Honour Guard of the Lost

In his mind, a soft summer breeze wafted through the meadow of flowers, fluttering the beautiful red tissue like petals of Flanders poppies. The delicate petals waved and swayed, a field of poppies planted for the men who had died under his command, by his side; the friends he had lost to the long drag of war and conflict. He ran their names through his head every night before he went to sleep, and every morning when he woke, including the Brother-in-law he never got to call brother. He'd planted the poppies and flowers that summer with his step-son Archie. Soap's nephew had loved his uncle dearly, losing him had been worse than losing the father he'd never known. They'd planted it together as a way of healing.
He'd followed the advice of that strange old man on the train, he'd gotten help, professional help. It had taken several hours of digging, but he'd found the card for the specialist councillor that Mac had first given him on his return to the UK. It was a military specific service, and though even two years on there were many service men and women who still needed a sympathetic ear and reassuring voice. But Mac had already made special arrangements, expressing his concerns and worries, how desperately he needed help when he worked up the courage to make that call.
He'd also gone back to Soap's elder sister, Julia MacTavish had been nothing like the rest of her family, she hadn't spat at him, instead she'd thrown her arms around him and cried for joy, she'd missed him, as had little Archie. He'd been so stupid thinking she'd turn him away, that they'd blame him. She understood that it wasn't his fault, and he'd been just as hurt. He should have gone to her the moment he'd returned.
He knew he wasn't fixed, probably never would be, but the medication was helping, his days were more even, and he slept better. Not that someone was allowing him a lot of sleep much currently. He'd wanted to be in London again, to lay his wreath for the 141, but there were more important things in his life now. Eleven months ago, he and Julia had married in a small ceremony at a tiny little Highland church, and a month ago, two years to the day since Soap's death, their son had come into the world. John Gary Simon Price Junior, Gaz, Price's gift back to the world for all the life he had lost, or taken, his beautiful baby boy. He'd come down with a fever the other day, too high to take him on a plane, to put him under the stress of a long journey. And they'd wanted to go as a family, so he'd made the decision to stay with them, Mac would cover for him.
"How is he?" Price opened his eyes and looked down at his son, the baby slept with a contented face, wrapped warmly in the Camouflage romper suit Wallcroft had gifted them on his birth, he would he laying the wreath for the SAS this year.
"He's all right, fevers coming down, we came out for a little fresh air," Julia smiled,
"Well you better come in, it's almost eleven."
Archie sat in front of the telly, both he and his teddy wearing little poppy wrist bands,
"Hey Champ," Price ruffled the five year old's hair,
"Hi Daddy, they showed a picture of uncle Soap," he chirped cheerfully, Price smiled, over the last year he had been involved in a campaign to reveal the truth, the US had been pressured into spilling all the information they had on Shepherd, and they had successfully pieced together the truth, "you were on the TV too," the boy said in confusion,
"I know, we made a special film a few weeks ago, to tell the world what really happened in the war, what happened to your uncle, so we never forget." A short version of the film had been shown as part of the remembrance day service, the full documentary was being shown latter on in the week, in conjunction with several other programmes on world war three and the events that led to it.
Those who do not learn from the lessons of history will be forced to relive them. He and Mac had taken those words to heart, so much had been declassified to aid the film making, to ensure the public knew the whole truth.
"Hey Gaz!" The boy called suddenly, alerting Price to the arrival of his wife with a more lightly dressed Gaz, a poppy onesie. The baby was awake and sucking on his bottle,
"I'll take him," he offered; they settled on the sofa, Gaz resting in his father's arms, and Archie between mother and step-father. They may not have been miles south, standing on parade surrounded by others. But they were together as a family,
"I love you," Price muttered as the seconds rolled closer, "all of you."
The clock struck eleven, Price held his son close and linked fingers with his wife as the gun sounded, the world would never forget the sacrifices of the 141, their memory would forever stand guard with those of the past, a reminder never to be forgotten.