Another re-post. It’s an important day, but time presses in on us.
–
At 1100 on the 11th day of the 11th month, the guns finally fell silent, but not before 10 million young men fell, never to rise again, with another 20 million maimed, and nearly 8 million missing, forever. The world got its first look at modern, industrial warfare on a massive scale and turned away revolted. Promised those left behind that this would be it, the war to end all wars.
It was a promise that went sadly unfulfilled.
Joseph Ambrose, an 86-year-old World War I veteran, attends the dedication day parade for the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in 1982, holding the flag that covered the casket of his son, who had been killed in the Korean War.
On Memorial Day we lay flowers on the graves of those that fell. Today we give thanks to those that served, and returned again with honor to take up the plow, hammer or pen. Or to those who fell back into the ranks vowing to keep the sword bright and sharp for the next time, grimly aware that there will always be a next time, that only the dead have seen the last of war. Having seen for themselves the real nature of man, knowing that weakness is provocative to savagery and that the surest path to peace is to be prepared for war.
Some may march in parades, and see the battle pennants streaming from the colors. For them these are not mere gaudy flashes, for they have a memory of the time before they were in place, remember the streamers fresh and new, remember what it cost in human terms to tie them to the flagstaff.
Others will gather in taverns and VFW halls, hoist refreshments in memory of their youth, offer toasts to absent friends who will remain forever young, and wonder how they will ever be able to explain any of it to anyone who wasn’t there, knowing that for those who were, no explanation will be necessary.
Some will wake up in the middle of the night seized with nightmares or private guilt, some of these will try to self-medicate, fall down a deep tunnel and end up wandering the streets muttering dark and unintelligible dirges of innocence lost and the human connections that cannot be restored once one has seen all the world turn violently mad.
Military service is hard, even in peace time. People are asked to surrender a portion of their freedoms to better ensure the freedoms of the rest of us. Discipline is enforced; great exertions are called for, there are separations and privations. They are taught to run towards the sound of the guns, to stand in the hatch and fight the fire, to shove the throttles up and fly into the maelstrom. In short, they are conditioned to willingly go towards things from which every rational fiber screams to flee. They are taught, and most of them eventually come to believe, that there is something more important than themselves. That some things really might worth dying for, whether those be noble principles, those they left at home, or those on their left and right.
These are hard teachings, but they have the example of heroes to testify to the truth of them.
In this land we are graced with a vibrant political culture, but it was Washington’s guns and musketeers who gave it to us. We enjoy the remote fastness of our island home, but it was Decatur, Farragut and Porter who scoured the seas to defend our ocean ramparts. We have human freedom and increasing dignity here at home, but not before three million boys in blue and butternut contended the terms of that freedom. We have liberal democracies here and abroad, but not before millions more marched forth asking for nothing more than a patch of earth to be buried in, should it come to that.
There are many blessings in this land, but although we tend to treat them as birthrights, transferable to our heirs in perpetuity, the reality is that all of them have been fought over and all must be defended. Perhaps the greatest blessing of all is that in each generation there have been those who answered their country’s call when it came and said, “I’ll go. I’ll do it. Pick me.”
They are the veterans, and this is our day to thank them.
Update: If words fail, turn to music and imagery.
Stood for my 2 minutes at 1100 GMT, alongside my Harley Davidson, in my little Norfolk town, which came to a standstill. The greatest gift we have is time itself and 2 minutes seems such a small thing to give up for such an immense remembrance.
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.
Out Thanks to all Veterans, past & present. Being the 13th Generation of a family that has defended our country since its inception, I send along my family’s thanks to all Veterans that fought to keep our country free.
Bravo Zulu.
Amen.
Two of my favorite video:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=te-cKxsBapM
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KYlrrAWCTRg
and as a proud dual nationality, British/Canadian citizen, I had to add this one, even if I suspect you’ve all seen him before:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nDMzHlkB-Yg
What I like most about that video is the way the Canadians returned the honours rendered.
Honours on Remembrance Day for our American friends do not go amiss over here. I now live barely 2 miles from what was once the home of the USAAF 100th Bomb Group, Station 139 or Thorpe Abbotts. The Group lives on as the 100th Refuelling Group, USAF, now at Mildenhall, in Zane’s neck of the woods.
