The Last Post

A sea of red swirls around The Tower of London moat, contrasting with the green grass underneath and the stone walls at the sides. A tall wave of red poppies rises from those below to throw itself over the rampart to the entrance. It freezes midway. 

The poppies are an evolving exhibition to mark the centenary of the outbreak of the First World War. On 5^th August, the first full day of the UK having joined the conflict, ceramic poppies began to be planted in the moat. By Armistice Day on 11^th November, there will be 888,246. Each representing a member of the British and Commonwealth armed forces who was killed. 

The usual bustle around the Tower is subdued as people gaze in wonder and reflection. Even the nearby busy traffic sounds muffled in respect. 

Every evening as the sun goes down, there is a roll of honour of the names of some of the dead, followed by a lone bugler playing “The Last Post”. Next to me was a lady who was there to hear the name of her grandfather’s cousin. “Your grandfather came back?” I asked. “Yes he came back. But his cousin didn’t.” She paused. “He was a prisoner of war, actually,” she said. “He was in a camp and when he died… it wasn’t because of the war. He died of a kidney infection in 1918”. 

Another man joined the small gathering crowd and enquired “Is something going to happen?” I explained why we were all standing there and the significance of the number of poppies. He let out a slow breath. “I must write that down,” he said. “How many was that?” “888,246.” 

Dusk approached. A Yeoman of the Guard and a Bugler walked to the centre of the moat. The crowd grew silent. Surrounded by a sea of red poppies, a single light shone on the Beefeater as he began to read the names of the fallen, their rank and regiment. Name after name was spoken. The silence increased. The list continued, page after page. With each identity, the enormity of the moment, and the silence, gained weight. Four men in succession had the same surname. Were they brothers? Father and sons? A few names further on, the same surname again. On and on the roll of names flowed, until approximately two hundred had been said. And yet it was a pinprick in the total. The sun had set. It was dark.

 

Then came the famous words by Robert Laurence: 

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. 

“The Last Post” cried in anguish. And the crowd dispersed silently.