Never Forget

War

CLEMENCE

Since that day in September, Hitler and the Axis have been manoeuvring their way across Europe, engulfing nation after nation and I, like many other mothers have watched recruits- young men like my sons, swear allegiance with the Allied forces and join the Australian Imperial Forces. War is not new to me. As a child, I felt the unbearable pain that it unleashes upon those left behind. I can still recall endless nights where blood stained tears had soaked my pillow and screams shrilling like a bombing raid siren had woken me. My brother, Clarence, was a soldier of the Great War, the war that was supposed to end all wars. Yet, despite the relentlessness of my nightmares, Clarry had returned home as living proof that war doesn't have to be the final walk into no-man's land

In comparison to other returned soldiers, Clarry had been lucky. Apart from a few new scars that intriguingly added to his attractiveness, he had weathered the torrential rain of war relatively unscathed. However, when I looked deep into his blue eyes, I could see stories reflecting a time he cannot or will not share. Stories, which despite their cinematic worthiness, would largely, be locked away in his tormented mind to fade into a surreal existence in the unwritten pages of history.

Despite Clarry's silence, I had heard stories of his bravery and these stories slowly crept their way into local folklore. Those who had witnessed Clarry's heroism spoke highly of his unselfish bravery and I had listened in awe with sibling pride. On the 28 July, 1919, folklore became family history when, much to Clarry's embarrassment, a letter from the Australian Imperial Force- a recommendation for Distinguished Conduct as proclaimed by His Majesty the King of the British Empire.

The extract read-

During the attack on Peronne on 1st September 1918 after all his officers had become casualties, Sergeant Clarence Roy Burns had taken over command of the Company displaying great powers of leadership throughout the attack. When his Company was held up by machine gun fire, he rallied the men and after dusk he had personally carried water to his posts with an utter disregard for his own personal safety. Despite being injured early on in the attack he remained on duty and led a run through a gap in the wire on an enemy machine gun nest, capturing three guns and 25 prisoner, and personally killed several of the enemy.

With the vivid imagination of a teenager, I could see my brother sitting in a trench. On both sides, the mud walls reach up to the battlefield. Built to protect its occupants, they are sliding from the rain that has plagued the men. The mud that lies on the floor clings to their boots with every laden step. I can see Clarry, his tin hat sits low over his eyes causing the rim and eyebrows look as one. Clarry squints as he tries to make out the figures around him. The gunfire is insistent and the rat-a-tat-tat and popping ring in his ears. Fear pulses through his body. The instinctive desire to run is overpowering but he has nowhere to go. He looks around and sees the scattered silhouettes of fallen men. If he was to raise his head over the wall, he knows that he will see many more- lifeless lumps that under their own weight slowly camouflage with the mud.

Night is approaching like a lion stalking its prey. Clarry knows that although the gunfire will soon drift away, the hunting will never cease. Every hunter knows that the cloak of night offers the element of surprise and a heightened sense of courage, 'bad things happen at night and tonight will be no different'. He can smell iron rich blood and looks down at his wound. It is a very neat hole. The dirt is slowly building around the circumference and the deepening red liquid flows from the centre like lava. Clarry lets it bleed. To push away the dirt, he uses his index finger to wipe the stream of blood outwards. Surprised by the lack of pain, Clarry can feel the viscosity of the liquid as it meets the air. Although not serious enough to be life threatening, it is definitely more than a gash. It must be the adrenaline masking the pain. The men are bunkering down for the onslaught of the night and are in desperate need of hydration. Clarry does not waste a single drop of water in a miserable attempt to clean his injury.