The village where I live has a pub that was frequented by the airmen of the “Bloody Hundredth”. The airfield has returned to farmland, but the control tower and some nissan huts remain as a well tended museum, although on my visit 3 weeks ago it is as much a shrine. Some of you may find this of interest and I hope you are heartened to read of how just a small part of Remembrance is conducted in England, 66 years on.
http://www.100thbg.com/reunions/thabbotts2002/thabbotts_main.htm
Mildenhall, my neck of the woods? But from Thorpe Abbots, so it is–I’m closer to Birmingham than to you. I was there two summers ago, had to stop in the woods outside because a herd of those rat deer just wandered across the road all about me. It wasn’t the longest drive I’ve made in England, not by a long shot, but it sure felt like it. We shall have to agree to meet in the middle to lift our pints.
No worries, Zane. Sorry, thought you were over at MH. There are certainly few main roads out these parts, but then again I haven’t been in a traffic jam since we moved here on Sept 28th! Joy.
11/11/11/11/–Commemorating the WW I Armistice signed at the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, 1918, and today commemorated in the eleventh year of this new Century–the first time this has ever happened and the only time it will in this Century. It will be one hundred years before this day comes again. A very historic moment.
Another interesting bit about this year is that if you take the year of your birth (two digits) and add your age at the end of this year it will total 111. Works for everyone.
Saayyy–I didn’t know you were a numerologist!
I’ll second that Lex, gets to me too, went all misty. To all the Veterans who visit this site: THANK YOU FOR YOUR SERVICE AND SACRIFICES FOR OUR GREAT COUNTRY!
I have a untold debt to millions I will never know and can never repay. It is all I can do to offer heartfelt thanks, knowing that, while not expected to be received as a condition of their sacrifice, remains unconditional in its offering as well.
To all of you who will read these words and have or are even now serving, I most humbly thank you from the depths of my heart and soul.
It’s all I have but, given freely under the blanket of protection of expression your selfless actions have provided, gives some measure of atonement for that guilt I carry for never having served.
Thank you one and all.
Something to think on – only two years, 8 months, and 17 days to the 100th anniversary of the start of the War to End War. Not very long ago. But, for those born now, it is about as far in the past as the Civil War was for us when we were born (roughly).
And the cost:
ENTENTE POWERS
Military dead:
5,525,000
Military wounded:
12,831,500
Military missing:
4,121,000
Total:
22,477,500 KIA, WIA or MIA
CENTRAL POWERS
Military dead:
4,386,000
Military wounded:
8,388,000
Military missing:
3,629,000
Total:
16,403,000 KIA, WIA or MIA
My undying gratitude to all of you!
Gathered in a damp cold wind outside the church in Old Weston, a dozen men, some in uniform. Old Weston lies just east of RAF Molesworth, wartime home of the 303rd Bombing Group and the first base from which US bombers launched against Germany.
The top of the steeple is a different color stone than the rest, and today I found out why. A bomber, shot to pieces coming out of Germany, made it back to Molesworth, only to find that steeple in the way. The church survived, the plane didn’t.
We will remember.
It was indeed a chiily one today, Zane. Just fired up the log burner. The Brit in me would say, ` A bit nippy`, my Canadian half would say, “It’s nice to be oat and aboat” and start planting tulips. (Granny would be pleased with that one).
Over here, three straight days of that low fog that traps the cold and blocks the sun. When I first moved here from Italy I loved the green, and had no problem with the chill or wind, but I thought I would go insane after two weeks with no sight of the sun. I find it very easy to understand how the Brits set out to conquer all the world they could find closer to the equator.
and presumably why the Scandinavians have the highest suicide rates?
…exacerbated, no doubt, by a confiscatory socialist government and the long term effects of demon rum. Best
“Demon” Rum?–If you so think– but–You pick your demons and I’ll pick mine, Snake.. .I’m on more friendly and intimate terms..
ZANE/
The first two years I was stationed in the UK we had US wx–blizzards and below-freezing in the winter and 80s-90s and blazing sun all summer. ( the Brits were dropping like flies in the summer–no such thing as “summer weight” clothing in the UK, lol) Wasn’t until my 3rd year that we got the typical “two weeks of summer” in last of July and first of Aug with the rest rain & coolish 50s and rain and fog and 40-50 all winter sans snow. But Hogday is right–better get on with whatever you plan on doing like planting tulips, if you wait for the wx to “get better” you’ll never get to have that picnic. LOL
Excellent as always, Lex. Too all of you out there, Thanks from The Old Retired Petty Officer.
