Remembrance Day - 2008 (Merged)
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News 24's coverage of the two minutes silence and attendant ceremonies around the UK was tasteful and lent the day appropriate gravitas. Only one thing disturbed me about the broadcast, which was one of our Scottish journalists commenting on the fact that there was apparently some discussion about whether those opposed to actions in Iraq should wear the poppy this year. It saddens me that someone, regardless of their political view on the situation, cannot bring themself to adopt the simple and respectful symbol of the poppy on a day like today.
The previous comments about the teacher's ignorance troubled me. I remember as a kid that we were given plastic stalked poppies to wear. Surely those are still around?
The previous comments about the teacher's ignorance troubled me. I remember as a kid that we were given plastic stalked poppies to wear. Surely those are still around?
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Am currently studying in Edinburgh, and was so pleased to see the amount of students, like myself, who stood outside the University's War Memorial in Old College from just before 11 til just after in perfect silence, with only the gun of Edinburgh Castle break the peace. So pleased to see so many people of my age there to remember those who have fallen to protect the lives of the people of this nation.
I shall be at Old College again this Sunday for the Universities (Edinburgh, Napier & Herriot-Watt) Service of Rememberance, which if it is anything like last year I know will be well attended.
Jordan
I shall be at Old College again this Sunday for the Universities (Edinburgh, Napier & Herriot-Watt) Service of Rememberance, which if it is anything like last year I know will be well attended.
Jordan
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Just layed a wreath on behalf of BWOS at the eleventh hour in sunny Manama. The Old Christian Cemetery provides a moving location. Long may the tradition continue!
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If you are in London this evening (10th November 2004)
Just sent to me from Mrs CS:
Three million poppy petals - symbolising the dead of the two World Wars and all the conflicts since then - will be dropped from two original World War II aircraft in an unprecedented flypast over the Thames tonight (11 November 2004) to mark the start of Remembrance Weekend 2004.
The Royal British Legion and Shell are working together to stage the flypast in a move to boost the annual Poppy Appeal for 2004. The London night skyline will be lit up with spectacular red light projections, with moving images of poppies cast onto Shell Centre. The light show will run for four nights through to Remembrance Sunday (14 November 2004).
The two minute fly past of two Douglas Dakota DC3 aircraft will take place at 6pm. The flight path will start at Tower Bridge, with every bridge from Tower Bridge to Westminster Bridge lit up in red, along with other prominent landmarks including the London Eye and National Theatre.
Brigadier Ian Townsend, Secretary General of The Royal British Legion, said: “We are delighted that Shell has chosen to help The Royal British Legion to highlight Remembrance and the Poppy Appeal in this way. Today is Armistice Day, the day the guns fell silent at the end of the First World War. Sadly, it was not ‘The War to End all Wars’. The Second World War followed and there has only been one year since then in which a serviceman has not been killed or injured on active service. Today, we remember them and the price of freedom. We hope that this Poppy Drop brings our message into people’s everyday life for, despite the passing of the years, the need for the Legion’s help remains as strong as it ever was.”
Mary Jo Jacobi, Vice President of External Affairs, Shell International, added: “Shell is proud to be supporting the Royal British Legion to mark Armistice Day and commemorate the start of Remembrance Weekend 2004. We hope the support we are providing to help stage the ‘poppy drop’ will encourage people across the country to buy their poppy before Sunday.”
Three million poppy petals - symbolising the dead of the two World Wars and all the conflicts since then - will be dropped from two original World War II aircraft in an unprecedented flypast over the Thames tonight (11 November 2004) to mark the start of Remembrance Weekend 2004.
The Royal British Legion and Shell are working together to stage the flypast in a move to boost the annual Poppy Appeal for 2004. The London night skyline will be lit up with spectacular red light projections, with moving images of poppies cast onto Shell Centre. The light show will run for four nights through to Remembrance Sunday (14 November 2004).
The two minute fly past of two Douglas Dakota DC3 aircraft will take place at 6pm. The flight path will start at Tower Bridge, with every bridge from Tower Bridge to Westminster Bridge lit up in red, along with other prominent landmarks including the London Eye and National Theatre.
