Well Packing the gear ready to go to Retreat for the weekend ( no not my car with my neices in) and while there it will be ANZAC Day and for the 1st year in many years I will not being doing duties. I will admidt the past few weeks I have not been as mobile as normal either and shopping has become a real chore.
So off to the scout camp I will go and try to get plenty of knitting done in quiet reflection amdist other knitters, overhead planes for the fly over and possible wet weather critters. Take a few moments to think of those who have served and those still serving.
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.
But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;
As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.
My Grandfather served in Anzio Italy and this is one he had scratched on a scrap of paper faded.
THE CROSSES GROW ON ANZIO
Oh, gather 'round me, comrades; and listen while I speakOf a war, a war, a war where hell is six feet deep.Along the shore, the cannons roar. Oh how can a soldier sleep?The going's slow on Anzio. And hell is six feet deep.
Praise be to God for this captured sod that rich with blood does seep.With yours and mine, like butchered swine's; and hell is six feet deep.That death awaits there's no debate; no triumph will we reap.The crosses grow on Anzio, where hell is six feet deep.
. . . Audie Murphy, 1948