Reflections, various

Just about every man of my generation in Britain will have a relative who fought in the first or second world war. And typically both. There will be a father, grandfather, uncle or perhaps brother who will have taken the Kings shilling and signed up "to do their bit" and like the others of my generation, I'm no different.

And a lot of these men who fought will have been killed or severely injured or lived with PTSD.

Strangely, although I have identified relatives on both sides of the family who fought, they all survived physically unscathed in both wars. Except for one.

This is surprising as those who fought in the Great War, did so from the Western Front in the trenches. In the second world war, both my Grandfathers "did their bit", however, their survival was less surprising, neither were front-line combatants, one being a Doctor and the other a fitter in the RAF.

Sadly one member of the family didn't survive, a tail-end charlie in a Lancaster bomber. Leaving his mother grief-stricken. 

The Great War generation has now passed and the WW2 generation is going the same way. Who will remember them? For my generation, these are real people, people we knew, laughed with, loved. For my son's generation, merely smiling faces in a photo. Will he care? And what of his sons and daughters, even further removed?

The costs of forgetting are too high. In the Great War alone, worldwide it is estimated that there were 40 million casualties. 

We must remember them.    

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
    That mark our place; and in the sky
    The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
    Loved and were loved, and now we lie
        In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe: 
To you from failing hands we throw
    The torch; be yours to hold it high. 
    If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
        In Flanders fields.

                John McCrae 1872-1918