Sunday is Remembrance Sunday in England. At 11:00, England goes silent to remember the country's war dead. I'm supposed to attend a service as a member of the Red Cross at the old military barracks in Reading but that means marching in the cold and rain then standing for the outdoor memorial service. I always enviously watch the MPs who attend this service go into one of the buildings for sherry and lunch in a nice heated room while I stand outside.
Every year at this time, people start wearing poppies on their lapels. The poppy is a symbol of the poppy fields in Belgium where so many British lost their lives in World War I.
Below is my husband's favorite World War I poem by Wilfred Owen. He explains that the last two lines of Latin mean "Sweet and noble it is to die for one's country," and refer to a poem by Horace that glorifies war. Mel says, "The Horace poem was very important in World War I because it was used to rouse young men into volunteering for the military. Owen's use of the line is, of course, ironic."
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.
Addendum:
I ducked out of the remembrance service as I needed to get food for us to eat today and next week. I was in one of those packed-out supermarkets where it is hard to get from one place to another with all the people when 11:00 came. Over the PA system came the sound of chimes and an announcement that it was now 11:00 and time for two minutes' silence. Well, didn't everyone stop dead in their tracks to observe the silence and remember the war dead. I was so moved by the scene, standing there in the middle of the detergent aisle as I was, that I got teary. I said to Mel later (he was in the chilled meat section at 11) if he didn't find it moving but he didn't. Men.
Next Tuesday is the actual anniversary of the armistace -- the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month so this will give me a great excuse to put up a post about another war poet. I just love those guys.
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