A moveable feast today. Rather than a mega-blog, put together at the end of the day, this will be composed as we go along on the Waldron tour of the Ypres salient, recording the events as we live them.
11.35. The Canadian Memorial at Vimy Ridge. The weather is bright and crisp – warm enough for comfortable visiting but with the reminder that the men in the trenches weren’t permanently bathed in sunshine. The twin arms of the Memorial, brilliant white, dominate the ridge as the ridge itself dominates the plain on which lie the valuable coal-mines that were so vital to the German war-effort. The memorial has not a trace of triumphalism about it but rather abounds in images of sorrow and mourning: entirely appropriate for a nation that lost 60,000 men in the fighting – and of whom 10,000 have no known grave. A short trip (no more than 5 minutes) down the ridge brought us to a preserved section of trenches. It was an experience to make us all pause for thought as the boys waited in the Canadian front lines, listening to Mr Waldron’s explanations, delivered clearly from the German front line a mere 50 metres away.
13.28. Armentières for lunch, passing, on the way there, an Indian and, even more amazingly, a Portuguese cemetery. Horrifyingly, British cemeteries are so prevalent that there is a temptation to regard them as normal when, in reality, the sight of the graves of hundreds of war dead should provoke other, stronger, emotions. At Armenières the lure of the Golden Arches proved too tempting for some, while Archie Murdoch, Ollie Coombe-Tennant and Kit Bridge had the courage and/or the appetite to eat in a genuine French restaurant – we, the staff, know because we were there at the same time.
1420. Departure for the visit of the Ypres Salient, firstly to the outlying Hill 62, where the boys were able to try out their wellies in the mud of some remaining trenches and tunnels. All good fun in the late autumn sunshine but it didn’t take a great deal of imagination to see that, with more than a drop of rain, it would be a complete swamp – which is indeed what happened to the plain around Ypres following the bombardments that preceded the three battles that were fought around the town between 1914 and 1918.
1553, arrive at Essex Farm cemetery. We were able to visit the field dressing station where Col. John Macrae wrote the famous “In Flanders fields” poem. The occasion was made especially poignant by our all clustering together in the semi-darkness while Archie M. read the poem to us. The words of Col. Macrae, added to the knowledge that his task was not to treat the wounded, but rather to decide which casualties were worth treating further back (and, implicitly, which injured soldiers would be a waste of time) brought home to us something of the horror of the war.
1610, the German cemetery at Langemark, with its gloomy oak-trees and black headstones set close to the ground (no vertical, white stones for the defeated) provided a necessary counterbalance to concentration on the losses of the Allied side. It was shocking to find a mass grave in which nearly 30,000 German dead were buried, almost 8000 of whom could not be identified.
1740. We have just arrived at Tyne Cot cemetery, which contains in the region of 40,000 British dead. The evident prosperity of the surrounding farmland and the tranquillity of the neatly-ordered villages give no suggestion of the carnage of 90 years ago nor of the mud which could drag a man to his death. This moment was a special one for everyone present. Mr Waldron had divided the names of all the Shirburnians killed in World War I into short lists, one for every boy in the party. Each name was solemnly recalled and then Kit Bridge stepped forward to lay a wreath of poppies on the altar, on which was engraved the message “Their name liveth for evermore.” The setting sun, the clear sky and the crisp air made for a memorable occasion – if only the dead could have lived to enjoy such peace.
1810, arrival in Ypres. Amazingly enough, the town was reconstructed following its destruction in the war and the casual visitor from the 14th century would not feel out-of-place in front of the cathedral and the Cloth Hall. We were there for two purposes – dinner, followed by participation in the Last Post ceremony at the Menin Gate, on which are recorded the names of all the Commonwealth dead who have no known grave. The ceremony has taken place every night, courtesy of the town fire-brigade, since the 1920s and tonight attracted, by my estimation, 4-500 people of all ages. After the bugles had blown, it was the time for members of the public to lay their wreaths. In a complete and respectful silence, those present watched as Alistair Pusinelli and Luke Lambert stepped forward and added our contribution, with its dedication signed by Stephen Gray, our Chaplain, to the other tributes.
As you see, today has been a mixture of past events and present emotions. The fact that we came across, as we travelled, school groups from several European countries, strongly suggests that World War I has engraved itself indelibly into our minds and now constitutes something of what it means to be a citizen of Europe. Nearer to home, some of the boys in the party will be able to tell their grandchildren that they played their part in commemorating those who died in the conflict.
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