Fletcher stood beside a wheelchair-bound Clegg and his wife and kids and scanned the rows of people surrounding the cenotaph in London, all donning poppies of one kind or another and waving small flags. They were in their marine garb, paper poppies pinned to their dress blues. “I don’t recognize anyone yet, do you?”
Clegg looked up at him from the wheelchair, one pant leg of his slacks tied in a knot past where his knee should be. “A few para guys I remember. Everyone must be all spread out. Maybe we’ll see them afterward.” He shrugged. “Or maybe they all attended the parade last month to Guildhall and thought coming out twice was overkill.” He spied Fletcher from the corner of his eyes. “Sorry you missed the parade on an account of me.”
“I wasn’t too keen on the idea of a so-called vict
