Remembrance Day - 2008 (Merged)

[WorkingHard]

We can no longer express our gratitude to those that died in service for their country but we can at least make sure they are never forgotten.
We are all moved at every rembrance service.
Could we make it a requirement, do you think, that all our politicians have to spend a few days at the war graves in Normandy and other places? It may just concentrate their minds on what they ask of our troops. It is incredibly sobering just to look there.

[Cambridge Crash]

Wearing of Poppies - at school

Last year my 5 year old lad went off to school wearing a poppy. It was removed by a teacher 'on safety grounds' because of sharp pin (it was a small safety pin!). I spoke with the teacher and I conceded that the safety pin could have been a dangerous weapon in my son's hands. However, it transpired that the teacher had a hazy idea about the origins and purpose of the symbol, and express disquiet about 'rasing money for old men to sit in smoky clubs drinking cheap beer', and although the teacher accepted that these 'old men' were returned serviceman, that was the limit of understanding. I passed the teacher some material from Combat Stress, which outlines more contemporary cases. The teacher was appreciative of this and had 'forgotten' that UK plc had sent large numbers of troops to the Balkans in the 1990s, which inter alia had generated a need for support for troops and their families.

I suppose that the purpose of my ravings is to highlight the lack of understanding of the place of the armed services in the community (and of course, I am preaching to the converted) There is a lacuna of understanding and some deep prejudices about those who serve; the mawkish behaviour of those surrounding Ken Bigley's family is declamatory of this - the confusion of private grief with public outrage. But what about the 60-odd British troops who have died in Iraq in service of the Crown, rather than an ad eundum statum gentleman of questionable virtue, in pursuit of money?

In contrast with my experience last year on an US facility where the shop assistant - commenting on my poppy (accompanied by a full risk assessment) - commented that it was great that the Brits could join the Veterens' Day celebrations on 11 Nov. I declined to correct her lack of chronological understanding...

Cantab Crash

[Sloppy Link]

If my memory serves me correctly, the US pay their respects on "Memorial Day" (May sometime I think) and this is a national holiday regardless of what day it falls on. Should Nov 11 be elevated to this status, would not the occasion be forced more into the public eye? Or would it simply be viewed as glorifying war or an excuse to get a day off work? I can think of no occasion where a National Holiday is accompanied by a National Occasion, all our Bank Holidays are granted as a result of financial markets closing historically but are now no more than a "Day Off". I think it is high time that we started to show some pride in our achievements and allowed our youth to be aware and learn of our and our ancestor's history.

Bastille Day France
Independence Day USA
Canada Day Canada
ANZAC Day Australia

To name but a few. I find it incredible that we are still being mealy mouthed to the French about having an autumn holiday and calling it Trafalgar Day. Stop pussy footing around and do it and then when my Grandchildren ask why is it called Trafalgar Day, I will be able to explain how the mightiest Navy the world has ever or will ever see saw to the enemy and as a result Britain became the power it was and is still (just) respected throughout the modern world.

Poetry;
I recall a marvellous reading from a colleague's memorial that went along the lines of:

Death is nothing at all. I have only slipped away into the next room. I am I, and you are you. Whatever we were to each other, that we still are. Call me by my old familiar name, speak to me in the easy way which you always used. Put no difference in your tone, wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. Laugh as we always laughed, at the little jokes we enjoyed together. Pray, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my name be ever the household word that it always was. Let it be spoken without effect, without the trace of a shadow on it. Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was; there is unbroken continuity. Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just around the corner. All is well.

I still do laugh at his little jokes. SD 1999 RiP

[An Teallach]

Working Hard: As far as politicians go, I'm afraid it was ever thus. Hamish Henderson (1919-2002), who fought through N. Africa and Italy with the 8th Army and drafted the Italian surrender order for Marshal Graziani on 9 Apr 1945, wrote the following on hearing that Lady Astor had refererred to the 8th Army as D-Day Dodgers. Sung to the tune of Lili Marlene, it rapidly became an anthem of the Italian campaign and remains a popular song in Scotland to this day.

Ballad of the D-Day Dodgers

We're the D-Day Dodgers, out in Italy –
Always on the vino, always on the spree.
8th Army scroungers and their tanks
We live in Rome - among the Yanks.
We are the D-Day Dodgers, way out in Italy.

