Armistice Day...

[St. George]

Tweet

Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae was assigned as the Surgeon to the Canadian First Field Artillery Brigade.

He had served during the Boer War, and was no stranger to hardship and carnage, but the fighting in the Ypres Salient was so horrendous, that it caused him to write this as a sort of release, after he'd just buried a friend.

It was penned at the Dressing Station on the banks of the Canal de l'Yser.

Dissatisfied with it, McCrae tossed the poem away, but a fellow officer retrieved it and sent it to
newspapers in England.

'The Spectator', in London, rejected it, but 'Punch' published it on 8 December 1915.

He died while on active service on the 28 day of January, 1918.

Before his death, he wrote:

'In Flander's fields the poppies grow
Between the crosses, row on row.
That mark our place; and in the sky,
The larks, still bravely singing, fly,
Scarce heard amidst 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 lift it high.
If ye break faith with those who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies blow
In Flanders fields.

After the Great War, this poem was read at Armistice Day gatherings, celebrating the end of the 'War to End All Wars', on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month.

Like Decoration Day - it was a time for reflection and for cleaning the gravestones of loved ones.

Then - some bright soul decided that - since folks were generally all off work - that they could also use their time to buy things - and they could buy even 'more' things and go places to spend money if they combined a couple of days set aside by a grateful Nation to honor their war dead, and re-named them to call them 'Veteran's Day' - and thus - the four-day weekend was born.

Go - buy stuff, and enjoy yourself - but in between trips to the mall - swing by the cemetary and take just a couple of minutes to tell someone 'Thanks'.

They'll appreciate the gesture.

Vaya,

Scouts Out!

[WaddWatsonEllis]

St George,

As a kid (around 9-10), my father was stationed at Toul Rosieres AFB in France

So I did the tourist thing with my parents .... St Mihel, Verdun, the works.

But a single place changed how I felt about war and soldiers.

There was a row of bayonets piercing the ground, surrounded by WWI concertina wire.

But to understand this, one must go back to WWI and imagine the horrors of life in the trenches.

Imagine a squad about to 'go over the top' ... and as they stood there in the near-frozen water at the bottom of the trench, soaked by the weeks-long continuous rain, they must have wondered how many of them would be returning, and wether that group would include the persons wondering.

Just before they were to go over the top, the weeks of rain finally had the most gruesome of effects.  The trench walls gave way, and swallowed up the poor soldiers in the nearly liquid mud. The soldiers must have drowned in the mud that closed in over them, and burdened down by their equipment and long rifles with their bayonets attached, could not escape.

Back to 1959 when I was there ... all that was left visible was a row of rusting bayonets ... but the awful truth was that under each of those bayonets was a soldier, somebody's son, waiting to go over the top.

[Top Kick Ken]

I find that I prefer the term Armistice day to Veteran's Day.  Armistice Day brings so many memories of my Grandfather and my Great Uncles.  My Grandfather, Ralph W. Johnson (Quite possibly the most fascinating person I have ever known) was born in San Francisco, the son of the man whose picture you see as my avatar here.  After serving on many sailing vessels working the lumber, coal and wool trade between the US and Australia, he also served in the British Royal Navy on HMS Fantome (A survey vessel) prior to WWI and joined the Australian Army sometime fairly soon after war was declared.  My Grandfather enlisted in the Australian Army under an assumed name (because he was an American citizen). 

He trained "in the shade of the Pyramids" and he participated in the Gallipolli Campaign as a member of a Light Horse Regiment.  He later went on to fight at Flanders and in the 3rd Battle of Ypres.  I saw the scars on his hand where he was wounded attempting to throw a German grenade back out of his trench at the Germans who had thrown it at him.  When it was found out that he was American, he was released from service and the Australian government confiscated his Service Medals and sent him on his way.  The only item he was allowed to keep was a "For King and Country, Services Rendered" Pin.  I have yet to find any matches in the Australian Archives for him...but I keep looking.

He had two brothers that served in the US military during WWI, with one of them suffering the effects of mustard gas for the rest of his life.  I was honored to know them and call them family...unfortunately, I have found very little concrete information about their service.  Hopefully my latest requests for information from the National Archives will be more successful. 

I just recently found a single WWI "Pass/Liberty" document granted for a Great Uncle on the other side of my family.  I doubt anyone in the family (aside from his twin brother and parents) ever knew he had ever served(He never mentioned anything about serving to anyone that I know of)...I was stunned to say the least.  All of this is now very tantalizing and clues for further research.  He worked for Pathe Films during the 1940's as a CPA and I found letters from the studios requesting an exemption from service in WWII due to his importance to the war effort as an employee of the studio.   

As a young child of 7-9 years of age seeing the scars on my Grandfather's hand and seeing his hand shake as he showed it to me; seeing the yellow fluid that my Great Uncle would cough up so many times at family get-togethers during the holidays made a very distinct impression on me about the sacrifices made by those who answer the call. 

