at:
http://www.aftermath.ladybarn.co.uk/sassoon.html
Thanks also to Diana and Wendy for beta work and help with the title –
and Derry for including the Midnight Oil lyrics in her post re Remembrance
Day and inspiring this story.
| The hardest years, the darkest years. These should not be forgotten years. -Midnight Oil |
The air was cold and clear, the empty streets coated with a slick layer of pre-dawn dew. A loud rumbling echoed off the city buildings, effectively displacing the source of the sound until the Harley motorcycle turned the corner. The noise seemed to coalesce around its sleek form as it glided down the street, clouds of rising mist billowing in its wake. Its rider, a faded khaki bandanna around his head, ignored the wet air, his mind on other things as he rode to keep a promise he’d made to a friend.
Remembrance Park was deserted as he finally brought his motorbike to a stop at its borders. His boots crunched in the gravel of the carpark as he kicked down the stand and dismounted the bike. Shoving his bare hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, he stood a moment – thinking, remembering - plumes of cold breath escaping his mouth. He pulled his hands out and rubbed them together – mornings were getting colder every day - then cupped them to his face and blew roughly into them. His fingers finally began to tingle with life. He shoved them back into his pockets and made his way to the edifice at the center of the park.
The Tomb of the Unknown Warrior loomed white and imposing in the grey light of early morning. The sun, still just a hint of light on the horizon, cast eerie shadows through its stained glass windows. The man stood on the threshold, eyes closed, listening to the silence of the tomb, hearing the echoes of a time he only listened to on this one day of the year. The sound of his boots striking the cold marble floor reverberated through the chamber as he walked around the huge statue in the center of the room. Three men, heads bowed – a sailor, a soldier, a flyer – standing at ease, their hands resting lightly behind their backs. The boots paused in front of the soldier, a tentative hand reached out to touch its leg, a sad face looked up to gaze into the blank face of the soldier.
A voice of memory called the visitor back:
***
Look at this? His friend held out a handful of red-brown dirt.
What is it? he asked him, not understanding the significance.
Home, the friend replied wistfully, holding his hand out. Touch it.
He poked it with one finger. The dirt was warm to touch. He looked up at his friend’s grinning face.
His friend’s face turned serious. . . I want you to promise me something, man. If I …. if I don’t make it back, I want you to bury me with this. I want to take a handful of home with me there too. Promise me?
He wanted to refuse, to deny the possibility of his friend’s death, but he’d seen too many friends die to think that one more could be saved just because he refused to believe otherwise. So, instead he mumbled, Yeah, I promise , and hoped he wouldn’t ever have to do it.
****
He sat down, cross-legged, at the feet of the Unknown Soldier and bowed his head as other memories escaped from behind the wall in his head where he kept them.
Hot, humid jungles. Knee deep in swamp, the never-ending buzz of mosquitoes, always wet, always sweaty and dirty. They’d been so relieved when they were finally sent some place where two trees together were the closest they’d be to a jungle, where the only water for miles was in the canteens hooked to their belts, where the air they breathed was dry not wet, light not dark, clear not thick with mosquitoes and the smell of rotting vegetation.
They were sent from one hell to another, they just didn’t know it yet.
*****
The visitor pulled the bandanna from his head and began to untie the knot.
*****
The day he was forced to carry out his promise started, like most others for him and the men he served with, before dawn. By the time the sun appeared to warm the desert sands, he and his friend were already way out in front of the rest of the team, at point. They spread out to cover a wider area of the deceptively flat terrain, eyes continually searching, ears straining for any sound. They made it to their destination without spotting enemy activity. Their relieved smiles as they silently greeted each other and prepared to radio back to the rest of the team acknowledged the luck they seemed to share. He watched his friend pull the helmet from his head to wipe dirt and sweat from his face with his bandanna as he contacted the team leader. He watched as his friend’s head seemed to explode, and his body was pulled upwards by the force of the bullets that riddled him. His death dance was grotesque, his body a marionette to the unseen strings of the enemy, and then he fell to the ground – strings cut.
He was in shock, his mind numb as he threw himself to the ground and yelled into his own radio words he would never remember uttering. The image of his friend burned into his mind as he rolled away from the body and returned fire, yelling and screaming, and finally, just screaming. He jumped warily to his feet and zig-zagged away from the area, trying to get behind the enemy as his soul cried out in desperation. He dropped to the ground once more as he found his target, voices ringing in his head – the team leader issuing orders, his friend asking him for promises, the enemy yelling their own mixture of orders and panic. He let go of the voices, the images, the pain as he calmly brought his weapon to bear on the men below him and began firing, killing them all one by one – no mercy, no emotion, no thought. Dead.
***
In the antechamber, the visitor spread the stained bandanna out on the pedestal of the statue.
***
They had to bury his friend where he fell. Their mission was not over, and his body would not last long in the heat of the day. A shallow grave was dug, his friend’s body layed out. The team leader spoke a few short words before drawing back to allow him to make his own brief farewell. He reached into his friend’s pocket and pulled the small bag of dirt from within its bloody confines. The plastic was slick with blood, his fingers were slick with blood , and he felt the deadness in his body grow. He opened the bag and
sprinkled the precious dirt – home - over his friend’s body, then dry-eyed
and blank, buried him and said goodbye.
***
I won’t ever forget, I promise. His final whispered words to his friend drifted through his memory and mingled with the silence of the tomb. He pulled a small bag from his pocket and emptied its contents onto the bandanna. From his other pocket he pulled a sprig of rosemary and a single white dove’s feather bound together with plaited strands of long brown hair and placed it on top. He folded the corners of the bandanna across the pile, held them tight and lifted the bundle to his lips.
"I swear by the green of the spring that I will never forget."
He held the bundle over the feet of the Unknown Soldier and, holding on to one corner of the cloth, released it. Dirt fell to the ground, its pellets spinning on the cold stone and spreading in an uneven circle. The rosemary and the feather landed between the Soldier’s feet and rested there, a promise of remembrance, a hope for peace.
The visitor stood and looked into the stone face again, his promise renewed - his soul at rest again for another year. He turned and slowly walked away - his eyes no longer dry, his mind no longer blank. When he reached the Harley, he unhooked the helmet from its side and pulled it over his head before climbing on and revving it back to life.
The call of reveille followed him as he rode back towards the city.
Freedom
In memory of those that served her cause, |
TrishA