We landed at Salerno, a holiday with pay;
The Jerries brought the bands out to greet us on the way...
Showed us the sights and gave us tea.
We all sang songs - the beer was free,
To welcome D-Day Dodgers to sunny Italy.

Naples and Cassino were taken in our stride,
We didn't go to fight there - we went there for the ride.
Anzio and Sangro were just names,
We only went to look for dames –
The artful D-Day Dodgers, way out in Italy.

On the way to Florence we had a lovely time.
We ran a bus to Rimini right through the Gothic Line.
Soon to Bologna we will go
And after that we'll cross the Po.
We'll still be D-Day dodging, way out in Italy.

Once we heard a rumour that we were going home,
Back to dear old Blighty - never more to roam.
Then someone said: "In France you'll fight!"
We said: "No fear - we'll just sit tight!"
(The windy D-Day Dodgers to stay in Italy).

Dear Lady Astor, you think you know a lot,
Standing on a platform and talking tommy-rot.
You, England's sweetheart and its pride,
We think your mouth's too bleeding wide
That's from your D-Day Dodgers - in far off Italy.

Look around the mountains, in the mud and rain –
You’ll find the scattered crosses - (there's some which have no name).
Heartbreak and toil and suffering gone,
The boys beneath them slumber on.
Those are the D-Day Dodgers who'll stay in Italy.

As well as the poignant and cutting wit shown above, Hamish produced one of the outstanding poetic works of the 2nd World War in his Elegies for the Dead in Cyrenaica (1948), including the immortal line : "No Gods and precious few heroes."

Kiting for Boys: You're right, the poet was in the Camerons. He was Donald Macdonald Dňmhnall Ruadh Chorůna (1887-1967). If Gaelic is fair game, and as HM is in Germany at the moment, Sorley MacLean wrote the following for Hamish as the introduction to part 2 of the elegies:

'Na shuidhe marbh an 'Glaic a' Bhŕis'
fo Dhruim Ruidhěseit,
gille ňg 's a logan sěos m' a ghruaidh
's a thuar grisionn.

Smaoinich mi air a' chňir 's an ŕgh.
A fhuair e bho Fhurair,
bhith tuiteam ann an raon an ŕir
gun éirigh tuilleadh...

Ge b'e a dheňin-san no a chŕs,
a neo-chiontas no mhěorun,
cha do nochd e toileachadh 'na bhŕs
fo Dhruim Ruidhěseit.

Somhairle Mac Gill-Eathain

Sitting dead in 'Death Valley'
below Ruweisat Ridge,
a boy with his forelock down about his cheek
and his face slate-grey.

I thought of the right and joy,
he had from his Fuehrer,
of falling in the field of slaughter
to rise no more ...

Whatever his desire or mishap,
his innocence or malignance,
he showed no pleasure in his death
below the Ruweisat Ridge.

[battlecruiser]

Death is nothing at all...
I have only slipped away to the next room...
I am I and you are you...
Whatever we were to each, that we are still.

Call me by my old familiar name,
Speak it to me in the same way you always used.
Put no difference into your tone,
Wear no false air of solemnity or sorrow.

Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word that it always was.
Let it be spoken without effect, without the ghost of a shadow on it.

Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same as it ever was.
There is absolutely unbroken continuity.
What is this death but a negligible accident.

I am but waiting for you for an interval
Somewhere very near
Just around the corner.
All is well.

Henry Scott Holland 1847 - 1918
Canon of St Paul's, London

[BootFlap]

A most moving thread. It has been a while since I have last felt the need to post a reply, and I can only thank you for making it one with a worthwhile sentiment.

Seeing the fact that 3 more names will be added to the list of those 'paying the ultimate price', makes it even more pertinent. No politics, no posturing, just condolences to the families.