To all who have sacrificed some and the few (too many) that sacrificed all, I salute you and your service!

[J.D. Yellowhammer]

Here's another vote for Armistice Day, and a celebration of the end of the tremendous carnage of that war.

Fascinating stories, folks. Thanks.

I don't have much to contribute. My grandad on mom's side was a doughboy.  I was pretty young when he died and I never learned much about his service in the Great War.  I clearly remember a few souvenirs: his gas mask with pale deposits/smudges in the corners of the glass lenses that he said was mustard gas; a piece of metal in his finger that was never removed; and a German spiked helmet made of canvas and leather with a small bullet hole in the side. 

I need to do more research and try to track down his records....

[Pitspitr]

Thank You St. George, for your service!
Both for the service you do for the GAF in posting such outstanding historical pieces and your uniformed service to our nation!

[Texas Lawdog]

Thanks to all the Vets. Enjoy your special Day.

[Daniel Nighteyes]

Thanks to all the Vets. Enjoy your special Day.

Amen.

[yeti76620]

God Bless All of you Veterans!  You've  been on my mind all day!  Thank You for Our FREEDOM!

^USA

Yeti 76620

[Sir Charles deMouton-Black]

I just watched a viewing of the National Film Board production of LCOL John McCrae's biography.  I have purchased my poppy and the lead up to Armistice Day is well begun.

[Sir Charles deMouton-Black]

"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."

http://www.firstworldwar.com/poetsandprose/binyon.htm

[Sir Charles deMouton-Black]

its here again.   This time the date is 11/11/11.

This year I will attend my son's unit commemoration in England on 13 Nov 11

[Ol Gabe]

Interesting numerical order for this year...
The 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month, this year it is also the 11th year. If I understand it correctly, this won't happen again til 2111!
Best regards and thanks to all those that are serving, have served and those that have passed on, giving all.
'Ol Gabe

[cpt dan blodgett]

We could wait till the 11th second of 11th minute of that hour to make our remeberance

[Mustang Gregg]

It is a day that we all ought to think aboout the sacrifices those that stood before us made.
We are having a formation that day to promote a very worthy SPC (E4) to SGT.
There will be several troops swearing the oath, extending their enlistments.
And we will pin aircrew wings on our door gunners, too. 
It will be at 11:11 on 11-11-11 in front of aircraft #111.
It will be pretty memorable because we are in Kandahar.

Congratulations, SGT Maurer!

MG

[cpt dan blodgett]

Way cool

[RattlesnakeJack]

November 11 is "Remembrance Day" in Canada and the rest of the British Commonwealth.  In this country, for weeks leading up to that day, people wear  lapel poppies ....


Remembrance Day ceremonies are held in communities across the country, with the Minute of Silence occurring  at the 11th hour -

This is the Cenotaph at Medicine Hat:


Some pictures i took on a rather chilly Remembrance Day -

Prior to the ceremony -


During the wreath laying portion of the ceremony -


The nearby Sherman tank commemorating our local WWII unit - The South Alberta Regiment (29th Armoured Recconaissance Regiment, 4th Canadian Armoured Division) -

[WaddWatsonEllis]

The Sherman Tank brought memories back ...

When I was about ten I was an AF Brat stationed with my Father in Phalsbourg AFB .... about 1960.

Each day when I returned home I passed a Sherman that had been hit by THREE Panzer rounds through the turret (sp?) ...

The armament in the turret didn't slow the Panzer rounds down much ...the thru holes left still bore the rifling of the Panzer shells ... both on the entrance and the exit holes ( I know; I made my Dad stop and I felt the holes myself). I would imagine the crew would be killed by the impact alone ....

I am hoping that 'They never knew what hit them' was a reality ... God bless anyone who paid the price .... or even stood a watch ...

[Trailrider]

This morning I attended a program given by the second graders at the elementary school where my youngest grandchild (kindergartener) attends.  The second grade kids put on a beautiful singing performance, including everyone reciting the Pledge of Allegance, National Anthem, America the Beautiful and God Bless America.  They also sang the service song for (in order youngest service to oldest) each major service, asking veterans and active service personnel in the audience to stand for his/her song. The place was packed, and it was really stirring. So glad to see this, as it a real effort to inspire patriotism in our youngsters.

To all of you who served, and those unable to answer the roll call, thanks and Godspeed. God Bless America!

