Lest We Forget

It’s been 3 months, 28 days and 12 hours since I’ve heard from you. Every morning I race to the letterbox and every morning is the same. Nothing but a few bills. I can’t do anything but wait. Wait for a letter from you, or wait for a letter from the Government. Please Jeremy, please write. I don’t want that letter from the Government. I don’t care about sentiments. Don’t tell me how much you love me. Don’t tell me how much you miss me. All I want is two words. I’m alive. That’s it… Please write Jeremy. Please. Yesterday I smashed a plate. For no apparent reason I picked it up and threw it on the floor. A shard cut into my leg, and you know what Jeremy, I savoured it. I relished in the pain and let the blood drip down my leg and onto the ground. I stared at it with relief; all this pain and frustration finally had a release. It was cleansing Jeremy. It was good therapy. Please write Jeremy, Please.



A young girl sits on the bus. She has her iPod plugged in and she stares out the window. She sees a cityscape and road works are in construction. There is a small patch of grass on the side of the road where poppies are dotted and they sway in the wind. The young girl spares a moment between the verse and the chorus of Prodigy’s Smack my Bitch Up for her grandfather.



26:06:1915.

Nothing but tinned this tinned that, what I wouldn’t do for a fresh orange or banana. Hell, I’d kill for a nice juicy steak. But all we’ve got is tinned food or rotten food. Take your pick. The flies come in swarms. They’re not like the little ones at home, they are enormous and they make an enormous noise to boot. It’s not surprising they’re so plump. They are well feed in “no man’s land” and then the greedy buggers steal food off the living as well. Ha! I look at the ad that enticed me to come to this retched coast. “A call from the Dardanelles” it says. A solider calls, “Co-ee – wont you come” and in the background is the Sea of Marmora and the Gulf of Saros. It looked so exotic. Then I look up and see the real thing. Cliffs with jagged points, ridges so skinny that only one man at a time can cross and oppressive heat that makes you sweat and sweat and sweat. I didn’t enlist to fight, I didn’t enlist to kill. I enlisted to see the world and if this is what the world is like then I’d rather be sharing sheep til the end of my days. It looked like an adventure but it’s been a nightmare from day one.



Private John Simpson Kirkpatrick is known today as “the man with his donkey” and he is a hero on the shores of Gallipoli. Simpson was appointed to be stretcher bearer, but he decided that his task would more efficient if he collected his wounded charges with a donkey. Although it is thought that Simpson gained fame while he was alive, he only gained hero status in his death. He became the main figure of propaganda for the campaign and the image of Simpson and his donkey encouraged thousands of young men to enroll. Simpson was born in South Sheilds, Durham England and enlisted to the Gallipoli campaign not because he wanted to be a solider but because he desired to return to England. Simpson died three weeks after he arrived at the shores of Anzac Cove. He was 23 years old.



Why did I ever doubt you Jeremy my love. It wasn’t doubt, it was lost hope and I found it again, I found it in the letter box this morning. You’re coming back, you’re coming home as you always said you would. I wept with joy all morning my love and when I did the dishes I did not have the urge to smash a plate or a cup. I did not have the urge to dig a shard of glass into my skin and smile as the pain releases from my body, because now I have no reason to feel pain, now that you’re coming home. Oh my love you will return safely wont you.



“Ma, why are they called anzac biscuits?”

“Because we eat them on ANZAC day.”

“What’s anzac day ma?”

“It happened a long time ago sweetie.”



The living are scarier than the dead. The living cries a blood curdling scream that rings in your ears long after it has stopped. Or worse, they look at you with huge saucer eyes that have lost all hope. When I collect one injured person, five more reach out their blooded hands on the return trip. They snap at the donkey’s hoofs like zombies reaching out of the ground. I was on the job as soon as we hit the shores of Anzac Cove. The men that I picked up were my friends; they were the men that I’d spent the boat ride with and I’d trained with them in Egypt. My friend Private Jeremy Smith was the first man I picked up. He wasn’t the worst. I’ve seen men with their eyes blown out, there legs chopped off, their arms chopped off, blooded spurting everywhere and they quiver. They quiver like crazy men and mumble things that you don’t want to understand. Oh no he wasn’t the worst. Jeremy was stabbed in his thigh and they patched him right up and sent him back out here within a week. It’s good to have him back but we’re not the same men as we we’re in Egypt. And we probably never will be.







“Where’s my shoes darling?”

“Jeremy love, you already have them on. Here, let me do up the laces.”

“No!”



There he is, Brad Pitt and there are her lips two centimeters away from his. This is the moment. This is it. She licks her lips in anticipation of what Brad Pitt’s tongue will taste like. She bets it tastes like fresh cream and strawberries and she’s only moments away from finding out. A jack hammer. Lyrical violins. A jack hammer. Floating Pianos. A jack hammer. Brad Pitt’s face and his beautiful lips disappear and all she can hear is the jack hammer of her alarm clock.

“Alright! I’m awake, I’m awake!”