[Flatus Veteranus]

My poor old Mum (died 1991 aged 94) lost both her brothers and a fiancé in the first war. The fiancé was an RFC pilot but I have never managed to discover his unit and the circumstances in which he died. Her brothers were junior officers, one in the South Wales Borderers and the other in the Royal Field Artillery. They were both brilliant, golden youths, educated by my grandfather (a retired Sapper Colonel) at home until they entered the Imperial Service College (ISC - a forerunner of Hayleybury) where one was head boy and captain of rugby and athletics. They were both commissioned into the regular army. They died within a few miles of each other and within a few months in 1916. One is buried in one of the Canadian cemeteries at Vimy, and the other in a small British cemetery in a very rural setting South of Lille. I usually visit France at this time of year to see my grandchildren during the French half-term and sometimes detour to visit my uncles' graves. Both cemeteries are admirable in their own way. Vimy is obviously a CWGC showpiece, visible from the A26 near Lens, and attracts many visitors. The other, much smaller and isolated, is less visited but no less beautifully maintained. Flowers and colourful shrubs abound. Each time I visit I notice that some headstones have been replaced where their inscriptions have become eroded. The landscaping and monumental architecture were just right from the beginning, and both sites are calm, peaceful and somehow raise one's spirits. The CWGC is clearly a dedicated organisation.

Nothing, however, not even time "the great healer", can mitigate the appalling tragedy suffered by my parents generation. The loss of his two wonderful sons killed my grandfather. My grandmother, a Canadian who stood nearly 6ft tall, was a rock. My mother inherited most of her stoicism but was clearly deeply scarred by the loss of three young men whom she loved. There were things of which she would not speak and I could never persuade her to visit her brothers' graves. I remember listening with her and her mother to Chamberlain's speech on the BBC on 3 September 1939 anouncing the opening of WW2. Granny's face was set like stone. Tears streamed down my mother's face. Insensitive little brat that I was, I felt the prospect of war was exciting.

I wonder whether the current generation could withstand tragedy on that scale. And I even wonder whether they should try to.

[moggiee]

FV - let's hope that our "leaders" never force us into the situation where we have to suffer appalling losses like that.

Seeing whole village's worth of names on war memorials is deeply shocking. When whole villages signed up to the same regiment in WW1, joined the same day, fought in the same battles and were all wiped out in one morning's worth of "over the top and at 'em" the effect on those at home must have been truly devastating.

I am always moved to tears in war cemeteries and at Remembrance Day parades, and I am not ashamed to admit it.

[LoeyDaFrog]

As normal, the pressures of the current job ensure that I only get to review the forums sporadically; however, every now and then a gem such as this arrives. Those of us still in the job and proudly doing what is asked of us, despite the 'best' efforts of those who just do not understand our way of life, will, I'm sure take some sort of comfort from the much more elequent words of those who have gone before us.
It has always struck me that it is only those who take up the call to arms who really understand what Rememberance day means, and that there is a perculiar irony that those of us who wage war, would rather not as we know what it is like.
I know I'm going to be on the recieving end of a few posts, but it has been 'a bad week at the office' and the thread hit a nerve.

[grusome]

May I add a piece of my own scribbling?


Flanders Re-visited

We learnt, at father's knee, a verse
By John McCrae. In couplets terse
It tells of men who long ago
In foreign fields took on the foe
That we might grow.

These are the dead. The wond'ring mind
Scarce comprehends the awful find
Each time we halt. At Passchendaele, Tyne Cot, Frommelles
The serried ranks bespeak the hells
That are men's fears.
And poppies grow,
Refreshed by tears.

What is the fight? Who is the foe?
The torch we caught - how should we know
The trust they did on us bestow?
And yet,
And yet,
'Tis Freedom, sure, they did beget,
That we might grow.
Lest we forget.

Let's NOT forget.

JDG, April 2004

[The Swinging Monkey]

A good mate of mine read this poem out at the recent funeral of another good mate. He told me he had 'doctored' some of the words to make it more aplicable to aircrew! Well done Terry, it's nice........
Its simply call 'Flying West'

I hope there's a place, way up in the sky,
Where aircrew can go, when they have to die.
A place where a guy can get a cold beer
For a friend or a comrade whose memory is dear.
A place where no doctor or lawyer can tread,
And a scribbly-type would not be caught dead!
Just a quaint little place, kind of dark, full of smoke,
Where they like to sing loud, and love a good joke!
The kind of a place where a lady could go,
And feel safe and secure by the men she would know.