Your obdt servant,

[Sir Charles deMouton-Black]

I took part in the ceremony for Remembrance Sunday in the town of Farnham, where my son's company is located.  I fell in with the Old Boys from the British Legion.  I was made quite welcome.  We had a few "change steps" as the civilian band had a poor bass drummer that wouldn't know how to keep a pace if he stepped on it!  Despite that, us old soldiers soon fell into the pace properly.  Its something you never forget.  Once a soldier, always a soldier.  For cap badge collectors it was quite a show. A reflection of the old Empire.  In the armoury later, over curry, another souvenir of Empire, I heard some grumbling over "what has England come to", as well as the obvious pleasure and camaradarie of the day.  The full time officer at the company is a Ghurka officer!

The church service stressed peace, as is appropriate as this is not a day to glorify war.  160 million deaths in wars during the 20th Century, mostly civilians!

I heard a new poem at the Cenotaph.  graphic, but a bit too jingoistic for me;


1914 V: The Soldier by Rupert Brooke

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

[Forty Rod]

"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."

http://www.firstworldwar.com/poetsandprose/binyon.htm

For The Fallen always make me want to cry.

[WaddWatsonEllis]

Hello all,


I ended the day watchin a movie called simply Passchendaele; which in very graphic detail showed the horrors of Trench Warfare; Thank God I did not serve there!

As a child I grew up touring Verdun and St Mihiel  ... and the dualism of my patriotim shows up in one of my favorite songs: Warning! This is to be watched by oneself with a BIG box of kleenex...

http://www.wtv-zone.com/phyrst/audio/nfld/05/mcbride.htm

[Durango Flinthart]

 Bivouac of the Dead
 
THE MUFFLED drum's sad roll has beat   
  The soldier's last tattoo;   
No more on Life's parade shall meet   
  That brave and fallen few.   
On Fame's eternal camping-ground           
  Their silent tents are spread,   
And Glory guards, with solemn round,   
  The bivouac of the dead.   
  
No rumor of the foe's advance   
  Now swells upon the wind;     
No troubled thought at midnight haunts   
  Of loved ones left behind;   
No vision of the morrow's strife   
  The warrior's dream alarms;   
No braying horn nor screaming fife     
  At dawn shall call to arms.   
  
Their shivered swords are red with rust,   
  Their plumèd heads are bowed;   
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust,   
  Is now their martial shroud.   
And plenteous funeral tears have washed   
  The red stains from each brow,   
And the proud forms, by battle gashed,   
  Are free from anguish now.   
  
The neighing troop, the flashing blade,   
  The bugle's stirring blast,   
The charge, the dreadful cannonade,   
  The din and shout, are past;   
Nor war's wild note nor glory's peal   
  Shall thrill with fierce delight     
Those breasts that nevermore may feel   
  The rapture of the fight.   
  
Like the fierce northern hurricane   
  That sweeps his great plateau,   
Flushed with the triumph yet to gain,   
  Came down the serried foe.   
Who heard the thunder of the fray   
  Break o'er the field beneath,   
Knew well the watchword of that day   
  Was "Victory or Death."     
  
Long had the doubtful conflict raged   
  O'er all that stricken plain,   
For never fiercer fight had waged   
  The vengeful blood of Spain;   
And still the storm of battle blew,     
  Still swelled the gory tide;   
Not long, our stout old chieftain knew,   
  Such odds his strength could bide.   
  
'T was in that hour his stern command   
  Called to a martyr's grave     
The flower of his beloved land,   
  The nation's flag to save.   
By rivers of their fathers' gore   
  His first-born laurels grew,   
And well he deemed the sons would pour   
  Their lives for glory too.   
  
Full many a norther's breath has swept   
  O'er Angostura's plain,   
And long the pitying sky has wept   
  Above its mouldered slain.     
The raven's scream, or eagle's flight,   
  Or shepherd's pensive lay,   
Alone awakes each sullen height   
  That frowned o'er that dread fray.   
  
Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground,     
  Ye must not slumber there,   
Where stranger steps and tongues resound   
  Along the heedless air.   
Your own proud land's heroic soil   
  Shall be your fitter grave:   
She claims from war his richest spoil—   
  The ashes of her brave.   
  
Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest   
  Far from the gory field,   
Borne to a Spartan mother's breast     
  On many a bloody shield;   
The sunshine of their native sky   
  Smiles sadly on them here,   
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by   
  The heroes' sepulchre.     
  
Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead!   
  Dear as the blood ye gave;   
No impious footstep here shall tread   
  The herbage of your grave;   
Nor shall your glory be forgot   
  While Fame her record keeps,   
Or Honor points the hallowed spot   
  Where Valor proudly sleeps.   
  
Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone   
  In deathless song shall tell,     
When many a vanished age hath flown,   
  The story how ye fell;   
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,   
  Nor Time's remorseless doom,   
Shall dim one ray of glory's light     
  That gilds your deathless tomb.   


Theodore O'Hara
 

[cpt dan blodgett]

DULCE ET DECORUM EST(1)

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud 
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest 
To children ardent  for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Wilfred Owen
8 October 1917 - March, 1918