Never Forget

1957 North Wagga

Jesus, Mary and Joseph, how the hell will I get my wife to travel overseas on a plane? The stubborn, old woman steadfastly refuses to attend an ANZAC day march in Wagga, let alone go to the African continent for the opening of a memorial. The 25th of April is always a hard for Clem. In the short period of peace, wedged between two book ends of war, it was the day she had given birth to Clive. A date she once celebrated as the beginning of a new life is also one of commemoration. The day of birth now swamped by not only the loss of Clive but George and Max as well. Clem doesn't need one day a year to remember, she remembers every day. Little reminders present themselves in so many ways- A magpie building its nest, the sound of Keith's voice, the empty chairs at the kitchen table. Ten years on and there is not one day that she hasn't cried, 3650 days of painful remembering. To a large extent, despite the outward strength she portrays my wife is a shattered woman. Her heart a jigsaw put together with missing pieces. I share her pain and know that there is nothing I can do to ease her suffering.

The letter from the Imperial War Graves Commission had come out of the blue. It was with a flatness of regret that Clem had read the letter, an invitation to attend the opening of a memorial at El Alamein. All her expenses would be paid for and her travelling companions to be three women, who like Clem have lost loved ones to the futility of war. Each of the women having been chosen for their own special reason; Clem's being that she now possesses a cold, hard medal bearing three stars instead of her three sons. Her steadfast refusal to attend has not surprised the family. She hasn't even left the state of New South Wales and lives each day with the regret of not being able to attend Max's funeral in Queensland. And now she was being asked to get on a plane and leave the only place she truly knows, to go to a place where not a single cross stands in place of her sons.

"Come on love we owe it to them, you need to go and say goodbye. It will be good for you. It may help," I tentatively broach the subject.

Clem reverently hangs her scapular on her bed post.

"I said my goodbyes the last time they walked out my door and I won't be saying them again".

Through the still blackness of the night I ache for her pain. I can hear the tears in her reply as her whispered agony waivers through stiffened lips. Her words tear at me. Clem is a good mother, not once has she faltered in hiding her anguish from the other children. She has worked hard at creating family memories of happiness but I live her loss and know that when the sun goes down each day Clem's energies leave her exhausted to the point of breaking.

The following night I try again.

"Come on Love just think about it. It can be a bit of a holiday and you will be that much closer to the boys." I coax.

"Closer to the boys, closer to the boys, I will give you closer to the boys Chris Campbell! Max is here in Australia and I haven't even been able to visit him and now you want me to stand and wave at Clive's grave from across a stretch of desert..." her voice strains with a sorrow that she can't reign in "...and as for George...we don't even know where he is...we'll never know where he is," Clem sniffs defiantly, "If you think it is such a fantastic idea why don't you put on a dress and go yourself?"

"Good Lord, woman, you know I don't look good in a dress!" I say in jest trying to lift the mood.

Too upset to see anything funny in my words Clem rolls over and I listen as she cries herself to sleep.

The retaliation of Clem's illogical words has been playing on my mind. It isn't often that I am brave enough to disagree with his wife but on this matter I do. To be honest, I couldn't deny the twinge of unfair envy I had felt when Clem had read me the letter. The chance to be closer to my boys and to say farewell to them is one that I want and with that desire, I pick up the pen and begin to write the Imperial War Graves Commission. Biting my lip, I pause and smirk to myself as I resist the tantalising notion of offering to wear my best Sunday frock if granted permission to travel in my wife's place.