Spirit of the Nation ★ Female America

15. Remembrance Day

November 11, 1945

Buckingham Palace

London, United Kingdom

President Truman sitting with King George VI and his family was the most absurd thing I had ever seen in my life.

Far below the balcony, I sat in the audience with hundreds of others attending the memorial service in the palace courtyard. A marching band filled the air with triumphant music as they filed into place beside a large choir of at least a hundred. The commander of the King's Guards barked orders as his men took their places as well. Robed ministers of the Church of England waited in the wings to deliver the service.

The band finished their entrance with a flourish, and a shouted order for the guards to stand at ease echoed through the courtyard. The heels of their rifles hit the ground in perfect unison.

I breathed out an impressed sigh, my breath clouding in front of me. Not even presidential inaugurations were such a spectacle.

"Can they see through those hats?" France whispered from his wheelchair to my left. "Can they breathe?"

"They must be able to see," I murmured, leaning on his armrest. "I mean, their feet, surely."

I stole a glance to my right. England sat in uncharacteristic silence with his arms crossed. I wanted to tease him about the silly hats, or the preacher who looked like a wizard, or the wailing crowd outside the palace gates. But his unusual quietness and the somberness of the occasion tamed me. I faced forward when a minister began to speak over a microphone.

Following the benediction, he called for two minutes of silence and invited those listening over the radio to join as well. As an eerie hush fell over the crowd, I bowed my head and closed my eyes.

Not even a whisper of a voice was heard.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen, please rise for the national anthem."

France remained seated as the audience stood. I lifted my eyes to the balcony as the band struck up "God Save the King." A chorus of angelic voices sang the admittedly beautiful song as the King looked on with joy and pride.

Another announcer took the microphone. "The national anthem of the Soviet Union."

It started with a loud flourish. I was impressed to hear the singers belting out the lyrics in Russian. Russia's unexplained absence was felt strongly during the performance.

"The national anthem of the French Republic."

When I felt France's hand on my wrist, I leaned down to listen to him. Unexpectedly, he tugged hard, causing my knees to buckle instantly. "France," I hissed, trying to maneuver my arm somehow to help him stand.

His weight suddenly lifted to a manageable amount, and I looked up to find England supporting his other side. He caught my eye briefly, wearing the same somber expression he had all morning. The three of us stood like this for all of "La Marseillaise."

As France settled back into his chair, I gave him a scolding glare. He only shook his head and smiled.

I pressed the back of my knees into my chair to allow England to return to his seat. He grazed me slightly as he passed, so close that I caught the scent of him. He issued a prompt apology as he straightened his formal coat. I nodded, folding my gloved hands in front of me. For the remainder of the service, I was hyperaware of his every movement.

"The national anthem of the United States of America."

My eyes immediately searched for a flag. When "The Star-Spangled Banner" began, my right hand automatically covered my heart as my eyes searched for the flag. Absurdly, I found it being held by a British soldier in a red uniform.

The performance was both delightful and gratifying. When the chorus finished with a majestic crescendo, I let my hand fall and released a contented sigh. I leaned towards England with a half-formed, snarky remark on my lips.

Suddenly, they began the second verse. I quickly raised my salute again.

My eyes drifted over the choir in confusion. They sang the lyrics with familiar yet captivating passion, plucking at every one of my heartstrings. Overcome with pride, I felt tears gather in my eyes.

As if the special gesture wasn't clear enough, they swept into the third verse and chorus.

The end came like the end of a dream. I blinked, sending warm tears rolling down my flushed cheeks. I sniffled in some cold air in an attempt to regain awareness of my surroundings. Everything seemed the same, except for me.

I reached out and grasped the hem of England's sleeve.

He leaned down to give me his ear.

"Thank you," I whispered breathlessly.

His lips broke into a smile.

"You're welcome."