Reflections from Whitehall, FAA Memorial November 8th 2015.
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Reflections from Whitehall, FAA Memorial November 8th 2015.
It's a very long way from the village war memorial to London's Whitehall, or even Piccadilly. I pondered on this thought I waited for the bus to the railway station, in a dim grey wet gloom of a Saturday early morning. There are so many names on the memorial that I lost count after I think one hundred, as it was still too dark to see properly. They were all miners, labourers, joiners, train drivers, firemen - nearly all pitmen. Losses through combat in the Great War for the men who set out from the little mean streets amounted to about 1 in 4 of those that went. That's killed in action. Died of wounds. Missing. Recent research by BBC Local Radio was indicating so. The average was 1 in 8 in some areas but in ours.... .higher.
Whitehall, Sunday morning. The event itself is remarkably un-military (if that can make sense) when you are some distance from HM the Queen. Units march up and take position left to right and that's all I saw of them for a while. Its hardy massed ranks. The RAF were extremely smart - band and regiment. A real credit to their drill NCO's. Royal Navy. Royal Marines. Guards. Dismounted Cavalry. But it's the civilians standing and watching that catch my eye.
Cannon bang and bell bong are incredibly simultaneous when its live. TV cant capture it, ever. During the silence, everything stopped. Even the crows landed and watched. Only the traffic lights kept on changing red, amber and green. Where I stood, one could have heard a pin drop. I could hear a tug boat or launch somewhere on the Thames. A baby gurgled somewhere. Second bang. More silence, then gradual voices. No one wants to speak first. A short brief moment of togetherness. Of combined mutual understanding.
I wonder who these people are, and why they are here? What is their story? The man on my immediate right was a complete stranger. A man to normally avoid. Not well dressed. Heavily tattooed on neck and hands, of no apparent former military bearing he stood correctly and silently, and then quickly left.
Very young man with a pretty young lady friend. In a suit. Poppy. Bad limp and stick. Injury? Casualty?
Two young posh guys with young attractive middle eastern appearance lady friend. Suits and looks indicate County types? Not military.
Over the tannoy, prayers and National Anthem. I don't really sing it either. It's not mine really, it never was. We didn't do it at school, college and hardly ever in the Navy, so why learn it now? But I stumbled through it.
It's over. Marching people and cheering clapping crowds. I make my way down the embankment and along to the FAA Memorial. Form up again. Buccaneer Association, Officers, Aircraft Handlers, Aircrewmen, Field Gunners and I think also Armourers. My apologies if I don't list you here also. Larger than life characters all of them, it's good to see them again. Wreaths are laid. Thoughts gathered.
Faces come back to me. I was extremely fortunate that I had a career where I wasn't in horrendous combat and I lost no very close comrades. But I remember many people I nodded to, spoke to, saluted.. who never came home to their loved ones.
Someone's speaking, my former Commander Air and a decent guy.
Mingle for a little while and then we break up into our little tribes and depart for our little segregated enclaves, I with mine. It's a shame but I understand Britain, the military and how it always works.
A short time later, much much laughter. And that closed the day, much later in the night.
Back home, it's hardly a land fit for the heroes descendents, back in the village. Because we are truly a modern British metaphor, in my neck of the woods, in my opinion. One hundred years of near continuous combat, treasure squandered, tears shed and we are back here.
Good morning.
Whitehall, Sunday morning. The event itself is remarkably un-military (if that can make sense) when you are some distance from HM the Queen. Units march up and take position left to right and that's all I saw of them for a while. Its hardy massed ranks. The RAF were extremely smart - band and regiment. A real credit to their drill NCO's. Royal Navy. Royal Marines. Guards. Dismounted Cavalry. But it's the civilians standing and watching that catch my eye.
Cannon bang and bell bong are incredibly simultaneous when its live. TV cant capture it, ever. During the silence, everything stopped. Even the crows landed and watched. Only the traffic lights kept on changing red, amber and green. Where I stood, one could have heard a pin drop. I could hear a tug boat or launch somewhere on the Thames. A baby gurgled somewhere. Second bang. More silence, then gradual voices. No one wants to speak first. A short brief moment of togetherness. Of combined mutual understanding.
I wonder who these people are, and why they are here? What is their story? The man on my immediate right was a complete stranger. A man to normally avoid. Not well dressed. Heavily tattooed on neck and hands, of no apparent former military bearing he stood correctly and silently, and then quickly left.
Very young man with a pretty young lady friend. In a suit. Poppy. Bad limp and stick. Injury? Casualty?
Two young posh guys with young attractive middle eastern appearance lady friend. Suits and looks indicate County types? Not military.
Over the tannoy, prayers and National Anthem. I don't really sing it either. It's not mine really, it never was. We didn't do it at school, college and hardly ever in the Navy, so why learn it now? But I stumbled through it.
It's over. Marching people and cheering clapping crowds. I make my way down the embankment and along to the FAA Memorial. Form up again. Buccaneer Association, Officers, Aircraft Handlers, Aircrewmen, Field Gunners and I think also Armourers. My apologies if I don't list you here also. Larger than life characters all of them, it's good to see them again. Wreaths are laid. Thoughts gathered.
Faces come back to me. I was extremely fortunate that I had a career where I wasn't in horrendous combat and I lost no very close comrades. But I remember many people I nodded to, spoke to, saluted.. who never came home to their loved ones.