Brigadier Ian Townsend, Secretary General of The Royal British Legion, said: “We are delighted that Shell has chosen to help The Royal British Legion to highlight Remembrance and the Poppy Appeal in this way. Today is Armistice Day, the day the guns fell silent at the end of the First World War. Sadly, it was not ‘The War to End all Wars’. The Second World War followed and there has only been one year since then in which a serviceman has not been killed or injured on active service. Today, we remember them and the price of freedom. We hope that this Poppy Drop brings our message into people’s everyday life for, despite the passing of the years, the need for the Legion’s help remains as strong as it ever was.”
Mary Jo Jacobi, Vice President of External Affairs, Shell International, added: “Shell is proud to be supporting the Royal British Legion to mark Armistice Day and commemorate the start of Remembrance Weekend 2004. We hope the support we are providing to help stage the ‘poppy drop’ will encourage people across the country to buy their poppy before Sunday.”
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The inscription on the war memorial at Kohima reads;
When you go home
Tell them of us and say
For their tomorrow
We gave our today.
When you go home
Tell them of us and say
For their tomorrow
We gave our today.
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Jordan D
I well remember the ceremony in the Old College from about 40 years ago when I was boss of the UAS. It was about our only chance to show off our drill in front of the profs. It was remarked how slick and well turned-out were the UAS cadets compared with the OTC. As for the RNVR lot - oh my gawd! I hope you enjoy your time at Edinburgh as much as I did.
We reopened our village church (closed since 1993 and in the care of the Churches Conservation Trust), spruced it up a bit and the ladies did their thing with flowers and coffee afterwards. The Rector said a few prayers, I hung a wreath on the war memorial, and of course we had the 2 mins silence. On Sunday we have the "full works" in the merged Parish church nearby. But since it will be embedded in the normal Sunday morning service, it will not be so poignant. For a start, I managed to persuade a few "non-believers" to come to the Armistice Day ceremony.
I well remember the ceremony in the Old College from about 40 years ago when I was boss of the UAS. It was about our only chance to show off our drill in front of the profs. It was remarked how slick and well turned-out were the UAS cadets compared with the OTC. As for the RNVR lot - oh my gawd! I hope you enjoy your time at Edinburgh as much as I did.
We reopened our village church (closed since 1993 and in the care of the Churches Conservation Trust), spruced it up a bit and the ladies did their thing with flowers and coffee afterwards. The Rector said a few prayers, I hung a wreath on the war memorial, and of course we had the 2 mins silence. On Sunday we have the "full works" in the merged Parish church nearby. But since it will be embedded in the normal Sunday morning service, it will not be so poignant. For a start, I managed to persuade a few "non-believers" to come to the Armistice Day ceremony.
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In the U.S .Memorial Day is the last Monday in May. It started out as Decoration Day, officially changed to Memorial Day in the 1880's though my late grandmother always called it Decoration Day. It started out as a memorial to Civil War veterans (though it was basicly a Union holiday, not observed as such in the south, who observed state holidays such as Virginia's Lee- Jackson Day). In that was a country of about 35M put about 4M men under arms (on both sides) and about a quarter were killed or wounded.
Today it seems to have gained back some of it's previous meaning as a holiday and not just the unofficial start to summer when swimming pools open and white shoes are in style.
As a ROTC cadet we provided firing partiesforsomelocal observences and were very very honored to be asked and worked hard to make a good job of it.
Thought I understood Armistace Day/Veterans Day until visiting the Scottish National War Memorial a number of years ago. The story of just finishing up the memorial to the Great War with it's apalling casualties and waste and then turning around and having to turn it into a national memorial to add WWII is just too much sometimes.
Today it seems to have gained back some of it's previous meaning as a holiday and not just the unofficial start to summer when swimming pools open and white shoes are in style.
As a ROTC cadet we provided firing partiesforsomelocal observences and were very very honored to be asked and worked hard to make a good job of it.
Thought I understood Armistace Day/Veterans Day until visiting the Scottish National War Memorial a number of years ago. The story of just finishing up the memorial to the Great War with it's apalling casualties and waste and then turning around and having to turn it into a national memorial to add WWII is just too much sometimes.
There was a short article in the Daily Mail today about the fact that for the first time ever, there were no WW1 veterans at the Rememberance Service at Ypres yesterday. Sad, but inevitable I suppose, as they are all over 100 years old.
