Note: This story occurs outside my usual story continuity.

"G'day all you wonderful, fun loving people out there!" Pyro waved cheerfully. "You are about to witness an event that has never happened in one of our stories before!"

"You mean we're actually going to do something that's funny and entertaining?" Remy quipped.

"No," Pyro beamed. "I'm gonna sing a song!"

"Oh, so you're gonna torture people this time," Sabertooth mocked from offstage.

"Ha ha, very funny," Pyro drawled. "Like you're one to talk."

"But we have done things like this before," Piotr pointed out. "Some of them quite recently."

"Yeah, but this is different," Pyro insisted. "It's a serious song."

"A serious song? Why are you doing a serious song?" Remy asked.

"Because it's a good way to commemorate and promote the historical and cultural awareness of ANZAC Day," Pyro said proudly. "And it's a really good song."

"Bet it won't be after you get done with it," Sabertooth growled.

"Watch it, mate!" Pyro warned dangerously. "Show some respect. This song describes the horrors and tragedies suffered by the ANZACs during World War I."

"As if you knew anything about what it was like to be a soldier in the trenches back then," Sabertooth grumbled darkly. "You have no idea…"

"Hey, my great-grandpoppy fought in W-W-One!" Pyro snapped. "He used to tell me all kinds of stories about it and how Gallipoli exemplified the ANZAC Spirit! Granted, I was only three years old and didn't really understand him at the time, but…"

"Um, maybe you should move on and sing the song," Piotr suggested gently. "I would like to hear it."

"You're probably the only one," Remy muttered.

"Good idea, mate," Pyro composed himself. "By the way, for those who will be following along with subtitles, it would be best if you read them kinda slow in order to get the full impact of the lyrics."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just get on with it," Sabertooth growled.

"Okay, just give me one more second to get ready," Pyro cleared his throat. "And cue music!"

"Oh brother," Remy rolled his eyes as a soft, slow guitar melody encompassed them. "Here we go."

"Now when I was a young man, I carried me pack," Pyro began. "And I lived the free life of the rover. From the Murray's green basin to the dusty outback, I waltzed my Matilda all over."

"Young man," Sabertooth scoffed, only to be quietly shushed by Piotr.

"Then in nineteen fifteen, my country said 'Son, it's time to stop rambling, there's work to be done.' So they gave me a tin hat and they gave me a gun," Pyro sang solemnly. "And they sent me away to the war."

"Yay," Remy said somewhat sarcastically.

"And the band played Waltzing Matilda," Pyro sang. "As the ship pulled away from the quay. And amid all the tears, flag waving and cheers, we sailed off to Gallipoli."

"Hmmm," Sabertooth had a distant look in his eye.

"Well I remember that terrible day, when our blood stained the sand and the water," Pyro continued. "And how in that hole that they called SuvlaBay…we were butchered like lambs at the slaughter."

"Oh," Remy shifted uneasily.

"Johnny Turk he was ready, oh he primed himself well. He rained us with bullets, and he showered us with shell. And in five minutes flat, we were all blown away," Pyro's voice was almost a whisper. "Nearly blew us back home, to Australia."

"Oh my," Piotr turned slightly pale.

"And the band played Waltzing Matilda," Pyro sang. "When we stopped to bury our slain. We buried ours and the Turks buried theirs…then it started all over again."

Everyone was quiet as they absorbed what they had just heard. Pyro paused a moment before continuing.

"Those who were living just tried to survive, in that mad world of blood, death and fire. And for ten weary weeks I kept myself alive, though around me the corpses piled higher."

"My gosh," Remy shuddered at the image.

"Then a big Turkish shell knocked me back over head. And when I awoke in me hospital bed, and saw what it had done…I wished I were dead," Pyro closed his eyes in sorrow. "Never knew there were worse things than dying."

"No," Piotr whispered in shock.

"For no more I'll go Waltzing Matilda. All around the green bush far and free. For to hump tent and pegs, a man needs both legs," Pyro looked down sadly. "No more Waltzing Matilda for me."

"Geeze," Remy unconsciously ran his hand along his thigh.

"They collected the wounded, the crippled, the maimed. And they shipped us back home to Australia," Pyro sang somberly. "The armless, the legless, the blind, the insane. Those proud wounded heroes of Suvla."

"Heroes," Sabertooth muttered softly.

"And when the ship pulled into Circular Quay, I looked at the place where me legs used to be. And thanked Christ there was no one there waiting for me," Pyro's eyes grew slightly misty. "To grieve and to mourn and to pity."

"And the band played Waltzing Matilda. As they carried us down the gangway. But nobody cheered, they just stood and stared. Then they turned all their faces…away."

Everyone lowered their eyes in thought, secretly wondering how they would have reacted to such a sight.

"So now, every April, I sit on me porch, and I watch the parade pass before me," Pyro sang quietly. "I see my old comrades, how proudly they march. Reliving old dreams of past glory."

"I see the old men, all tired, stiff and sore. Weary old heroes of a forgotten war. And the young people ask, 'What are they marching for?'" Pyro looked down at his legs again. "And I ask myself the same question."

"And the band plays Waltzing Matilda. And the old men still answer the call. But as year after year, more old men disappear," Pyro's voice was almost a whisper. "Someday no one will march there at all."

Everyone was silent for a minute. Remy began to speak, but was stopped by Piotr. He motioned toward Pyro who began to very slowly sing once more.

"Waltzing Matilda…Waltzing Matilda. Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me? And their ghosts may be heard as they march by the Billabong. Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda…"

"…with me?"