For whom the poppies grow
Belle was waking us up all night. I’d fallen into a deep peaceful, comfortable sleep at around 11.30 p.m. - and then Belle began to yelp and whine. She did so at 1 a.m., at 2.45 a.m., at 3.30 a.m. and then at 4.15 a.m. when I finally let her out into the windy, stormy night. In between I would fall asleep to the sound of an Atlantic gale battering Leuven.
As Belle rushed into the garden at 4.15 a.m. I saw, in the dim light of night, that all the leaves had been swept up along the left-hand side of the garden wall. “Well that’s handy at least,” I thought as I gave a yawn and called for Belle to come back inside. She had ran off into the deep shadows of the garden where I couldn’t see her and seemed in no rush to come back inside. The wind blew around my pyjamas and made me shiver as I called out to her again. “Bloody dog – I can’t believe she’s not coming inside!”
G. mumbled something under his breath about “crazy dog” when I finally crawled back into bed and tried to go to sleep for the fourth time that night. I too was pretty fed-up. The following day, 11 November, was a public holiday but we were planning an early morning start. As I dozed off I heard the rain arrive and pelt down against the leaves in the garden. It helped me to drift off to sleep once again.
“Wake up kids – I know its early and not a school day but we have to leave now. We’re meeting Rowena in half an hour.”
The children all crawled deeper under their covers and pretended not to hear me. It was only 6.16 a.m. but we really had to get a move on if we wanted to make it to the Menen Gate on time. I’d already put the coffee on. We finally had the kids dressed and ready to go when Rowena texted.
“Heavy rain – still sure you want to go? I an fine either way, but you the main driver so if not good conditions then we can organise another time. Its just down the road in autralian terms!”
“You kidding G. We’ve just got the kids all ready and its only 7. 30 – we’re going. In any case this will give us a good idea of how God awful conditions were on the Western front.”
It was still dark outside and although the wind had subsided somewhat the rain drenched us as we made a dash for the car. Ten minutes later and we picked Rowena up outside the Faculty Club by which time it was getting vaguely light – dawn almost.
“Such a great idea of yours to do this Rowena,” I said. For as long as I can remember G. and I have been talking about “going up to” Ypres – (or Ieper as its written here) to visit the war graves but had somehow never found the initiative. Armistice 2008 – ninety years after the end of the First World War seemed liked a good occasion to make the trip.
Heading off in the pouring rain after a night of storms and a howling hound put me at least in the mood for the gloom ahead. J. was excited. He’s becoming really quite knowledgeable about the First World War.
“Yes, Mummy, I know that Gallipoli was not Churchill’s finest hour …” J remarked nonchalantly as I bantered with Rowena about Mel Brooke in the film Gallipoli.
We stopped at a petrol station along the motorway for R. to have a lavatory break., at which stage from one flat Flemish horizon to another, there was nothing in the sky to be seen but indigo blue and the bright light of the late autumn sun. The wind had stopped. The rain had stopped and the golden light of autumn filled the C8.
By the time we arrived in Ypres we had an hour to spare before the last post was to be played outside the Menen Gate. Rowena, who is a girl after my own heart, had the wise idea of bundling all four children into a warm looking café cum patisserie on the road leading to the town square. There we feasted on sticky donuts, lollipops, iced cakes and hot chocolate. It was all very cosy and cheery and not at all like the trenches.
Outside the crowds were gathering. There were Brits in uniform and Brits in “mufti”; there were Canadians and Americans and New Zealanders and Australians and there were Sikhs and there were Belgians and there were French. And last but not least there was at least one German that I could mention (but more on that later).
We headed as far towards the Menen Gate as we could before being forced to stop due to the sheer number of people. J, K.M, and L., under the watchful eye of Rowena squeezed their way towards the barriers where they had a great view of the troops marching past. The blue sky had gone to be replaced by clouds but it stayed dry.
As Belle rushed into the garden at 4.15 a.m. I saw, in the dim light of night, that all the leaves had been swept up along the left-hand side of the garden wall. “Well that’s handy at least,” I thought as I gave a yawn and called for Belle to come back inside. She had ran off into the deep shadows of the garden where I couldn’t see her and seemed in no rush to come back inside. The wind blew around my pyjamas and made me shiver as I called out to her again. “Bloody dog – I can’t believe she’s not coming inside!”
G. mumbled something under his breath about “crazy dog” when I finally crawled back into bed and tried to go to sleep for the fourth time that night. I too was pretty fed-up. The following day, 11 November, was a public holiday but we were planning an early morning start. As I dozed off I heard the rain arrive and pelt down against the leaves in the garden. It helped me to drift off to sleep once again.