Someone's speaking, my former Commander Air and a decent guy.
Mingle for a little while and then we break up into our little tribes and depart for our little segregated enclaves, I with mine. It's a shame but I understand Britain, the military and how it always works.
A short time later, much much laughter. And that closed the day, much later in the night.
Back home, it's hardly a land fit for the heroes descendents, back in the village. Because we are truly a modern British metaphor, in my neck of the woods, in my opinion. One hundred years of near continuous combat, treasure squandered, tears shed and we are back here.
Good morning.
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What a well written, poignant piece.
Ecce Homo! Loquitur...
Rudyard Kipling
The Old Men
This is our lot if we live so long and labour unto the end –
Then we outlive the impatient years and the much too patient friend:
And because we know we have breath in our mouth and think we have thoughts enough in our head,
We shall assume that we are alive, whereas we are really dead.
We shall not acknowledge that old stars fade or stronger planets arise
(That the sere bush buds or the desert blooms or the ancient well-head dries),
Or any new compass wherewith new men adventure ‘neath new skies.
We shall lift up the ropes that constrained our youth, to bind on our children’s hands;
We shall call to the waters below the bridges to return and to replenish our lands;
We shall harness (Death’s own pale horses) and scholarly plough the sands.
We shall lie down in the eye of the sun for lack of a light on our way –
We shall rise up when the day is done and chirrup, “Behold, it is day!”
We shall abide till the battle is won ere we amble into the fray.
We shall peck out and discuss and dissect, and evert and extrude to our mind,
The flaccid tissues of long-dead issues offensive to God and mankind –
(Precisely like vultures over an ox that the army left behind).
We shall make walk preposterous ghosts of the glories we once created –
Immodestly smearing from muddled palettes amazing pigments mismated –
And our friend will weep when we ask them with boasts if our natural force be abated.
The Lamp of our Youth will be utterly out, but we shall subsist on the smell of it;
And whatever we do, we shall fold our hands and suck our gums and think well of it.
Yes, we shall be perfectly pleased with our work, and that is the Perfectest Hell of it!
This is our lot if we live so long and listen to those who love us –
That we are shunned by the people about and shamed by the Powers above us.
Wherefore be free of your harness betimes; but, being free be assured,
That he who hath not endured to the death, from his birth he hath never endured!
The Old Men
This is our lot if we live so long and labour unto the end –
Then we outlive the impatient years and the much too patient friend:
And because we know we have breath in our mouth and think we have thoughts enough in our head,
We shall assume that we are alive, whereas we are really dead.
We shall not acknowledge that old stars fade or stronger planets arise
(That the sere bush buds or the desert blooms or the ancient well-head dries),
Or any new compass wherewith new men adventure ‘neath new skies.
We shall lift up the ropes that constrained our youth, to bind on our children’s hands;
We shall call to the waters below the bridges to return and to replenish our lands;
We shall harness (Death’s own pale horses) and scholarly plough the sands.
We shall lie down in the eye of the sun for lack of a light on our way –
We shall rise up when the day is done and chirrup, “Behold, it is day!”
We shall abide till the battle is won ere we amble into the fray.
We shall peck out and discuss and dissect, and evert and extrude to our mind,
The flaccid tissues of long-dead issues offensive to God and mankind –
(Precisely like vultures over an ox that the army left behind).
We shall make walk preposterous ghosts of the glories we once created –
Immodestly smearing from muddled palettes amazing pigments mismated –
And our friend will weep when we ask them with boasts if our natural force be abated.
The Lamp of our Youth will be utterly out, but we shall subsist on the smell of it;
And whatever we do, we shall fold our hands and suck our gums and think well of it.
Yes, we shall be perfectly pleased with our work, and that is the Perfectest Hell of it!
This is our lot if we live so long and listen to those who love us –
That we are shunned by the people about and shamed by the Powers above us.
Wherefore be free of your harness betimes; but, being free be assured,
That he who hath not endured to the death, from his birth he hath never endured!
As HS formed up in London on Sunday morning, I gathered with some eighty others from many parts of the country, WW2 aircrew through to great-grandchildren, and not even at a village memorial but at one by the side of a Yorkshire backroad, once the entrance to a bomber base. As the Service progressed, I was reminded of some verse that I had not known till I met it as part of a work that our choir sang earlier in the year. A verse from an Elegy composed by a young man in 1586 on the eve of his execution, it says much that might have been applicable to the young men in both wars and, indeed, to those lost in accidents in peacetime service:
My tale was heard and yet it was not told,
My fruit is fallen, and yet my leaves are green,
My youth is spent and yet I am not old,
I saw the world and yet I was not seen;
My thread is cut and yet it is not spun,
And now I live, and now my life is done.
And then, after a warming coffee in what remains of the airfield's Watch Tower, most adjourned to a pleasant lunch in a nearby pub to swap reminiscences for a bit before distances to be driven compelled departures amidst promises to be back again next year.
My tale was heard and yet it was not told,
My fruit is fallen, and yet my leaves are green,
My youth is spent and yet I am not old,
I saw the world and yet I was not seen;
My thread is cut and yet it is not spun,
And now I live, and now my life is done.
And then, after a warming coffee in what remains of the airfield's Watch Tower, most adjourned to a pleasant lunch in a nearby pub to swap reminiscences for a bit before distances to be driven compelled departures amidst promises to be back again next year.
