AN: Title from 'Another Brick in the Wall (part I)' by Pink Floyd. Written for the 'memory' challenge at fan_flashworks.

I've been looking only forward, for the last few months. But tonight is a night for looking back, for remembering.

.*.*.*.

I was five when I first heard something of the truth about my father, on my second day of school. Not the first - that had been a day of tentative friendships, of bewildered children trying to understand this new world. A day of avoiding the 'Biguns', of discovering the joys of playmates. I'd never had anyone my own age to play with before; there was only baby Charlotte at home, and babies weren't much fun for an active little boy.

It was the second day the trouble started; someone must have mentioned at home that little Tommo Peaceful had started school, and the grown-ups got to reminiscing. I don't know, all I knew was that suddenly people were looking at me and whispering, until finally someone shouted it out. Well - even one day at school had taught me how boys should solve disputes. Oh, I didn't win, of course; he had two years and several pounds on me, but I held my own well enough that nobody bothered me again that day. I was glad of that, because all I could think about was the stories Mother and Uncle Tommo had told me, about my brave father who'd died in the war. The others were wrong, I was sure of it; sure that as soon as I got home Uncle Tommo would make it all right.

I was dancing with impatience by the time Uncle Tommo got back from the farm where he worked, did as much with his one good arm as other men could do with two. I hadn't wanted to ask Mother or Grandmother about it, somehow; I wonder now what that was about. Had I guessed even then that it might be true? No, I don't think so. I can still remember the sick feeling in my stomach when Uncle Tommo didn't deny it immediately as I'd been so sure he would. Instead, he sank down slowly onto the grass, waved me to sit beside him, all in silence.

"Oh, Tommo," he said at last. "I've been afraid for years of the day when you'd ask this."

I couldn't say a word, just stared at him in horror as all the comfortable certainties of my life began to shatter.

"Your father was no coward, Tommo, I swear. You're too young for the full story yet, but I'll tell you some. I… we were in the war together, and I'd been hurt. The sergeant ordered us to move, but I couldn't and Charlie wouldn't leave me. They… they said he'd mutinied, disobeyed orders, and I suppose he had, though it wasn't a fair order… but he wasn't a coward, Tommo. He was the bravest man I knew. And if anyone tries telling you differently at school, never you mind them, because you'll know better. You'll hear the full story someday, when you're old enough, but for now, just remember that."

Mother had come outside while he was talking, unnoticed by me. Now, as the tears sprang to my eyes despite my attempts to suppress them, she gathered me up into her arms as if I were no older than Charlotte. I clung to her, sobbing, and she held me tight.

.*.*.*.

Children are resilient; the day-to-day amusements and work kept me too busy to dwell much on what I'd learnt about my father that day. There was school, learning, games on the playground. There was Big Joe to follow as he went on his walks, to bring animals to and watch his joy. There was Charlotte, running after me it seemed from the moment she found her feet. There was little Josie, who arrived three years after Charlotte to complete our family. Oh, some days were harder; I don't believe there was a single year when I didn't come home from school with bruises at least once near Remembrance Sunday. But on the whole, mine was a happy childhood. As I grew older, though, I began to wonder, to want to know more, yet didn't quite dare ask.

In the end, I didn't have to ask. Uncle Tommo kept the promise he'd made me; when I was sixteen - the age he'd been when he joined up - he told me the whole dreadful story of how my father had been court-martialled. He had old letters, the ones my father had written to Grandmother, Mother, and Big Joe. And others, from their fellow soldiers; furious at how Charlie had been judged, they had written their own testimonials for the son of their brother-in-arms. I still have those letters, not on me of course, not here, but safely kept at home.

I learnt something else that day, apart from the full truth about my father. I learnt why Uncle Tommo had been so afraid of the day he'd have to tell me.

"If you hate me now you know everything," he'd said slowly, as if the words were being pulled from him, "I'll understand."

Once again, I just gaped at him speechlessly. Hate him?

"Hate you? I hate… I hate Horrible Henley. Why would I hate you?"

"Charlie disobeyed orders because he wouldn't leave me. If I hadn't been there, if he hadn't felt he had to protect me…" Uncle Tommo's voice trailed off, but there was no need for him to say anything more. I understood now.

Would I still have my father if Uncle Tommo hadn't been there? Perhaps - but there were enough fatherless children among my friends, enough names on the memorial where the absence of 'Charles Peaceful' would always sting, for me to know there was no certainty there. As for him abandoning his brother… I tried to imagine myself in that situation, picture Charlotte or little Josie in horrible danger, and knew immediately I could never leave them. No matter how annoying they were, and to a sixteen-year-old two younger sisters could be very annoying, I'd always protect them.

As for hating Uncle Tommo, how could I hate the man who'd been like a father to me? Who'd raised me, treated me like his own, loved me just as he loved his daughters? Not that I said any of that, of course; I had plenty of the boyish horror of sentimentality. But I gripped his hand hard as I said, "Of course I don't hate you. I couldn't."

Looking back, I think he understood everything I left unsaid, from the answering strength of his grip.

.*.*.*.

It's getting late, we'll be called soon to board the ship that will take us to Europe. I remember Uncle Tommo, as he told me Father's story, thanking God that I'd never know the horrors of war… how little we knew. I wonder what they felt, on their last night on English soil? Did they have this knot in their stomachs? I think of how I'm older now than even my father was when he signed up. I'm older than he ever was.

I don't have a little brother following me to war, either - funny, I used to wish for a brother as a child, and now I'm grateful not to have one. But I do have my sisters. Josie's still a child, still at school; she was always the clever one, clever enough to win a scholarship to the local grammar. She'll be safe, this war will be over before she's grown up (please God let this war be over before she's grown up). Charlotte, though, is nearly old enough to volunteer - and desperate to do so the minute she is. Mother says she mustn't and won't, but I know my sister; if she wants to do something, she will, she always has. They say the women won't fight, won't leave England, but what if they do? What if the next time I see my sister is on a bloody battlefield?

No. I mustn't think like that. I must remember what they tell us, that by our service we'll keep our loved ones safe.

The officers are coming. It must be time to board. I glance down at my wrist, at a watch that survived the Great War, wondering if it will survive this one. If I will survive this one.

I jump to attention as the order is given, shoulder my pack. We fall into step, and I find myself humming under my breath.

Oranges and lemons, sing the bells of St Clements…