They shall not grow old as we who are left shall grow old

[Hampden Park]

Apart from the Falklands, my 26 years in the RN was pretty much one big piss up compared to what the young people in the Army & Marines are doing these days. Hats off to them.

I'll be thinking of a few old mates who copped it in '82


What smudge said

 

[champion7]

Personnally, I think we should go back to Remembrance day onto the 11th, at the 11th hour, all over the Country people, the old, the young, the teacher, the pupil, the boss, the staff, should all stop and remember.

We have tucked Remembrance Day away to a Sunday to be a mimimum inconvenience, whilst I say, it should become one of the more important days of our lives.

We cry out for a Bank Holiday, here is one for you and no greater reason needs to be given, that these men and women, young and old gave there lives for us to be free.

LC

i totally agree with you and on the 11th at the 11th hour i will stand and salute them, no matter what day it falls on

 

[Gwylan]

Disabled

He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,
Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park
Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn,
Voices of play and pleasure after day,
Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.
...

I love that poem: the most moving of all WW1 poetry.


BTW, the thread title has a high claim to be the most misquoted line in all poetry.

It's "They shall grow not old...." not "They shall not grow old..."

 

[London Calling]

Tomorrow is the 11th.

A one in 7 year coincidence!!

I was in Rome a few years a go, undertaking liaison work with the City Council, the 11th was a Monday and it was a Bank Holiday, we were only working because the Mayor had agreed that we could be the exception. It was nealy impossible to obtain water and or coffee! It was Italy. Let alone anything else. True observation. From a country often pillored.

 

[shingle]

MY GREAT UNCLE- SIDNEY ALBERT GLAYZER, never forgotten born THORNTON HEATH 1896, died german pow camp Cassel-1915

 

[Brian Potter]

My wife teaches here in South East London, and she gave the head master at her school the mother of all bollockings yesterday. She demanded to know why the school was doing nothing about Rememberance Sunday, why none of the kids knew why she was wearing a poppy (she was the only member of staff, including the head, who has been wearing one)!, and why they were not selling poppies at the school.

When pressed the head's excuse was that "we have been so busy with Black History Month, I had clean forgot about it"

My missus then gave him the full-on Mrs Potter 5 minute tirade, shaming him into admitting he had acted very wrongly and promising to do something next year.

Me personally, tomorrow I will attend the service at my local war memorial in Eltham, then go to the legion (I served 9 years in the army), and drink from my grandad's Burma Star Assoc tankard (he was a Chindit in WWII).

 

[Gully]

We had a minute silence at the game today, which was almost impeccably observed, the only exceptions being a small child and the bloke stood behind me who was rustling the tin foil on his lunch throughout...you sir are a brainless and disrespectful chimp...oh, and for your information the people of Gloucestershire are not inbred retards.

 

[Cheshire Cat]

http://london.iwm.org.uk/upload/package/81/exported_html/index.html

http://london.iwm.org.uk/upload/package/81/exported_html/index.html

"My Boy Jack is the first exhibition to tell the story of Rudyard Kipling's only son John who was killed at the Battle of Loos in 1915. The exhibition is being launched to coincide with the screening of the ITV1 drama, My Boy Jack starring Daniel Radcliffe as John and David Haig as Rudyard Kipling. Exhibits include the uniform worn by Daniel Radcliffe in the ITV1 drama and the moving correspondence between Rudyard and his son."

The programme is on ITV Sunday at 9.00pm

Also for the actual stories

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/7084764.stm

 

[Freddie Goodwin.]

Never fails to move me. Ian Hislop's got an interesting few programmes on C4. Sat nights was about the names on memoerials and how one small village didn't have one. 10 lads had died but 1 was shot as a deserter, even though he had been through hell.

To their credit, the families of the other lads refused a memorial if all the names were not included. now, all these years later, they have their memorial with all 10 names.

I then watched most of the Festival of Remembrance, very moving. My two eldest g/kids watched too.

Was dissapointed to see The Championship at 10.25 this AM but they did take a break to cross to the Cenotapth. I actually finished up watcing the BBC coverage, as usual.

 

[Bry Nylon]

Enjoyed (if that is the right word) reading all the poetry people have posted on this thread. I haven't read any poetry since I was at school, and had forgotten just how powerful and thought provoking it can be, when done well - in a way that straight prose cannot. Its economy of words and directness can't be matched.

With regard the point above about war memorials, I have started researching the slowly fading names engraved on the war memorial in the village where I live, and hope to have an article ready for the next edition of the village magazine, telling the stories of the young men of our parish who left home to fight in 2 world wars but never came back again. I'd hate to think that their sacrifes be forgotten by all but their immediate family.

 

[Frutos]

Not a poem, but some song lyrics on this subject that I'd like to share:

Turned to the six o'clock news, another soldier dies
Tried to hide it but I couldn't help it, I had to cry
When my little boy asked me daddy was he your friend
I said no, I didn't even know him

But he was somebody's someone, a neighbour, a husband
A brother, a father, and a mother's only son
He was an uncle, a cousin, somebody's best friend
And I'm sure at times a shoulder to lean on
He was somebody's someone

So I sat there in that chair and helped him understand
How this brave young man gave his life for our land
And although he's someone we'll never know
To you and me he is a hero

He was somebody's someone, a neighbour, a husband
A brother, a father, and a mother's only son
He was an uncle, a cousin, somebody's best friend
And I'm sure at times a shoulder to lean on
He was somebody's someone

To the world he was a total stranger
Who kept us safe and out of danger
But now he's just a picture on TV
Somebody's memory

He was somebody's someone, a neighbour, a husband
A brother, a father, and a mother's only son
He was an uncle, a cousin, somebody's best friend
And I'm sure at times a shoulder to lean on
He was somebody's someone
He was somebody's someone