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There are, I believe, only about 3 or 4 British WW1 veterans still alive. There was an article on the telly about them a few months back. Deeply moving to see/hear what they had to tell us.
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I have just returned from Ypres where I attended Rememberance Day at Tyne Cot and the Menin Gate. I am not ashamed to admit that I was in tears at the ceremony in the Ypres Cathedral. The following day I went to Arras where my Grand Uncle and all his young comrades in arms from the Royal Scots fell in 1917. Later that day I returned on the Eurostar to Waterloo to be greeted with a report in the London Evening Standard about some people wanting the public to boycott the wearing of poppies as an act of spite to the Bush-Blair relationship. What the hell is going on!!!!!
Tony Fallows
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Tony Fallows
Swanwick ATC Centre
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Two very proud WW1 Veterans were on the BBC Remembrance programme this evening. The younger was 104, the older one was 108! They look brilliant and were both enjoying the moment. No more than I was as a matter of fact!
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A truly excellent thread. Mr Moderator, could I suggest you flag it and resurrect it again for next Nov 11th?
***
In Australia, Nov 11th is commemorated, but it is overshadowed by April 25th – ANZAC Day. I’ve toured the military cemeteries of Northern France and like many others who have written here, found myself deeply affected by the experience.
However, for an Australian, nothing along these lines compares with a visit to Gallipoli, particularly the dawn parade at ANZAC Cove on April 25th. The site is unique in a number of ways – there is no central cemetery, but a collection of small (and not so small) beautifully maintained cemeteries right at the site of the major battles within the ANZAC beachhead. Many lie within yards of the spot where they fought and died. It also remains almost as it was in 1915, as it is a military reserve, and only in recent years are some developments being allowed in the area.
Helles, where the Brits and the French fought in larger numbers, is only a few miles south and is also well worth the visit, particularly the site of the calamitous ‘River Clyde’ landing. However, the area is mostly settled now, and this unfortunately lessens the effect – or it did on me at least.
After my first visit there, I wrote a small piece of fiction. I’ve posted it on Pprune before, but I hope I may indulge myself by doing so again. If it’s a little cynical for some, I apologise, but the horrors of the ethnic cleansing in Bosnia were very much in the news at the time.
***
In Australia, Nov 11th is commemorated, but it is overshadowed by April 25th – ANZAC Day. I’ve toured the military cemeteries of Northern France and like many others who have written here, found myself deeply affected by the experience.
However, for an Australian, nothing along these lines compares with a visit to Gallipoli, particularly the dawn parade at ANZAC Cove on April 25th. The site is unique in a number of ways – there is no central cemetery, but a collection of small (and not so small) beautifully maintained cemeteries right at the site of the major battles within the ANZAC beachhead. Many lie within yards of the spot where they fought and died. It also remains almost as it was in 1915, as it is a military reserve, and only in recent years are some developments being allowed in the area.
Helles, where the Brits and the French fought in larger numbers, is only a few miles south and is also well worth the visit, particularly the site of the calamitous ‘River Clyde’ landing. However, the area is mostly settled now, and this unfortunately lessens the effect – or it did on me at least.
After my first visit there, I wrote a small piece of fiction. I’ve posted it on Pprune before, but I hope I may indulge myself by doing so again. If it’s a little cynical for some, I apologise, but the horrors of the ethnic cleansing in Bosnia were very much in the news at the time.
Gallipoli, April 25th 1993
It was so much smaller than he had imagined. In all these years, his mind’s eye had always pictured something of far more epic proportions. However, standing here on the old front lines, from this one spot he could see it all.
He turned his back on the ragged green ridge line to face the dazzling blue sea so far below. Now, the scars of the long ago battles almost completely erased, the panorama before him seemed wildly overdone - like some landscape painting heavily retouched, its artist carried away in his search for perfection. Who could picture that pristine horizon marred by the squat grey shapes of warships, the pebbled beaches littered with the paraphernalia of war, and in between, hundreds of small boats scurrying back and forth like frantic worker ants?
