From between the crosses, row on row, John McCrae’s blood-spattered blossom has come down to us from on high that we might remember. Remember what? The Fallen! What Fallen? All the Fallen!
They shall grow not 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.
Follow @UrFhasaidh We might as well call this the general ignorance round. While taking in a few of the splendid beers Belgium has to offer, during our fortnight in Flanders, we were frequently accosted by the advertising banner for The Wipers Times beer, and it is only now that I am making the connection. ‘Wipers’ … Continue reading Are You a Victim of Optimism?
We can be sure that none of them thought a damn of king and country as they lay bleeding in no-man’s-land, and neither king nor country thought a damn about them when they left them there to rot. Everywhere about us we read on poppy crosses those ironic words Lest We Forget.
This was a human catastrophe, and my fear is that the pomp and remembrance of their sacrifice serves only to veil the true horror of the war. Seldom do we hear our history teachers tell that this war was futile, and we are seldom, if ever, told the human stories of the pain and the suffering.
Flanders, like every theatre of the so-called Great War, was a place of genocide; it was where the ruling classes conspired to cull their excess labour force, and they achieved this goal with stagger effect.
From this early stage in the assault the War Diary reports that these artillery pieces were “too light for destroying the enemy’s trenches and wire entanglements.” The commanders knew fine well they were sending the Scots on a suicide mission.
Crossing over the street we could make out, under the bellow of the greater bells above us, the clanging of the bells of St. George’s chapel. We had decided to go Catholic today