There MUST be a place where old aircrew go,
When their wings become weary, and their airspeed gets low;
Where the whisky is old, and the women are young,
And songs about flying and dying are sung.
Where you'd see all your mates, who'd "flown west"
before,
And they'd call out your name, as you walked thru the door,
Who would buy you a drink, if your thirst should be bad,
And relate to the others, "He was such a nice lad!"

And there thru the mist you'd spot an old guy
You’d not seen for years, though he'd taught YOU to fly,
He'd nod his old head, and grin ear to ear,
And say, "Welcome, my son, I'm pleased you are here!
For this is the place where true flyers come,
When the battles are over, and the wars have been won;
We've come here at last, to be safe and alone,
From the government clerk, and the management clone,
Politicians and lawyers, police and the noise,
Where all Hours are Happy, and these good ol' boys,
Can relax with a 'cool one', and a well deserved rest.."
"Cos this is Heaven my son, you've passed your last test!"

Farewell AWACS Warrior
RIP Paul
God Bless

Kind regards to all
The Swinging Monkey

[FEBA]

"The old army died so gloriously at Ypres because the battle they had to fight called for those qualities of unflinching courage and dogged self sacrifice in which they were pre-eminent. They were given in the opportunity of dying for their country and they died uncomplaining. It occured to no one thet they had to die in that fashion because the men responsible for their training had never learned the lessons from history, had never realised what resources modern invention had opened to them, with the consequence that men had to do at the cost of their lives the work which could have been done with one quarter the losses at one tenth the risk of defeat if they had been adequately armed and equipped."

The General
C S Forester

True today as it was in 1914

Wilfred Owen
Dulce Et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.

GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil\'s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

[PPRuNe Pop]

Swinging Monkey.

A truly beautiful poem written by a TWA Captain. I chose it to read in my eulogy to ex Lyneham C130 and Britannia Captain, Chas Finn-Kelcey MBE, at his funeral in April. Still a much loved and missed friend who I think of almost every day. As does Di and his children, as well as his many other friends.

I will as usual pay my respects to the fallen in my own way on Sunday. Especially, I have to say, those who fought in WW2 so I could be here today. I do not forget those heros of WW1 either - brave men one and all.

God bless every single one.

[Caractacus]

I tried to buy a poppy in my local (London) road the other day. I traipsed around about a dozen shops and met with totally blank expressions when I asked to buy a poppy. A couple of shop assistants looked at me as if I was trying to buy opium. One newsagent said that the old lady who 'used to come round' hadn't been heard of this year.

The generally cool looks from people in a highly cosmopolitan area were frankly disturbing.

I have no problem with folk coming to live in my country. However, it would be nice if they understood that the freedom they sought here was actually hard won by millions of our people dying in the last century.

[BeauMan]

I didn't get to see this thread last year, so glad I've found it this time round. I have nothing to add in terms of poetry, but I'd just like to say that the poem posted by Scroggs on the second page of this thread has brought tears to my eyes.

God bless them all; those who served, and those who serve today. And may all those whose lives are on the line today, come home safely.

[moggiee]

The airport at which I work is shutting down for 2 minutes tomorrow at 11.00 so that all can pay their respects.

As a former WW2 training airfield (which suffered it's fair share of losses) it is a fitting tribute.

[scroggs]

the poem posted by Scroggs on the second page of this thread

I'll own up, it was written by me and my (then) 7 year old daughter after a long talk about the meaning of Remembrance Sunday, my own days in the RAF, and how she'd have felt if I'd gone away and not returned.

As a result, she has a better understanding of what Remembrance Sunday means than most unaffected adults.

[InFinRetirement]

I'd forgotten about that Scroggs.

What a beautiful poem. It ought to be where others all over the world can see it you know.

I can't really see through the haze to finish this. Tell your daughter she is a very clever lady. Some heart there mate!

[stbd beam]

scroggs

I read this thread with the usual smile, befitting the emotions that sometimes surface at pprune.

I must admit to I being a sensitive old soul now, however your (and daughters) poem touched a nerve and I printed it off, tucked it into my diary, to go flying with me and the other snippets and treasures stashed therein.

Thankyou

[Tim Mills]

What a wonderful thread; many thanks.

When will mankind learn?