LEST WE FORGET
by PAUL MURGATRYOD
A MOURNFUL Christ on a lofty cross gazed down at row after row of gravestones that stretched on and on, the pale gravestones of thousands and thousands of soldiers who lost their lives in the sombre slaughter of the Great War.
A tall and upright old man and a much shorter old lady advanced along one row of gravestones, holding up black umbrellas to ward off the rain that fell steadily from the bruised sky. Her heels left small holes in the sodden grass, which instantly filled with muddy water. A moaning gust of wind suddenly stabbed her between the shoulders, making her hunch them and pull her crimson scarf tight at her throat. He didn’t notice the icy blast, as he was intent on the names of the dead and the melancholy epitaphs, shaking his grey head sadly at the youth of so many of those who had met their end on the battlefields of Belgium.
‘Blummineck, who’s this old trout? And the cheerful chappie with her? Clear off, you flippin’ old fossils, go and eat coke!’