He had not been prepared for this, certainly not for the almost breathtaking beauty that surrounded him. The sea and sky were more blue, the colours around him brighter than he had ever seen before, as if never sullied by man. The very last of the letters had been absolutely right - no writer’s pen could do justice to this scene.
Now, as he stood on the windswept ridge in the midday sun, the ghosts were gone; but on the beach, in the freezing hour before dawn, they had been all around him, the gentle ripple of the waves like many whispering voices, the bitterly cold breeze off the ink-black sea like ghostly fingers tracing softly through his hair. He had not been alone in feeling it. Many of the others gathered shivering in the light of the guttering candles had shared that faintly haunted look. Had it been only in his imagination he had heard the muffled creak of oars, the soft crunch of long boats grounding on the coarse pebble beach, sensed the gasping breaths of overladen, desperate young men as their heavy boots first touched this alien shore?
The beach was narrow - no wider than a country road - and the gorse-covered slope behind it steep and treacherous. Here the young men of two opposing armies had met and died, one side a half a world away from home, the other fighting for their Motherland.
This morning, microphones in hand, the eloquent, polished young men of the media had spoken to the old adversaries in the patronising tones that youth reserved for the elderly. They prompted the bent old men to recount unlikely tales of a sportsmanlike, almost gentlemanly war, where hate and high passion had been put aside - and to a man, the old veterans had humoured them, saying only what they knew their audience at home would want - could bear - to hear.
The reality had been very different. So small had been this arena that the dead had remained where they fell, sharing the bitterly contested ground with the not yet dead until the earth slowly reclaimed them. Today, some spoke of glory, but few who had been there remembered any glory amidst the lice and bloated corpses of brothers and close friends.
He walked south along the narrow road, the well-defined gullies close on either side once the front lines of the two opposing armies. The hand-drawn map led him through the crumbling trenches and onto a narrow path through shoulder high scrub. Unable to keep his footing, he stumbled down the sheer slope, crashing through the thick clinging branches to find himself suddenly in the small glade.
He had arrived.
He knew it would be here, but to come so suddenly upon this island of perfectly tended lawn on the untamed hillside still took his breath away. A cemetery, just one of so many in these hills. There were hundreds buried here, but so very few graves. For most, their only memorial was their name on the long lists on marble tablets on the low sandstone walls.
...believed to be buried here are...
In what other battlefield did the dead lie so scattered, buried where they fell, so that their final resting places became the very ground on which they had died?
Third row, fourth from the left. Here, exactly as the map described it, was his grandfather’s grave, one of the very few to bear a name. His fingers traced the weathered marble. Here had been a man, a living, breathing man. What had he been thinking, what had been his hopes on the day he died upon this lonely hill, still little more than a boy? He’d had so much to live for. A teenage bride, an unborn son, a new nation - hell bent on squandering its first generation on an uncaring Empire’s distant battlefields.
He looked around the deserted, windswept slope. Was this - could it ever have been - worth dying for? The sheer futility of this small marble slab on a Turkish hillside chilled him far more than the cutting pre-dawn wind had done upon the beach.
The ghosts were back, recognising him as one of their own.
Remember us, brother. We died upon these hills...He flinched, almost expecting to see the milling spectres surrounding him, as a swelling chorus joined the first whispering voices inside his head. And us. We died at Stalingrad... Verdun... Gettysburg... Waterloo... Agincourt... Cathage... Thermoplyae... Troy.
No longer young himself, he shook free of the insistent voices and set off up the steep slope. Fifty years after this gigantic bloodletting, the bent old men of both sides had stood together on these hills as round-bellied politicians spoke of great deeds and noble sacrifice. His own forgotten war was almost thirty years behind him now. In years to come, would sleek, silver-tongued men who had never known a battlefield’s stench make speeches filled with platitudes about that conflict as well? Should he survive like those few ancient men on the beach this morning, would he find himself one day beside some frail, almond-eyed veteran of the other side - and would they be asked to reminisce fondly about honour and glory in their war for a public who wanted to believe in such fantasies?
And still the senseless cycle went on to this very day. Fifty years from now, would tottering old Bosnians and Serbs tell the young the same tired lies as they shook hands over another mound of young men’s bones?
As the chill wind cut through him, he feared he already knew the answer.