Well how do you do Private William McBride,
Do you mind if I sit here down by your graveside?
And rest for awhile beneath the warm summer sun,
I’ve been walking all day and now I’m nearly done
I see by your gravestone you were only nineteen
When you joined the glorious fallen in 1916;
Well I hope you died quick and I hope you died clean,
Or, young Willie McBride, was it slow and obscene?
Did they beat the drum slowly,
Did they play the fife lowly?
Did the rifles fir o’er you
As they lowered you down?
Did the band play
“The Last Post And Chorus?”
Did the pipes play
“The Flowers Of The Forest?”
Did you leave ‘ere a wife or a sweetheart behind?
In some faithful heart is your memory enshrined?
And although you died back in 1916,
In that faithful heart are you forever nineteen?
Or are you a stranger without even a name,
Enclosed forever behind a glass pane,
In an old photograph, torn, and battered and stained,
And faded to yellow in a brown leather frame?
Did they beat the drum slowly,
Did they play the fife lowly?
Did the rifles fir o’er you
As they lowered you down?
Did the band play
“The Last Post And Chorus?”
Did the pipes play
“The Flowers Of The Forest?”
Ah the sun now it shines on these green fields of France,
The warm summer breeze makes the red poppies dance,
And look how the sun shines from under the clouds;
There’s no gas, no barbed wire, there’re no guns firing now.
But here in this graveyard it’s still No Man’s Land,
The countless white crosses in mute witness stand
To man’s blind indifference to his fellow man,
To a whole generation that was butchered and damned.
Did they beat the drum slowly,
Did they play the fife lowly?
Did the rifles fir o’er you
As they lowered you down?
Did the band play
“The Last Post And Chorus?”
Did the pipes play
“The Flowers Of The Forest?”
Ah, young Willie McBride, I can’t help wonder why,
Did all those who lay here really know why they died?
And did they believe when they answered the call,
Did they really believe that this war would end war?
For the sorrow, the suffering, the glory, the pain,
The killing and dying were all done in vain,
For, young Willie McBride, it all happened again,
And again and again and again and again.
Did they beat the drum slowly,
Did they play the fife lowly?
Did the rifles fir o’er you
As they lowered you down?
Did the band play
“The Last Post And Chorus?”
Did the pipes play
“The Flowers Of The Forest?”
Not sure if this will work but if not just type in Terry Kelly.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KYlrrAWCTRg
And thanks to Glenn and G+
Just one day a year we honor the bravest among us. It seems so little for so much.
I love all of you for the sacrifices you make – and are willing to make – to defend our great nation. My respect and regard for each of you knows no limit.
I am not worthy.
Kris-You are worthy simply because you are you.
Paul
They went with songs to the battle
They were young, straight of limb,
True of eyes, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end
Against odds uncounted
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall not grow old
As we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them
Nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun
And in the morning
We will remember them.
-Laurence Binyon
Tommy
I went into a public-’ouse to get a pint o’ beer,
The publican ‘e up an’ sez, “We serve no red-coats here.”
The girls be’ind the bar they laughed an’ giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an’ to myself sez I:
O it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, go away”;
But it’s “Thank you, Mister Atkins”, when the band begins to play,
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it’s “Thank you, Mister Atkins”, when the band begins to play.
I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but ‘adn’t none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-’alls,
But when it comes to fightin’, Lord! they’ll shove me in the stalls!
For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, wait outside”;
But it’s “Special train for Atkins” when the trooper’s on the tide,
The troopship’s on the tide, my boys, the troopship’s on the tide,
O it’s “Special train for Atkins” when the trooper’s on the tide.
Yes, makin’ mock o’ uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an’ they’re starvation cheap;
An’ hustlin’ drunken soldiers when they’re goin’ large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin’ in full kit.
Then it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, ‘ow’s yer soul?”
But it’s “Thin red line of ‘eroes” when the drums begin to roll,
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it’s “Thin red line of ‘eroes” when the drums begin to roll.
We aren’t no thin red ‘eroes, nor we aren’t no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An’ if sometimes our conduck isn’t all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don’t grow into plaster saints;
While it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, fall be’ind”,
But it’s “Please to walk in front, sir”, when there’s trouble in the wind,
There’s trouble in the wind, my boys, there’s trouble in the wind,
O it’s “Please to walk in front, sir”, when there’s trouble in the wind.
