H ere, beneath the green sod of the Moro River Cemetery at Ortona lie buried the earthly remains of 1,615 young men, of which 1,375 are Canadian. They gave their lives in the battles and confrontations that swirled about through the mud of farmland, through olive groves and vineyards, through ravines, gullies and valleys between the Moro and the Arielli Rivers. Death found them also in the village streets and in Ortona where a week-long vicious battle raged through the long days and into the darkness of night through Christmas week.

T he Cemetery is sited on open ground, known by the troops at the time of the fighting as Vino Ridge, once a vineyard lush with grapes. It overlooks the Adriatic, where cool winds off the sea moan ghost-like through the leaves of the tall poplars. As the visitors enter, they pass through an arch forming part of the little Church of San Donato, actually only a chapel. Within the cemetery white pergolas festooned with wisteria and vines stand out amidst the rows upon rows of white headstones, stark remembrances of the sacrifices made here. At the base of each stone bloom a wide variety of coloured flowering shrubs. Close by the entrance stand two gnarled old olive trees, symbols of the many olive orchards through which our men fought and in which so many died. In the midst of all this, like a tall sentinel, rises the great stone Cross of Sacrifice upon whose face is affixed a bronze broadsword. Individuals and visiting groups large and small deposit their wreaths of Remembrance at the base of this impressive monument.

T hose who lie here beneath the close-cropped lawn are heroes. They died at the very threshold of what should have been an abundant and fulfilling life. Their dreams, and the dreams of those who loved them dearly had been swept away by the cruel fates of war. In the 50 and more years gone by since they gave their 'all', they have known no weariness or pain, nor sorrow or joy, nor the soft caress of a woman's hand. Nor have they exulted to the loving embrace of little children. Torments of anger, ill-health and despair they knew not, for they've been sleeping, freed from the misery and the unrelenting fear of the battlefield and the pain that wracked their bodies in the moments before their death. In all those years past since those tumultuous days and nights of late Fall and an Adriatic winter they have not exulted to the awakening of Spring and heard the song of the robin at daybreak, nor have seen the lightning and heard the thunder of summer storms, for they've been resting. They've known not the gentle touch of an early summer's breeze upon their brows, nor have they known the joys of autumn and the rustle of leaves underfoot. The sting of the frigid gusts of winter on their cheeks they have known not, nor celebrated the joy of a Christmas with their loved ones. Though the world has trembled many times to the thunderous echoes of the guns of war since that day when they passed out of the sight of their comrades and were no more, they heard them not, for their sleep is everlasting.

T hey've fought the good fight and are now resting, a sleep that knows no dawn. . .no tomorrows. We will remember them. Yes, we will remember them until that time when we join them in that white company where old soldiers never die.