“Wake up kids – I know its early and not a school day but we have to leave now. We’re meeting Rowena in half an hour.”
The children all crawled deeper under their covers and pretended not to hear me. It was only 6.16 a.m. but we really had to get a move on if we wanted to make it to the Menen Gate on time. I’d already put the coffee on. We finally had the kids dressed and ready to go when Rowena texted.
“Heavy rain – still sure you want to go? I an fine either way, but you the main driver so if not good conditions then we can organise another time. Its just down the road in autralian terms!”
“You kidding G. We’ve just got the kids all ready and its only 7. 30 – we’re going. In any case this will give us a good idea of how God awful conditions were on the Western front.”
It was still dark outside and although the wind had subsided somewhat the rain drenched us as we made a dash for the car. Ten minutes later and we picked Rowena up outside the Faculty Club by which time it was getting vaguely light – dawn almost.
“Such a great idea of yours to do this Rowena,” I said. For as long as I can remember G. and I have been talking about “going up to” Ypres – (or Ieper as its written here) to visit the war graves but had somehow never found the initiative. Armistice 2008 – ninety years after the end of the First World War seemed liked a good occasion to make the trip.
Heading off in the pouring rain after a night of storms and a howling hound put me at least in the mood for the gloom ahead. J. was excited. He’s becoming really quite knowledgeable about the First World War.
“Yes, Mummy, I know that Gallipoli was not Churchill’s finest hour …” J remarked nonchalantly as I bantered with Rowena about Mel Brooke in the film Gallipoli.
We stopped at a petrol station along the motorway for R. to have a lavatory break., at which stage from one flat Flemish horizon to another, there was nothing in the sky to be seen but indigo blue and the bright light of the late autumn sun. The wind had stopped. The rain had stopped and the golden light of autumn filled the C8.
By the time we arrived in Ypres we had an hour to spare before the last post was to be played outside the Menen Gate. Rowena, who is a girl after my own heart, had the wise idea of bundling all four children into a warm looking café cum patisserie on the road leading to the town square. There we feasted on sticky donuts, lollipops, iced cakes and hot chocolate. It was all very cosy and cheery and not at all like the trenches.
Outside the crowds were gathering. There were Brits in uniform and Brits in “mufti”; there were Canadians and Americans and New Zealanders and Australians and there were Sikhs and there were Belgians and there were French. And last but not least there was at least one German that I could mention (but more on that later).
We headed as far towards the Menen Gate as we could before being forced to stop due to the sheer number of people. J, K.M, and L., under the watchful eye of Rowena squeezed their way towards the barriers where they had a great view of the troops marching past. The blue sky had gone to be replaced by clouds but it stayed dry.
From October 1914 British and Commonwealth troops began to march through the Meenenpoort gateway from the city of Ypres along the Menen Road and into the gruesome battlefields of the Ypres Salient. The remains of over 90,000 soldiers of the British and Commonwealth armies, who lost their lives fighting in and around Ypres have never been found or identified. They are, therefore, buried somewhere in the Ypres Salient with no known grave.
The site of the Meenenpoort, known to the British Army as The Menen Gate, was considered to be a fitting location to place a memorial to the missing British and Commonwealth soldiers. Inscribed over the gate are panels reading:
The site of the Meenenpoort, known to the British Army as The Menen Gate, was considered to be a fitting location to place a memorial to the missing British and Commonwealth soldiers. Inscribed over the gate are panels reading:
TO THE ARMIESOF THE BRITISH EMPIREWHO STOOD HEREFROM 1914 TO 1918AND TO THOSE OF THEIR DEADWHO HAVE NO KNOWN GRAVE
In 1928 the then Superintendent of the Ypres Police had the idea of sounding the Last Post on a daily basis – the traditional salute to the fallen warrior - in recognition of those soldiers lost fighting for Ypres’ freedom and independence.
From 11 November 1929 the Last Post has been sounded on the eastern side of the Menin Gate every night and in all weathers. The only exception to this was during the four years of the German occupation of Ypres. On the very evening that Polish forces liberated Ypres in 1944 the ceremony was resumed at the Menin Gate – in spite of the heavy fighting still going on in other parts of the town.
At exactly 20.00 hours, every day regardless of weather, season or visitor numbers, up to six members of the regular buglers from the local volunteer Fire Brigade step into the roadway under the memorial arch to play the Last Post, followed by a short silence, followed by the playing of the Reveille.