You talk o’ better food for us, an’ schools, an’ fires, an’ all:
We’ll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don’t mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow’s Uniform is not the soldier-man’s disgrace.
For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Chuck him out, the brute!”
But it’s “Saviour of ‘is country” when the guns begin to shoot;
An’ it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ anything you please;
An’ Tommy ain’t a bloomin’ fool — you bet that Tommy sees!
When I was a young man I carried me pack
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
Then in 1915 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
And they sent me away to the war
And the band played Waltzing Matilda
When the ship pulled away from the quay
And amid all the tears, flag waving and cheers
We sailed off for Gallipoli
It well I remember that terrible day
When our blood stained the sand and the water
And how in that hell they call Suvla Bay
We were butchered like lambs at the slaughter
Johnny Turk, he was ready, he primed himself well
He rained us with bullets, and he showered us with shell
And in five minutes flat, we were all blown to hell
He nearly blew us back home to Australia
And the band played Waltzing Matilda
When we stopped to bury our slain
Well we buried ours and the Turks buried theirs
Then it started all over again
Oh those that were living just tried to survive
In that mad world of blood, death and fire
And for ten weary weeks I kept myself alive
While around me the corpses piled higher
Then a big Turkish shell knocked me arse over head
And when I awoke in me hospital bed
And saw what it had done, I wished I was dead
I never knew there was worse things than dying
Oh no more I’ll go Waltzing Matilda
All around the green bush far and near
For to hump tent and pegs, a man needs both legs
No more waltzing Matilda for me
They collected the wounded, the crippled, the maimed
And they shipped us back home to Australia
The armless, the legless, the blind and the insane
Those proud wounded heroes of Suvla
And when the ship pulled into Circular Quay
I looked at the place where me legs used to be
And thank Christ there was no one there waiting for me
To grieve and to mourn and to pity
And the Band played Waltzing Matilda
When they carried us down the gangway
Oh nobody cheered, they just stood there and stared
Then they turned all their faces away
Now every April I sit on my porch
And I watch the parade pass before me
I see my old comrades, how proudly they march
Renewing their dreams of past glories
I see the old men all tired, stiff and worn
Those weary old heroes of a forgotten war
And the young people ask “What are they marching for?”
And I ask myself the same question
And the band plays Waltzing Matilda
And the old men still answer the call
But year after year, their numbers get fewer
Someday, no one will march there at all
Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda
Who’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda with me?
And their ghosts may be heard as they march by the billabong
So who’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda with me?
Now THAT was one huge charlie foxtrot.
Thank you, Veterans.
NL: Thanks for your service. I am grateful.
To all you Vets here, Thanks.
This by a gentleman, and veteran, I know from the SASS forums.
http://lazybobranch.homestead.com/POMES/StandTo.html
STAND TO!
“Kipling or Tennyson?”, the question rang out,
“I know that it’s one or the other”
“Or maybe it’s both and a bit of Lord Byron
read to you as a lad by your mother.”
I looked up to the eyes of the old Colour Sergeant
His words had cut through my mild trance.
“Correspondent?”, he asked, and I nodded my head,
“And you’re going to watch the Great Dance?”
His words were all true, so transparent was I.
He had seen what I was right away.
Just a wet-nosed reporter on the way to a war.
But I’d write The Great Novel some day!
Should I answer his query? Was he having me on?
His gaze was a mystery to me.
But before I could answer, he spoke up again
“Were you eyein’ me ribbons?”, asked he.
I admitted I had been, and that I was impressed
And he laughed with his mouth, not his eyes.
“They call these things medals, but I calls ‘em scars”
He said softly then, to my surprise.
“Each one is a memory of a terrible place
and some good mates who cashed in their chips.
Brave lads every one. I will drink to their souls”.
And his glass slowly raised to his lips.
Then he put on his cap and started to rise
as I reached barely touching his sleeve.
And I said, “Please indulge me. I’ve just one small question
If you wouldn’t mind before you leave”
“Go ahead Son”, he said after staring at me
“One question – one answer seems fair”
And he smiled that strange smile, and he took off his cap.
Ran his hand through his thin, graying hair.
“Why do you do it, put yourself in harms way.
You could rest now with honour”, said I.
