but I think it's important so I'm here anyhow.
I have trouble with Flanders Field too -- "take up our quarrel with the foe". What can be remembered is that the poem was scribbled by a Canadian battlefield doctor during a lull in the fighting in WWI, the most horrific war the world has ever seen, shortly before he died there himself -- hear it more for what it
is than what it says.
I have two family members who went to war in the last century. The first was my mother's father's oldest brother, who is buried in Étaples, France, having been gassed at Yprès in WWI, 2 bloody weeks before the war ended (it ended at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month). His little sister (whose mother had also died) apparently never recovered from the loss, and was ultimately committed to a psychiatric institution. The second was my paternal grandfather, in WWI and some British overseas adventure or other before that. I don't imagine that joining the Royal Ulster Constabulary (the forces of British repression in Northern Ireland in the early 20s) was his first choice of career, but I gather Captains of the Dragoon Guards weren't much needed after the war. Ultimately he was given a land grant in western Canada ... so I kinda owe my existence to WWI, although a branch of my family tree is missing.
WWI, besides being the worst environmental disaster in history, was the largest-scale, most pointless and appalling slaughter the world had ever known, in which ordinary men spent months of their lives in conditions that can only be called torture. It was followed by starvation and epidemics. And the surviving soldiers were commonly afflicted, in addition to physical disabilities and the after-effects of poison gas, by debilitating "shell shock" -- what we now call severe post-traumatic stress, that destroyed their lives.
I don't express my gratitude on Nov. 11 for what these people did for my country; I remember them as people, who did what they did either out of patriotism or out of duty or misguided idealism, or out of having no choice in the matter, but for whatever reason were thrust into circumstances
by their country, my country, that they should never have had to experience, and that make me owe them a duty of
remembrance. That's what it is, here: Remembrance Day.
And the speeches at the national ceremony of remembrance in Ottawa seemed even more strongly focussed this year on peace and social justice than in past years. I believe it was the Anglican chaplain whose "prayer" (and as an atheist I do resent the exclusionary nature of the public act of remembrance, for sure) was a very pointed call for equal rights for all, and tolerance and compassion and solidarity. C'mon up next year, if you're looking for remembrance without jingoism.
I have three artefacts to contribute. Country Joe Macdonald's site is a wealth of things to think about, focusing on Vietnam vets -- I love his Florence Nightingale page, with his realization of the effect that war has on the women who serve but are seldom remembered.
http://www.countryjoe.com/A painting by one of my favourite artists, Lady Butler, who was the first to paint the experience of war realistically -- painting the Crimean War (where Florence Nightingale tried to bring some shred of human dignity to the working class boys being used as fodder), while the other toffs picnicked on the hills and watched the killing going on below.
Remnants of an Army by Lady Butler
Depicts Dr. William Brydon, an assistant surgeon
in the Bengal Army arriving at the gates of
Jellabad on his exhausted and dying horse. He
was thought to be the sole survivor of some
16,000 strong army and followers from Kabul,
which was forced to retreat the 90 miles over
snow covered passes to Jellabad during the first
Aghan war. A few others eventually struggled
through to the fort.
And a song by Eric Bogle of Australia, about WWI veterans there. (What he says about Australia and WWI is also said of Canada: the "coming of age" of a nation, when it fought its first war.)
This... in Australia, every year, we have... we celebrate... we remember "ANZAC DAY" -- an' it's a very important day in Australia... the whole day is given over to remembering the soldiers who died in... all the wars and... the whole day -- in Britain, in England, they have two minutes of silence once a year.
It's important in Australia, because at Gallipoli, in 1915, for the first time, the Australian soldiers had Australian officers -- before then, the Australian army had British officers.
And... by this time, it was an all-Australian army, and they did quite well... and Australia was very proud of 'em. And they engendered a great sense of national pride, back home in Australia.
The saying arose that Australia became a nation founded on the blood of our soldiers who died at Gallipoli. So... it was very important to Australia.
