Unlike last year, when I had the Commonwealth War Cemetery to myself, the British Embassy decided to hold the 2010 Remembrance Ceremony on the correct day. Maybe it was the "moving on" of the previous ambassador and several key members of her entourage (about whom I had complained on various occasions) had something to do with it? But today, I was late.
Having tried twice to ascertain from the Embassy the details for the occasion, and then received an automatic "out of office" email from the FCO, an Australian friend gave me the news. The school accepted my need to absent myself and a cover teacher was arranged (did they have any option?). The transport was duly booked for 1030. The 5 minute journey should not prove a problem ..................hmmm,.............; in Sudan?
As the official representative of the school I was informed that a wreath would be ready to escort me - nice touch.
This morning, as the bell rang to herald a break for 750 screaming kids, I went to the Principal's office to find an enormous circle of mixed lilies, carnations and lilacs awaiting; with not a poppy in sight. It took one of our support staff to get the thing to the bus and we set off, myself and a new driver that I had not yet met, 10 minutes late once he had negotiated the exit.
The Khartoum traffic, a mad crush at the best of times, was greatly enhanced by hundreds of city workers preparing to enjoy the biggest celebrations of the Muslim year - Eid al Adha, when every family emulates the belief of Abraham by slaughtering a goat and then pigging out for days on greasy goat meat. We lurched and honked our way, the driver in silent concentration, until he suddenly spoke out above the din:
"Where is the dead place that you want?" Aha! Sudan!
So, I attracted the the complete curiosity from the many supporters on my arrival, as the service had begun. Having almost tripped over the huge wreath I leant it against a handy tree that stood, by the side of a member of the Special Forces (you can't miss them; white shirt, black suit and shades, crewcut and bulge under the armpit):
"Look after my flowers, mate". He nodded while contriving to look underwhelmed by the comedown.
A yound man thrust an order of service in my hand, a pretty lady gave me a chilled bottle of water and I turned to wander along the red carpet to the gathering, arriving in time for the end of the bishop's prayer (nothing missed there, then). Next, a disembodied voice invited us to retire to the cenotaph that stands midfield' and I positioned myself, with retrieved wreath from the smiling member of "The Boys", at the tail end of the several red, white, blue and, from Nigeria, green wreaths.
Protected from goodness knows which kind of terrorists might decide to invade Khartoum at 1100 on this day, by several SAS and SBS-types, by dozens of boys sporting the UN blue berets and a hundred of Sudan's finest, we stood to attention as a trio of buglers attempted the Last Post. For their efforts they would have been on permanent jankers in my day.
Two minutes of silence was well-acknowledged by the 200 guests from across the globe, and I had the opportunity to ponder the occasion, the sacrifice, the peaceful tranquility of where so many young men lie in eternity.
Muffled drum rolls now followed the progress of the dignitaries as they advanced, laid their floral offerings, stood respectfully and then retired to the 4 corners. The final three set off, the other 2 beating me hands down as I fought through the clinging grass to retain my balance and dignity, and to stop the damned circular market garden from collapsing under its own weight.
Placement, a step back, a smart naval salute (THAT got them wondering!) and I retired to where I had chucked my bottle. Behind me the colonel in charge of the defence of the small square of Great Britain that is the FCO's outpost, politely offered:
"Ladies and gentlemen, would you care to join us for drinks?" waving in the direction of the canopied tables loaded with refreshments.
While the herd galloped for the coloured liquids in the shade, I turned to a grave whose naval badge I had espied. The poppy, rather battered now from a month in my buttonhole, was eased to its own final resting place in the soil before the stone that announces the death in action against the "Mad" Mahdi, aboard the sloop HMS Dolphin, in May 1888, of one Steward G Borgia .
Killed fighting for the Freedom of what he believed to be the greatest Empire on Earth; here, in the Sudanese sun; he is remembered.
Have a nice Armistice Day.
Dave
