Remembrance

Once again, on his birthday, he stood alone. Like lost souls, he always thought, the morning ground mist drifted around his legs and the surrounding ruddy brown gravestones. He was comfortable on his own in the silence. His warm golden voice the only sound to be heard for the past hour, wavered, he paused in his reading.
Anyone walking past would have seen a tall, elegant, broad shouldered man, dressed in a dark blazer, white shirt and tie. Had they moved in closer they would have noticed a chest of medals, thick white hair beneath his regimental beret. If they had stopped to talk they would see a handsome face, long aquiline nose, full lips in his wide mouth and they would see his age, papery skin deeply lined, weather beaten tan, white scars, cataracts in his once clear blue eyes. He looked like he was; an old soldier.
He shifted awkwardly the leg was never comfortable for long. The medals clinked; he polished them unconsciously with his sleeve. His eyes swept the view. Beyond the cypresses the foothills of the Coriano ridge were becoming clearer as the Italian sun burnt off the early morning haze. In that moment his brain had registered all the places of concealment, of exposure, vantage points. He’d noted the types of trees, flowers, shrubs, his artistic heart intoxicated by the scents, the colours. He rubbed his left hand where the last two fingers had been. The once strong hands, ingrained with decades of working the land, shook a little. He noticed comfortingly the souls in the ground mist returning to the earth and more of the two thousand headstones emerging. He crossed himself. With his professional eye he always thought it was a neat, beautifully kept cemetery. Maybe a little bit more off the grass, he thought.
He ran his good right hand through his hair and rubbed the long scar. It was something he caught himself doing more often. Old memories had a stronger presence now. In a strong clear voice he read.
“Hewlett Private Ernest Desmond 19th April 1945 Age 23.”
“Hickey Private William 6th September 1944.”
He read on in a measured tone, careful to get the names just right, to a long line of ‘Hill’s’. With considerable difficulty he knelt down in front of a headstone, the leathery creek of his false limb accompanying his grunts of effort.
“Hill Private Percy Leonard 15th September 1944 age 32 years, my best friend.”
He put down the paper and from the crook of his arm took a bunch of flowers and placed them carefully, proudly in front of the stone.
“All the way from home Percy, smell that sweet Somerset air.” He smiled a warm open grin. “Here we are again, still don’t understand why you, or how I survived those first few days afterwards.” He sighed. “I miss you my friend. My body is giving out on me Perce, might not see me here next year, more things wrong with me than I can remember. I’ve sold the farm; I won’t miss much except the garden. Anyway must do what I came to do.. we’ll have a proper reminisce when I’ve finished.”
In an ungainly struggle he regained his feet, straightened his tie, took a deep breath and read on. He knew he would be here for sometime it was the least he could do to remember them all.