We have... in Britain just now.. and THEN it was "our brave boys at Gallipoli"... in Britain, just before John and I left three days ago, it was "our brave boys in the Falkland Islands." The jingoism always remains the same... it's just the wars that are different... but they seem stupid, hackneyed phrases... which demeans the soldiers...
Right... I'll get off my pulpit... stop preaching and sing a song... I get quite heated about this subject...
Now 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,
Well, I waltzed my Matilda all over.
Then in 1915, my country said, "Son,
It's time you stop ramblin', there's work to be done."
So they gave me a tin hat, and they gave me a gun,
And they marched me away to the war.
And the band played "Waltzing Matilda,"
As the ship pulled away from the quay,
And amidst all the cheers, the flag waving, and tears,
We sailed off for Gallipoli.
And how well I remember that terrible day,
How our blood stained the sand and the water;
And of how in that hell that they call Suvla Bay
We were butchered like lambs at the slaughter.
Johnny Turk, he was waitin', he primed himself well;
He showered us with bullets, and he rained us with shell --
And in five minutes flat, he'd blown us all to hell,
Nearly blew us right back to Australia.
But the band played "Waltzing Matilda,"
When we stopped to bury our slain,
Well, we buried ours, and the Turks buried theirs,
Then we started all over again.
And those that were left, well, we tried to survive
In that mad world of blood, death and fire.
And for ten weary weeks I kept myself alive
Though around me the corpses piled higher.
Then a big Turkish shell knocked me arse over head,
And when I woke up in me hospital bed
And saw what it had done, well, I wished I was dead --
Never knew there was worse things than dying.
For I'll go no more "Waltzing Matilda,"
All around the green bush far and free --
To hump tents and pegs, a man needs both legs,
No more "Waltzing Matilda" for me.
So they gathered the crippled, the wounded, the maimed,
And they shipped us back home to Australia.
The armless, the legless, the blind, the insane,
Those proud wounded heroes of Suvla.
And as our ship sailed into Circular Quay,
I looked at the place where me legs used to be,
And thanked Christ there was nobody waiting for me,
To grieve, to mourn and to pity.
But the band played "Waltzing Matilda,"
As they carried us down the gangway,
But nobody cheered, they just stood and stared,
Then they turned all their faces away.
And so now every April, I sit on my porch
And I watch the parade pass before me.
And I see my old comrades, how proudly they march,
Reviving old dreams of past glory,
And the old men march slowly, all bones stiff and sore,
They're tired old heroes from a forgotten war
And the young people ask "What are they marching for?"
And I ask meself the same question.
But the band plays "Waltzing Matilda,"
And the old men still answer the call,
But as year follows year, more old men disappear
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,
Who'll come a-Waltzing Matilda with me?
Well, one more. I was reading The Man Who Would Be King when Bush attacked Afghanistan; do you suppose Bush has read Kipling? Object lessons could have been learned, about the wisdom of trying to do anything in Afghanistan. Then later, watched the movie; Michael Caine and Sean Connery, well done depiction of the book. It included this traditional song -- Chief O'Brien's song from STNG too:
Thomas Moore, 1779-1852
The minstrel boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you'll find him;
His father's sword he hath girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him;
"Land of Song!" cried the warrior bard,
"Tho' all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy right shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee!"
The Minstrel fell! But the foeman's steel
Could not bring that proud soul under;
The harp he lov'd ne'er spoke again,
For he tore its chords asunder;
And said "No chains shall sully thee,
Thou soul of love and brav'ry!
Thy songs were made for the pure and free
They shall never sound in slavery!
US Civil War verse
The minstrel boy will return, we pray,
When we hear the news we all will cheer it.
The minstrel boy will return one day,
Torn perhaps in body, not in spirit.
Then may he play on his harp in peace,
In a world such as Heaven has intended,
For all the bitterness of man must cease,
And every battle must be ended
(and one more verse I found on the net)
Where's the minstrel boy? I've found him
Joining in the labour fray
With his placards slung about him,
'Shorter hours and better pay.'
;)
... and thanks for letting me share my belated remembrances.
.
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