On 11/11 it is supposed to be played at 11 a.m. exactly to mark the signing of the armistice - but, as with all ceremonies, there were delays and lengthy speeches and prayers in Dutch and in English. Just as the first speech was beginning the heavens opened and the precipitations of early morning returned. Luckily we were standing next to some very tall Dutch men who had bought big umbrellas with them so we stayed dry. R. was warm and comfortable on my arm and just as the Last Post was finally played he looked sleepily into my eyes and zonked out on my shoulder.
The crowds, the distance and the rain tap tap tapping on umbrellas muffled the sound of the bagpiper playing “Amazing Grace” but the mournful, haunting wailing of the pipes carried through the air adding to the sense of sadness and loss. The Last Post was then sounded but by this time I was anxious to get going since the rain was getting heavier and heavier and I was beginning to wonder how we would exit the crowds without losing the children and carrying a heavy and sleeping Richard on my arm.
Later that day, once the crowds had cleared, we moseyed down to the Menen Gate to look at all the wreaths of Poppies that lay there. The rain had subsided but a cold chill wind blew under the arches.
Men were beginning to clear away the stands which had housed the dignitaries earlier on in the day. I looked down onto the cobbled floor underneath the gate and noticed that the rain water running into the gutters had turned blood red. The die from thousands of poppies placed by the gate was intermingling with the rain water running into the drains. It stuck me that this was a more vivid, more powerful reminder to the fallen than anything else I had seen or heard that day – almost as if, on this their remembrance day, the blood of the fallen was allowed to wash once more into the Ypres Salient, as it had done all those years ago.
And now I will, briefly, return to the one German who I know attended the ceremony. As I exited the entrance to the museum “In Flanders' Fields” I noticed that Rowena was taking photos of K.M. and L. standing next to a Scottish highlander. The same guy who had played “Amazing Grace” under the Menen Gate shortly before the sounding of the Last Post.
“I think your skirt is really, really pretty.” L. told him enthusiastically as Rowena positioned them for the photo shoot.
They both looked very proud.
“Is that the Cameron tartan?” I asked before moving on.
“It is indeed,” he replied.
“Did you know he’s German?” Rowena asked me.
I didn’t but we both laughed. At the same time though it seemed very fitting to both of us that ninety years after the collision of two juggernaut armies a German should be chosen to play the bagpipes under the symbolic Menen Gate. Ninety years on and Armistice is a day to remember all the fallen, whether German or British or Russian or Italian or Australian or Austrian or Canadian or New Zealander or Sikh or Turk, all of whom at the end of the day, were mere pawns to the ambitions of mad hereditary monarchs, aristocrats and out of touch generals.
Later, we decided to visit a museum in Zonnebeke – a village which at the end of the war(judging by the photos of the time) was but a mere mud field with all but the church steeples standing out against the horizon resembling a pair of rotten fangs amidst all the destruction. Now, it’s a typical built up, slightly dull looking Flemish village. Its only a fifteen minute ride from Ypres.
The fields, en route, were all water logged notable only for the large gleaming puddles that shone in between the cut off tops of the summer’s corn. Not the kind of place you would like to bunker down in at the best of times. I felt cold imagining what it must have been like to sit in a trench or dripping dug-out with a heavy, almost certainly wet, army uniform on and a barrage of sniper fire, shrapnel, artillery fire and noxious, nauseous gas being thrown in my direction.
After visiting the Chateau at Zonnebeke – a great museum with underground trenches which the children enjoyed running through we emerged to see a blood red sun set.
“Passendael is a five minute ride from here,” Rowena told us. “Shall we just drive past Toy cot Cemetery to have a quick look before heading home?”
Passendael – a name with such resonance in the UK; always said aloud with awe, sadness and respect. Its part of our national consciousness and here we were just five minutes drive away. I had no idea it was such a small unassuming little village. Somehow I had imagined something bigger. Something more spectacular. Something more, well, fitting to the symbolism of useless warfare and death.
Above Toy cot cemetery a full moon shone high up in the Eastern sky, whilst to the West – lighting up the Western Front the sun began to tip towards the horizon, the beams of which highlighted, in sharp relief, Flanders’ wet, muddy, water clogged fields. It seemed a fitting end to a day that had begun stormy, then turned wet and ended bright and clear. Well, at least on 11/11 and 11 a.m. we did as all the Poppies placed along the Menen Gate had asked us to do:
“At the going down of the sun and in the morning. We will remember them.”