It was so much smaller than he had imagined. In all these years, his mind’s eye had always pictured something of far more epic proportions. However, standing here on the old front lines, from this one spot he could see it all.
He turned his back on the ragged green ridge line to face the dazzling blue sea so far below. Now, the scars of the long ago battles almost completely erased, the panorama before him seemed wildly overdone - like some landscape painting heavily retouched, its artist carried away in his search for perfection. Who could picture that pristine horizon marred by the squat grey shapes of warships, the pebbled beaches littered with the paraphernalia of war, and in between, hundreds of small boats scurrying back and forth like frantic worker ants?
He had not been prepared for this, certainly not for the almost breathtaking beauty that surrounded him. The sea and sky were more blue, the colours around him brighter than he had ever seen before, as if never sullied by man. The very last of the letters had been absolutely right - no writer’s pen could do justice to this scene.
Now, as he stood on the windswept ridge in the midday sun, the ghosts were gone; but on the beach, in the freezing hour before dawn, they had been all around him, the gentle ripple of the waves like many whispering voices, the bitterly cold breeze off the ink-black sea like ghostly fingers tracing softly through his hair. He had not been alone in feeling it. Many of the others gathered shivering in the light of the guttering candles had shared that faintly haunted look. Had it been only in his imagination he had heard the muffled creak of oars, the soft crunch of long boats grounding on the coarse pebble beach, sensed the gasping breaths of overladen, desperate young men as their heavy boots first touched this alien shore?
The beach was narrow - no wider than a country road - and the gorse-covered slope behind it steep and treacherous. Here the young men of two opposing armies had met and died, one side a half a world away from home, the other fighting for their Motherland.
This morning, microphones in hand, the eloquent, polished young men of the media had spoken to the old adversaries in the patronising tones that youth reserved for the elderly. They prompted the bent old men to recount unlikely tales of a sportsmanlike, almost gentlemanly war, where hate and high passion had been put aside - and to a man, the old veterans had humoured them, saying only what they knew their audience at home would want - could bear - to hear.
The reality had been very different. So small had been this arena that the dead had remained where they fell, sharing the bitterly contested ground with the not yet dead until the earth slowly reclaimed them. Today, some spoke of glory, but few who had been there remembered any glory amidst the lice and bloated corpses of brothers and close friends.
He walked south along the narrow road, the well-defined gullies close on either side once the front lines of the two opposing armies. The hand-drawn map led him through the crumbling trenches and onto a narrow path through shoulder high scrub. Unable to keep his footing, he stumbled down the sheer slope, crashing through the thick clinging branches to find himself suddenly in the small glade.
He had arrived.
He knew it would be here, but to come so suddenly upon this island of perfectly tended lawn on the untamed hillside still took his breath away. A cemetery, just one of so many in these hills. There were hundreds buried here, but so very few graves. For most, their only memorial was their name on the long lists on marble tablets on the low sandstone walls.
...believed to be buried here are...
In what other battlefield did the dead lie so scattered, buried where they fell, so that their final resting places became the very ground on which they had died?
Third row, fourth from the left. Here, exactly as the map described it, was his grandfather’s grave, one of the very few to bear a name. His fingers traced the weathered marble. Here had been a man, a living, breathing man. What had he been thinking, what had been his hopes on the day he died upon this lonely hill, still little more than a boy? He’d had so much to live for. A teenage bride, an unborn son, a new nation - hell bent on squandering its first generation on an uncaring Empire’s distant battlefields.
He looked around the deserted, windswept slope. Was this - could it ever have been - worth dying for? The sheer futility of this small marble slab on a Turkish hillside chilled him far more than the cutting pre-dawn wind had done upon the beach.
The ghosts were back, recognising him as one of their own.
Remember us, brother. We died upon these hills...He flinched, almost expecting to see the milling spectres surrounding him, as a swelling chorus joined the first whispering voices inside his head. And us. We died at Stalingrad... Verdun... Gettysburg... Waterloo... Agincourt... Cathage... Thermoplyae... Troy.