 

[attila]

THE GHOST ROAD

Lyrics to a song dedicated to the memory of my father, who fought in the First World War (he was 59 when I was born)

Shrill demented choirs, darkness at noon
The awful testament of Owen and Sassoon
You were there in France, a poet too
You said so little: we never knew

What you saw
on the ghost road

You were born in 1899
Died when I was ten, we had so little time
You left me music, poetry
A lust for life and a whiff of destiny

Of one day
On the ghost road

Like lambs to the slaughter your comrades went out
A fever confined you to bed
You lay there transfixed when the message came through
That every single one of them was dead

In what would be your hundredth year
I celebrate your life and raise a beer
Through the hopes, the dreams, the agony
And the breadth of my father’s century

I look back
on the ghost road

For Bill Baine
1899-1968

 

[Alex Alex Dawson oo! oo!]

..........With regard the point above about war memorials, I have started researching the slowly fading names engraved on the war memorial in the village where I live, and hope to have an article ready for the next edition of the village magazine, telling the stories of the young men of our parish who left home to fight in 2 world wars but never came back again. I'd hate to think that their sacrifes be forgotten by all but their immediate family.

I was in the village of Goult in Provence, France last week and had a look at the memorial in the village square. The dead servicemen and civilians are all referred to as 'Our Children' and listed by the year in which they left school - ie not by year of death or regiment etc. Members of the French Resistance from WWII are separately listed as well as a number of Jewish villagers who were deported to Germany by the Vichy government and never returned.

 

[Juan Albion]

A letter from Talbot Papineau:

October 29, 1917

Dearest Mother,

After all, I have been able to write to you again before going over. We have been fortunate so far and all things are cheerful. I have even shaved this morning in a little dirty water. I was delighted last night to get two letters from you, and a box of candy which I have actually carried with me and have enjoyed. It was a cold night and I slept only about one hour. Also a noisy night, I can assure you, and the earth full of vibrations.

I hope by the same mail you receive another letter from me to say all is successfully over. But of course it may be difficult or impossible to write for a few days, so don't worry.

There seems so little to say when if only I knew what was to happen I might want to say so much. These would be poor letters to have as last ones but you must know with what a world of love they are written. Always remember that I could not love thee so well, or you love me, did I not love honour more. You have given me courage and strength to go very happily and cheerfully into the good fight. Love to all and a big hug for thee, my dear brave little mother.

Talbot
________________________________________________________

Nov. 5, 1917

Mrs. L.J. Papineau.

Dear Madam:

In confirmation of my telegram to you of yesterday's date I regret exceedingly to inform you that an official report has been received to the effect that Capt. T.M. Papineau was killed in action on October 30, 1917

Yours truly,

J.M. Knowles, Lieutenant

 

[Brian Potter]

Lance-Corporal Frank Earley was a young journalist from Derby who regularly wrote to his family from the front.
His letters were normally full of enthusiasm and excitement. In July 1918 he wrote, "As you see, I am still alive and well, and as usual enjoying life to the full."

It is only in his very last letter, on 1 September 1918, that he revealed his more reflective side.

The next day Frank Earley suffered a serious wound to his chest and died some hours later. He was 19.

Sunday afternoon, 1 Sep, 1918.

My dear Father,
It is a strange feeling to me but a very real one, that every letter now that I write home to you or to the little sisters may be the last that I shall write or you read. I do not want you to think that I am depressed; indeed on the contrary, I am very cheerful. But out here, in odd moments the realisation comes to me of how close death is to us. A week ago I was talking with a man, a catholic, from Preston, who had been out here for nearly four years, untouched. He was looking forward with certainty to going on leave soon. And now he is dead - killed in a moment during our last advance. Well it was God's will.

I say this to you because I hope that you will realise, as I do, the possibility of the like happening to myself. I feel very glad myself that I can look the fact in the face without fear or misgiving. Much as I hope to live thro' it all for your sakes and my little sisters! I am quite prepared to give my life as so many have done before me. All I can do is put myself in God's hands for him to decide, and you and the little ones pray for me to the Sacred Heart and Our Lady.

I hope that you will not move out of the old house yet. Write and let me know when anything happens. I see that you went to Preston a few days ago. It seems years and years since I tried to get drowned in the canal.

Well I have not much time left and I must end.
With my dear love. Pray for me.
Your son
Frank.


Frank Earley is buried at Bac-de-Sud Military Cemetery, Bailleulval, nr Arras

 

[DIFFBROOK]

I have read through this thread and very moving it is.

me and the wife took our little girl (11 months) to Wetherby remembrance. Of course she didn't understand what is all about, but she will do. I was looking around. Old men and women, some who were involved, many many more my middle aged selves who obviously weren't but may have had grandfathers in the war. But what heartened me were the number of children there, including mine.

There were cubs, scouts, brownies, girl guides. I dont know any of them. But I was soooooooo proud of all of them.

Its so so important that we remember all servicemen who lay down our lives, including those youngmen/women who continue to lay down their lives.

 

[Dave the OAP]

If anyone is interested, I am 3/4 way through a book called The Other Side of The Bridge, by Mary Lawson ( one of Richard and Judy's Summer read and listed for the booker prize )which my wife gave me.

It talks about the canadian effort in the war and specifically the effect on a small Northern territories town and the community following the outbreak of war and the Dieppe Raid and the return of men from Europe.

It is a very moving read and well worth the effort.

 

[Lady Whistledown]

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

 

[Freddie Goodwin.]

There were a few Albion casualties in the war too. They were listed in the History, which i do not have to hand.

Perhaps somebody could post their names up?