The crowds, the distance and the rain tap tap tapping on umbrellas muffled the sound of the bagpiper playing “Amazing Grace” but the mournful, haunting wailing of the pipes carried through the air adding to the sense of sadness and loss. The Last Post was then sounded but by this time I was anxious to get going since the rain was getting heavier and heavier and I was beginning to wonder how we would exit the crowds without losing the children and carrying a heavy and sleeping Richard on my arm.
Later that day, once the crowds had cleared, we moseyed down to the Menen Gate to look at all the wreaths of Poppies that lay there. The rain had subsided but a cold chill wind blew under the arches.
Men were beginning to clear away the stands which had housed the dignitaries earlier on in the day. I looked down onto the cobbled floor underneath the gate and noticed that the rain water running into the gutters had turned blood red. The die from thousands of poppies placed by the gate was intermingling with the rain water running into the drains. It stuck me that this was a more vivid, more powerful reminder to the fallen than anything else I had seen or heard that day – almost as if, on this their remembrance day, the blood of the fallen was allowed to wash once more into the Ypres Salient, as it had done all those years ago.
And now I will, briefly, return to the one German who I know attended the ceremony. As I exited the entrance to the museum “In Flanders' Fields” I noticed that Rowena was taking photos of K.M. and L. standing next to a Scottish highlander. The same guy who had played “Amazing Grace” under the Menen Gate shortly before the sounding of the Last Post.
“I think your skirt is really, really pretty.” L. told him enthusiastically as Rowena positioned them for the photo shoot.
They both looked very proud.
“Is that the Cameron tartan?” I asked before moving on.
“It is indeed,” he replied.
“Did you know he’s German?” Rowena asked me.
I didn’t but we both laughed. At the same time though it seemed very fitting to both of us that ninety years after the collision of two juggernaut armies a German should be chosen to play the bagpipes under the symbolic Menen Gate. Ninety years on and Armistice is a day to remember all the fallen, whether German or British or Russian or Italian or Australian or Austrian or Canadian or New Zealander or Sikh or Turk, all of whom at the end of the day, were mere pawns to the ambitions of mad hereditary monarchs, aristocrats and out of touch generals.
Later, we decided to visit a museum in Zonnebeke – a village which at the end of the war(judging by the photos of the time) was but a mere mud field with all but the church steeples standing out against the horizon resembling a pair of rotten fangs amidst all the destruction. Now, it’s a typical built up, slightly dull looking Flemish village. Its only a fifteen minute ride from Ypres.
The fields, en route, were all water logged notable only for the large gleaming puddles that shone in between the cut off tops of the summer’s corn. Not the kind of place you would like to bunker down in at the best of times. I felt cold imagining what it must have been like to sit in a trench or dripping dug-out with a heavy, almost certainly wet, army uniform on and a barrage of sniper fire, shrapnel, artillery fire and noxious, nauseous gas being thrown in my direction.
After visiting the Chateau at Zonnebeke – a great museum with underground trenches which the children enjoyed running through we emerged to see a blood red sun set.
“Passendael is a five minute ride from here,” Rowena told us. “Shall we just drive past Toy cot Cemetery to have a quick look before heading home?”
Passendael – a name with such resonance in the UK; always said aloud with awe, sadness and respect. Its part of our national consciousness and here we were just five minutes drive away. I had no idea it was such a small unassuming little village. Somehow I had imagined something bigger. Something more spectacular. Something more, well, fitting to the symbolism of useless warfare and death.
Above Toy cot cemetery a full moon shone high up in the Eastern sky, whilst to the West – lighting up the Western Front the sun began to tip towards the horizon, the beams of which highlighted, in sharp relief, Flanders’ wet, muddy, water clogged fields. It seemed a fitting end to a day that had begun stormy, then turned wet and ended bright and clear. Well, at least on 11/11 and 11 a.m. we did as all the Poppies placed along the Menen Gate had asked us to do:
“At the going down of the sun and in the morning. We will remember them.”
posted by Kathleen at 1:20 AM
5 Comments:
Very moving Kathleen. Thank you...
Beautiful - you should really submit this article. Why don't you send it to the British Legion to include in their newsletter (or a similar organization)? I'm sure they'd be interested to see a younger generation's perspective!
P.S. I'm pretty sure its Mel Gibbson (not Brook) in the film!
Even with all the recent BBC coverage, it amde us weep. Well done Kathleen for keeping the memory live in another generation
Hey guys - thanks so much for your comments. It was indeed very moving - but a great family day out.
You're right Bea, of course its Mel Gibbson!
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