No longer young himself, he shook free of the insistent voices and set off up the steep slope. Fifty years after this gigantic bloodletting, the bent old men of both sides had stood together on these hills as round-bellied politicians spoke of great deeds and noble sacrifice. His own forgotten war was almost thirty years behind him now. In years to come, would sleek, silver-tongued men who had never known a battlefield’s stench make speeches filled with platitudes about that conflict as well? Should he survive like those few ancient men on the beach this morning, would he find himself one day beside some frail, almond-eyed veteran of the other side - and would they be asked to reminisce fondly about honour and glory in their war for a public who wanted to believe in such fantasies?
And still the senseless cycle went on to this very day. Fifty years from now, would tottering old Bosnians and Serbs tell the young the same tired lies as they shook hands over another mound of young men’s bones?
As the chill wind cut through him, he feared he already knew the answer.
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Nice post 410.
I will leave the thread for other comments for a couple of days on what has for some, no doubt, been an emotional day. I will as last year make sure that I bring it back a week or so before the next 11/11/11.
God bless.
I will leave the thread for other comments for a couple of days on what has for some, no doubt, been an emotional day. I will as last year make sure that I bring it back a week or so before the next 11/11/11.
God bless.
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Just dropped this into the JB Remembrance Thread and was pointed here.
Eyes very moist!
Sorry this is a bit late...I only just got sent it.
Many people do not understand why keeping the silence on armistace day should still be such a big deal.
I'm not ashamed to say that I had moist eyes watching the clip and listening to the words.
For the video clip and a full explaination of why the song was written please read about it here:
A Pittance Of Time
Eyes very moist!
Sorry this is a bit late...I only just got sent it.
Many people do not understand why keeping the silence on armistace day should still be such a big deal.
I'm not ashamed to say that I had moist eyes watching the clip and listening to the words.
For the video clip and a full explaination of why the song was written please read about it here:
A Pittance Of Time
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I think the most moving moment of all was the Cenotaph march past when the BBC coverage caught a little girl or about 6, being held by one hand, and clutching a wooden cross with poppy in the other. She was wearing (Dad's?) medals on her right side. She thrust the cross towards the camera with a BIG, proud, smile. Have to admit, tears welled.
Hope Bliar slept well that night......
And that's from a true patriot.
Hope Bliar slept well that night......
And that's from a true patriot.
Belsen Concentration camp, 60 years ago
Although not the Remembrance Day time of year, it was sixty years ago today that British troops entered the Belsen concentration camp. The BBC has placed THIS on their website. It is a slideshoe overlaid with the original radio report made by Richard Dimbleby, one of the first reporters to arrive. It is a very moving and very repectful reminder why we must never forget.
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I remember listening to Richard Dimbleby's broadcast, which was relayed by 2YA (BBC-equivalent) in NZ, where I was at school. Since when, I have always found it difficult to adopt the fashionable aspect of contrition when contemplating the destruction of German cities, such as Dresden. There is a non-PC , nasty side of me which cannot help thinking "they deserved all they got". Which is unfair - I have met some most pleasant Germans.
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When I arrived in Germany in 1951. I had not been there more than four days before we were told that all four squadrons were being taken in a convoy to Bergen-Belsen. We had heard of it, but not that many!
The sight we saw was actually memorials and the remnants of the camp and a field, a not very large one which had a small post with a simple piece of wood on which was enscribed "Here lie 1000 bodies."
On a larger monument, atop of which was the star of David, which said "Here lie the bodies of 30,000 Jews exterminated by the murderous Nazis. Earth shall not conceal the blood shed on thee." There were other words which I cannot remember. Probably because these were the ones etched in my mind to this day and forever.
For these young soldiers it was a time of shock, real shock, and we went back to camp in some distress. That lasted quite a while for me and still does.
Mans inhumanity to man has never changed these thousands of years. I guess it never will.
The sight we saw was actually memorials and the remnants of the camp and a field, a not very large one which had a small post with a simple piece of wood on which was enscribed "Here lie 1000 bodies."
On a larger monument, atop of which was the star of David, which said "Here lie the bodies of 30,000 Jews exterminated by the murderous Nazis. Earth shall not conceal the blood shed on thee." There were other words which I cannot remember. Probably because these were the ones etched in my mind to this day and forever.
For these young soldiers it was a time of shock, real shock, and we went back to camp in some distress. That lasted quite a while for me and still does.
Mans inhumanity to man has never changed these thousands of years. I guess it never will.