Duty and Valour

         Singing steel screamed over the rocky outcrop, spraying metal in all directions as it ricochet off the stone surfaces. Young men shied away from the bullets, crouching for their lives beneath the German assault. Low on his stomach Duncan peeked around the shattered ledge and glimpsed at the enemy nest; sand bags and barbed wire encompassed their encampment. The trees would have provided cover for the trapped soldiers escape but the majority of foliage had fallen against the ruthless barrage of the gatling gun. German reinforcements were speedily on route and on their arrival Canadian lives would end.
         The gatling gun steamed like a mother after beating her child and Duncan's boys waited for the next rain of blows, but as the barrels spun the amount of shots overheated the steel killer. The jerking flow and stop of bullets was the telltale sign and Duncan knew it; now was their chance. He was up in a bound, one polished boot in front of the other as the forest flashed beside him and the muddy grass beneath his feet, sprinting with that urgency only a soldier can recall. Bullets hissed around him and punctured the ground about his feet but furious determination kept him running.
         Duncan scrambled up the small hill perching the nest, up the grass and debris, flinging clouts of wet clumpy dirt made only on the churned fields of war. At the top he rose, aimed, and shot over the sandbags, piercing the gunman's throat. Eye witness to the bravado of one man, rifles dropped and six Germans enlisted as P.O.W.s with raised arms. Soldiers holding their breathe waited with hope filled eyes until the figure of Duncan emerged over the horizon, prodding his captives down the slippery slope. Relief turned the ragged screams of terror to cheers of victory - but only for a moment, the war was still on.

         The beating midday sun struck dull rays of amber across the quiet streets of London. A barrier of remembrance blocked the sounds of cars and merriment to create an echoing silence as Prince George reined his magnificent horse and inspected the men of war lined up before him. Dismounted, his steed remained still as a statue while an assistant handed the Prince a small ornate wooden box of polished mahogany. All men saluted as one and stood unflinching, shoulders square and heads held high, their boots shining in the sun and uniforms crisp with an attention to detail.
         Standing in view of all the soldiers Prince George spoke. "A great service and self-sacrifice is made in war. All men who fight for the freedom of others and a world of equality are the best of us. You before me have done an even greater act of brotherhood; you chose the lives of your comrades and countrymen over your own, taking it upon yourselves to act at the vital moment for the benefit of others, knowing that death's blow was imminent. Our country can never show the full gratitude worthy of your character." Each soldier's chin inched higher, eyes gleaming with the appreciation of these words, few heard them. "Henry Duncan Wallace, for conspicuous bravery, daring acts of valour, self-sacrifice, and extreme devotion to duty in the presence of the enemy, I give you the Victoria Cross." White spotless gloves reached inside the case and drew out a cross pattee, one inch across with a dark brown finish. Held by the crimson ribbon, Prince George approached Duncan with the revered medal; emotions surged but kept at bay under a face rugged with experience.
         Pinned on his uniform, Duncan looked down and saw the Royal Crown surmounted by a lion guardant and a scroll bearing the inscription FOR VALOUR, and truly it was.