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For Band
By Peter Nostrand
You see the dust, hear the clanking of metal. They come slowly across the hill, announced by a single bagpipe. It becomes a solid block of male humanity, all shoulder to shoulder, as if they were one massive threatening beast. They lurch slowly in our direction, coming faster and faster.
Initially it is all dirt, bravado and color. Then the primordial screams.We engage and the battle is fierce. Neither side is interested in prisoners. It is hell on earth. Gratefully it does not last, despite the cost. Smoke and crying follow. It is impossible to tell who won and who lost. Both sides are dazed and wander about, bumping next to each other, oblivious to their mutual hatred, now interested only in finding their loved ones and their dead.
The Scottish officers arrive under a fanfare that is light and respectful. After the wounded and deceased are gathered, the procession begins to return home. It was as if this was just another routine day. A single bagpiper is the last to disappear over the hill.
You remember your father was Scottish.
