Well, it is finally here, once more. ANZAC day 2018. I have been dreading it. Looking forward to it not. I am confused. I am here in Spirit. With another – a like-minded soul. She is here, all around me. She is my embodiment. My cover. I am here in Australia, she calls it Oz. I am proud of her. She has pride in her heritage. I am still confused.
We, that is her and I have ordered the Ancestry DNA kit and have left it to this day to activate it. To open it. It will be done this afternoon. Not long after this post. I know where she belongs. I know where I belong. I am her ancestor. One of them. For there are many from my vintage.
We are sitting here, in the living room of her home, listening to the radio of the coverage of ANZAC day, especially those who fought on the Somme, in France way back on this day, 1918. It is poignant listening to those who have come after all those counrymen and women who fought and nursed back to health, way back then. I remember reading with her – this book called “All Quiet on the Western Front” It was poignant and sad. It affected her. She was only a child of 14 when she read it. My, how the years have slipped by us. To know that I have been here that long. It seems such an eternity to finally arrive at this day.
There is another. Someone who is here to stay. Someone who is with us all. He is grand. He is Great. He Is. In Spirit is this man who has been with her since birth. This spirit of, from her past. He is a young man, an old man. He simply is. He remembers the wars, the battles, the arguments of men throughout the ages. He is a Guide to this woman who is typing, is channelling this post today, on this day 100 years henceforth from 1918.
Way back then, we sat writing. It was another time, another day, a poignant and sombre day. The clouds were overhead, the noise was far off into the distance. We sat on a hard wooden bench outside, under the clouds that looked as though they would open up and allow the gush of water that must surely be held inside of them. We were writing in a journal. It was her journal – our journal. We wrote together. She was a nurse back then, It was another lifetime, yet I remember it so clearly. Before the fighting began. There was something in the air back then. We were there for the war. To defend the land. I scoffed. What land was so important that it needs defending?
Then the cannon fired. The gunshots could be heard. As though on cue, the war began on this day in this region. The air was filled with the smell of gunfire. The wounded would be here soon. The tents were still being assembled. Doctors were few and far between. There were a few. Would they be listed on the rolls of the fallen in 2018 we mused? Would we, as nurses be listed on the rolls of 2018? Probably not.
It is interesting to hear the stories from the descendants of the fallen on this day, back in 1918. The stories of the nurses who held the hands of the young men who fell. To hold onto them lovingly, as though they might be their mothers, then to let them go when their spirits left them. The nurses would walk outside to cry. It brought a lump to my heart. To know that something inside of me remembered having been in another war, a far-off war, where the men, only boys really, were known as Our Boys. We looked after them, held their hands,
Then I stop to listen to the dawn service being held in France on this day, it is ANZAC day. The Western Front is being remembered, 1918. Lest We Forget.