Last week a crumpled piece of paper in our letterbox announced the annual wreath-laying ceremony of the Bovinian Military Reservist and Veteran Society. (What a long sentence.) CG thought, as a serving officer, that it would be a nice idea to go along and offer moral, and possibly other, support. Being, as you know, of a curious nature, I was keen to accompany him and was proud when we set off, so fine he looked in his regalia, tall and upright, buttons gleaming. The sun had long set when we arrived at the the meeting place and focal point for all Bovinian events, the maypole. We looked around for other uniformed personages, but could only see the brass band warming up, which they needed to badly, as it was freezing. You might think they were playing a few last minute scales and arpeggios, but actually their idea of preparing for a performance is hurriedly chain smoking and draining their beer glass as they gather up their respective wind instrument. A few other figures lurked in the gloaming, all over seventy years of age, woolen cardigans under their blazers and various sashes and feathers adorning their hats/shoulders/whatever. We presumed these to be the Society, as such, as there was nobody else around, and edged towards them. As usual we were eyed suspiciously and not a word was uttered, until the tallest of the grey men approached CG and asked worriedly if he was a VIP. At which my husband laughed - in a kind way, I should add - and said he was 'just a normal soldier', and the grey tall man heaved a sigh of relief and introduced himself as the Chairman. The Society, quite sizable really with 93 members, was present in a somewhat depleted form, he said, as most were carousing at a wedding in another village. So it was just us, the old guys, the band and then the mayor, whose arrival always puts the official seal on things. I asked the mayor if I should be part of the procession, being the only woman, and he ushered me into line with a wicked chuckle. Before I could protest, the band struck up a jaunty tune and off we marched.
Thank goodness it was dark. I felt most ill at ease in a line of military men, albeit mostly decrepit. And just for your future reference, don't try it with a handbag on your shoulder - it severely affects arm swinging symmetry. It wasn't a long way into the church, where I escaped into a pew at the earliest opportunity. The mass was short and business-like. We had the feeling that Father Hans had his eye on an unseen clock and I felt pretty sure that his mind was on his planned activities for the evening. Perhaps a nightclub in Munich? Surely there is a place where they all go and let their hair down. He rattled through the service, we all poured out into the cold night, and stood around while tall grey Chairman made a brief speech and laid a wreath at the village war memorial. Bovinia wouldn't be Bovinia without the token surprise, though, and this time it was three huge canon blasts - I know not from whence they came - which shook us to the core and caused the maypole to visibly wobble. Then they all got in line again, except CG who'd had enough of being the only one in a real uniform and needed to get home and into back into mufti. As we drove away the band and the old men paraded up and down the street, and the audience drifted into the Gasthof for a quick schnapps. The smell of old schnitzel frying fat wafted out as the door opened. The flaming torches around the maypole were efficiently extinguished by the bored local fire brigade, and peace was once again restored to the village centre.
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