Anzac Day 1920
It's exactly five years since the day their generation was destroyed.
On April 25th, 1915, countless lads — including some that Jim and Wally knew — went to their deaths.
Wally sits on a bench in the square of Cunjee, studying the sky above. It's blue, just like the water was before the Anzacs landed. Now and then, a white cloud drifts across his field of vision.
To him, it feels all wrong that he should sit here, his heart beating a quick tattoo within his body, his skin warm and more tanned than when he first went to war as a teenager six years ago, while his mates lie sleeping below the earth in a foreign land.
Today doesn't just remind him of those friends, though; memories spring to him of other comrades who bravely fought and fell in Flanders fields. Those crosses and poppies are the stuff of legend now, but he was there. Too many of those crosses were made by him.
He drops his head, closing his eyes and interlocking his fingers on his knees as the faint strains of a bugle reach his ears. It doesn't take much for him to be taken back to France, sitting in a dugout as night falls, praying that the Last Post will come to relieve them of the day's fighting.
So deep in memory is he that he barely acknowledges at first the touch on his shoulder, light at first, then becoming more insistent. Faintly, he hears his name being uttered in a female voice.
It has to be a trap. The Germans have sent a woman to spy on us.
He shoots up into a standing position, turning to catch at the woman's arm, then freezing as he sees who it is.
Norah Linton stands before him, her eyes wide and one hand over her mouth. She looks scared. Scared of him. And then he realizes that it was she who drew him from his flashback.
For several moments they stand there, staring at each other, before he pulls her into a hug that is equal parts an apology and a comfort — to both of them. She is stiff at first, but then relaxes into his embrace, burying her head into his shoulder.
His best friend. His almost-sister.
Why am I like this? Why do I hurt the people closest to me?
Against the rough fabric of his dress uniform, reluctantly worn to mark the day, she whispers words of assuagement. The very fact that she does not blame him makes him war with himself more.
Of course, it isn't the first time she's witnessed him in the midst of his suffering, and it won't be the last. However, he wonders how many more times she'll have to witness it before he finally recovers. If he will ever recover.
Shaking his head minutely, he holds Norah closer and breathes in the scent of her hair. The world is behind, and home is ahead. He'll never forget the brave boys and men who died alongside him and across the sea.
Some folk he'll never forget. Some kind he'll never forgive.