A Remembrance
Do you hear it, all of you, and remember. Listen!
“Markers outwards turn. Quick march.”
“Up, number four. Look sharp. That’ll do.”
“Markers, steadi-i-i-i-i——.”
“Right turn.”
“Fall in.” And then the final great roar of—
“Stop all that yammering.” And how quickly it stopped, too.
Do you remember it, and who said it? Of course you do, just as clearly as I myself do. You remember those early mornings, too. The sleepy chatter stilled in an instant to silence. And all those other days, too, when custom had made it imperative on all parades, it was part of us and our ceremonial.
The repeating of it to ourselves conjures up the history of those never-to-be-forgotten days and carries back our spirits to commune with all those gone before us.
I say it to myself often now just to bring before me those wonderful memories. I have heard it on the sea front at Troon; on the Hills of Dundonald; at Prees Heath, in the lovely woodlands and parks of England; on the moors of Yorkshire; at Sheffield. It has sounded over the vast spaces of Salisbury Plain, and in France and Flanders, where all it stands for was so wonderfully justified and upheld, calling up that wonderful spirit and special discipline. That was the dear old Seventeenth.