And he gazed for a moment and then just turned to leave
with that far away look in his eye.
Then he stopped before going and dug out his pipe.
Then a light, and he turned back to me.
“Why do I do it?”, he asked soft and low.
“Well I’ll tell you but I’m not sure you’ll see.”
“It’s a Hell of a life, this one that I’ve chose.
Had to do things that most wouldn’t do”
But sometimes you see Lad, when the wolf’s at the door,
someone just has to Stand To”.
And with that he was gone out into the night
and I turned to the man at the bar.
Do you know that old sergeant, the one I spoke to?
The one with the chest full of “scars”?
And he looked at me oddly. “Lad, you’ve been all alone.
Spoken barely a word here all night”.
The room seemed to cool. Guess my face lost it’s color.
Says the barman, “Lad, are you alright?”
I just paid what I owed and walked out in the night
and the evening air cleared my head soon.
But the words of the sergeant echoed soft in my ear
as I gazed through the fog at the moon.
Later on with the troops, I watched the Great Dance.
And I wrote of the things that I saw.
The horror, the courage the blood and the pain
and the men who faced war’s bloody maw.
Many times I returned to that small London pub
and searched for that sergeant in vain.
But he’s never appeared to my eyes since that night.
Yet, I still feel his words and his pain.
And my novel’s unfinished, put away for just now.
I’ve changed the plot one time or two.
When it finally gets written, it will be about “wolves”
And the brave men who dare to Stand To.
Amen to all of you.
Let us say a prayer for peace.
JMC
This humble civilian only wishes to say thanks to our host and all those who frequent here and have served this nation for their service and sacrifice.
http://www.intruderassociation.org/in_memory.html
On days like this I tend to think of those who aren’t here and I get a little miffed that the names are familiar but I can no longer bring back the faces.
Funny, Busbob, just the reverse with me–I can stilll see all the faces like they were standing in front of me right now–just can’t remember all the names…
Thank you all, sincerely.
Love the poetry. never realized that the Civil War was
about as distant as WW1. I had a Gr. Granpa who was a
artilleryman in the Union Army. As I have said,a Gr.
uncle who was killed at Belleau wood…
My Father in Law was a Tank Driver in Patton’s Third…
I am humbled. Thank You..
Well, I was born in 1957, so the civil war was roughly 100 years before that. For kids being born now, WWI will be “a really long time” the way the Civil war was for me when I was growing up.
With my longer view of time, and my interest in history, 150 years isn’t all that long ago. Example – in my dads VFW post there was one SpanAm war vet. I met him when I was growing up. He likely knew Civil War vets (likely my dad did too), and they likely knew Revolutionary War vets. So, four handshakes back to the founding of our Republic. Not very long in historic terms.
I’m a’53 model myself. My Pop visited Gr.Granpa regularly,
He was a lot older than Gr. Granma and died as one of the
Last Civil War vets in Idaho. -1951. 97.
Bull Run,Antietam, Gettysburg,then Appomattox.
a few more in between….
We had a Spanish/Am war vet as Grand marshal at the Veteran’s day Parade once in my home town.I remember him well. along with
the WWl vet who flew with Rickenbacker..
I met a bona fide Ace on the way home from work Friday night. There was an elderly gentleman and his daughter on my train. They were obviously heading home from the parade or some other Veterans Day event.
I heard the conductor tell them they had to move back a few cars to get off at their station as the train was too long for the platform at their stop.
I had noticed that he was wearing a USS Intrepid name pin and some ribbons as well as what looked, at a distance, like wings.
I offered to help them move back at the first stop and they told me that he had flown off the Cowpens during WWII and he had been President of the Intrepid Association.
Looking up James Ean of Copaique NY, I found that he had 6.5 kills vs. the Japanese, or so Al Gore’s Internets says.
He was still pretty energetic and ran along the platform to get back on the train at the first stop. He wouldn’t let us hold the train up for him.
I would have liked to have talked to him more on the ride but didn’t want to impose.
God Bless him and all our Vets.
http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/lanow/2011/11/marines-cross-camp-pendleton.html
Three words, praise of which there is none higher, “Well done, Marines!”
Too bad they aren’t allowed to raise one in Afghanistan.
Not allowed? WT?
Mustn’t risk offending the delicate sensibilities of the local mohammedan population, don’t you know. (insert proper Oxonian aristocratic sniff for punctuation)