She thumps the off button. Her blurry eyes can’t believe the torture they’ve been put through when they read the little red numbers. 5:00am. It’s still pitch black, not even the early birds are catching the worm at this time. Oh ten more minutes won’t hurt, she rolls over and goes back to sleep. She had good intentions the night before to get up early and go to the ANZAC dawn service but in the end, sleep and Brad Pitt’s strawberry and cream lips were the winners.



19:04:1915.

It’s bloody hot here! I hope Turkey’s not going to be like this! It’s good fun though. Beats shearing sheep, that’s for sure. The British have got us on a tight schedule and they’re training us up for combat, but we still have time for a few games of soccer in the evening. Well the kiwi’s and the Aussies do but the British don’t seem that keen. One joker put dung beetles in the Cornell’s bed! He’s alright. His name is Private John Simpson Kirkpatrick. But watch him, He’ll cheat ya blind out of a game of cards!



I’ve started to cut myself again Jeremy. I’ve started to slice my body. I wonder if you notice the fresh wounds underneath my night dress. No you haven’t Jeremy. You haven’t because you haven’t put your hands up my night dress since you got back. I wanted to break down in tears and lie in your arms for hour and hours, I thought we’d make a baby Jeremy. I thought we’d spend days trying to make a baby. I got my hair done especially for you Jeremy, and I wore the dress with the poker dots that is your favourite. You told me it was your favourite Jeremy! You told me that it makes you go wild when I wear that dress. Well you were far from wild when you returned weren’t you Jeremy. You barely looked at me. You just gave me a brief kiss on the cheek. The cheek Jeremy! You walked straight past me and told me you had to sleep. I didn’t cry Jeremy; I was a good wife and got on with the household chores. Well Jeremy I did the dishes like a good wife and I accidentally broke a glass.



15:05:1915

Simpson was killed. I don’t know how else to write that but in plain black and white English. Simpson. Was. Killed. He might have been killed by “friendly fire”. What a joke, friendly fire. A bullet is never friendly. No that’s a lie. A bullet can look like Jude’s chocolate mud cake at times. Sometimes you get the mentality that it’s only a matter of time until you pull the short end of the straw. So why not end it quietly and painlessly. I mean, you already committed suicide when you put your name down to come to this retched place. You’d just be speeding up the process. And that way you wouldn’t have to watch your friends die. Friendly fire. What a joke.



Dear, I’m sorry for not speaking to you. I’m sorry for not touching you. I’m sorry for lying in bed all day. I’m sorry for not opening the curtains. I’m sorry for not eating. I’m sorry for not shaving. I’m sorry for not showering. I’m sorry for not dressing. I’m sorry for not working. I’m sorry. I still love you. You must know that I still love you.



Jeremy and his wife, Jude, lie in bed. They lie on opposite sides with their backs facing each other. Neither Jeremy nor Jude is asleep. They stare with blank expressions into space. Jeremy rolls over and touches his wife’s shoulder.

“I’m ready.” He says.

Jude stares at him with tender eyes.

“I want to make a baby.” He says.

Jeremy showers his wife with soft kisses on her face and neck. Silent tears roll out of Jude’s eyes as she shifts her body towards her husband’s touch. Jeremy plays with the bottom of his wife’s nightie hem and gently lifts it up. He rubs his wife’s stomach. Abruptly, he stops kissing his wife as his finger traces sharp wounds across Jude’s body. He glances at his wife’s stomach and reels his hand back in horror. Jude’s pale white skin is blemished with slits of red. He runs to the bathroom, slams the door and violently throws up.



He feels like the king of his domain in his classroom, and he struts around like proud peacock. He feels especially cocky this period with his favourite students. Year 12 history.

“What does ANZAC day mean to you?”

“A day off school.”

The lads all laugh at this.

“Yes and what else?”

The class falls silent.



“I want a divorce Jeremy.”

Jude tumbles with a cigarette pack pulls one out and struggles to light up. She inhales the nicotine as fast as she can and breaths in with relief.

“Since when did you smoke?”

“Since it was a choice between nicotine and slashing my body to pieces.”

“I’ve never noticed.”

Jude closes her eyes. Her leg is pulsating like a marching drum.

“I want a divorce Jeremy.”

 

I come here for you my love. Every ANZAC day I wake up at 5:00am and I come here. It’s hard for me my love. Even when I was young, it was hard. No matter how many cigarettes I smoked. When they raise that flag and play that trumpet, well, it makes me want to run home and wash dishes! I know that sounds absurd doesn’t it my love, but you know what I mean by that. You didn’t want to know, but you knew my love. You knew. Now I’m an old woman my love, now I have to be wheeled to the service covered in blankets. Each year it feels like I’m going to your funeral all over again. Each year I curse that retched war for ruining our life. You couldn’t handle it, could you my love. You couldn’t handle surviving the war and then you couldn’t handle being without me. I’m sorry my love, I’m sorry for leaving you, but I couldn’t handle being with you. It broke my heart my love and I used the shattered pieces to hurt myself. It would have been a race to grave my love. You won that race, but now I’m quick on your heels. Death doesn’t scare me my love, the only thing that scares me is; who’s going to remember you when I’m gone?