and this then led, through nations having treaties with Nations,

like a line of dominos falling

to some boys from England walking together in France on a terrible day.

The Doctor stood with Martha and watched the simple ceremony of Remembrance on that cold but sunny November morning, keenly aware of the slight weight of the poppy she had pinned on his breast. If anyone else knew what he was, some might wonder why he was there. This was nothing to do with him. Remembrance of Human wars. He was an alien from the other side of the galaxy.

But in his adult life he had lived on Earth almost as long as he had lived on his home planet. Earth’s wars, humanity’s remembrances of its wars, DID matter to him. He had spent a good deal of his time working with U.N.I.T., with soldiers, sailors, airmen, some of whom had died fighting off alien invasions that ordinary humans never even heard about. There were no medals for those campaign, no ribbons. But they were entitled to their remembrance, too.

And after all, The Doctor was a war veteran himself. He had fought in a more deadly war than any Human could begin to contemplate. He knew the grief of loss. He knew the pain of surviving. He, too, had asked the question. Why am I alive and so many others dead?

He had fought. Not for Queen and Country, but for Gallifrey, for his planet. They had lost. Everyone had died. There was nobody left to award posthumous medals, to build memorials. He was the only one left to remember. When he let himself, he could remember the names of so many who were lost. Today, as he watched the minister reading those words of Human Remembrance, at their Human memorial, he let the names of some of his friends drift through his mind. He spoke them quietly under his breath, almost like a prayer. He felt Martha’s hand close tightly over his. He knew she understood. He was grateful to her for that.

Then he gave his attention to the words that were being spoken and felt he understood the meaning of them more than anyone else standing there this day, except for those old soldiers with their medals and their poppies whose eyes told the same story his own did.

They shall grow not old,
as we that are left grow old.
Age shall not weary them,
nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun
And in the Morning
We Will Remember Them

WE WILL REMEMBER THEM

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
They mingle not with laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.
But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;
As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain,
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.

Laurence Robert Binyon, 1869-1943