Indeed.Chris558 wrote:
LEST WE FORGET
Remembrance Day
Moderators: Guru's, The Ministry
I was at Duxford a year or so back when they mentioned over the tannoy that the BBMF Lanc would not be doing a bomb-bay door open pass, as it was already loaded up for a drop along the mall for the Queen.
A Dutch guy behind us asked why it was loaded with poppies and his wife promptly recited "In Flanders Fields" word perfectly. How many could manage that in their own language, let alone another.
In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, Canadian Army
A Dutch guy behind us asked why it was loaded with poppies and his wife promptly recited "In Flanders Fields" word perfectly. How many could manage that in their own language, let alone another.
In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, Canadian Army
Sir Edward Elgar's Nimrod, from Enigma Variations. Its performed by the band of the Royal Marines every Remembrance Sunday at the Cenotaph. You can download it, or stream it.
Link
Dulce et Decorum Est
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 gas-shells dropping softly 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
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.
Lt. Wilfred Owen MC
March 18, 1893 - November 4, 1918
Link
Dulce et Decorum Est
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 gas-shells dropping softly 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
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.
Lt. Wilfred Owen MC
March 18, 1893 - November 4, 1918
-
Keith Jones
- Victor
- Posts: 220
- Joined: 20 May 2005, 19:01
- Location: St Leonards on Sea, Sussex, UK
Buried at Sea
There is no cross to mark the sacrifice they made
No mound of earth to show where they are laid;
What trumpet sounds for those who lie beneath the waves?
Only the sound of screeching sea birds as they fly
In wheeling circles above the watery graves
Articulate a piteous, sorrowing cry;
No horse-drawn hearse bears them to their place of rest
No line of mourners standing by the grave
Just the surging surf as the sun sinks in the west
And the reflected stars to candlelight the pyre across the wave;
And Polaris, the sailors' faithful guide
To point the way as 'neath the nation's flag their bodies slide
Into the sea and the valiant soul speeds away
Upon life's ebbing tide;
The final voyage into eternal night
Into the deep and floating out of sight
But in our heartfelt memories they sail into the light.
Dr. R. Whitlock
There is no cross to mark the sacrifice they made
No mound of earth to show where they are laid;
What trumpet sounds for those who lie beneath the waves?
Only the sound of screeching sea birds as they fly
In wheeling circles above the watery graves
Articulate a piteous, sorrowing cry;
No horse-drawn hearse bears them to their place of rest
No line of mourners standing by the grave
Just the surging surf as the sun sinks in the west
And the reflected stars to candlelight the pyre across the wave;
And Polaris, the sailors' faithful guide
To point the way as 'neath the nation's flag their bodies slide
Into the sea and the valiant soul speeds away
Upon life's ebbing tide;
The final voyage into eternal night
Into the deep and floating out of sight
But in our heartfelt memories they sail into the light.
Dr. R. Whitlock
Wherever you go, there you are.
-
speedbird591
- Battle of Britain
- Posts: 4038
- Joined: 24 Jun 2004, 05:56
- Location: Wiltshire, UK
- Contact:
Well done, lads. Some very moving and appropriate tributes there. Out of interest, in case of you are a bit rusty with the latin in Wilfred Owen's poem; Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori translates as something like 'It is good and proper to die for the Fatherland'. A motto that adds a bitter irony to the poem.
I would also like to add a poem to the selection. It's not very well known but it always reduces me to tears. I try not to read it between remembrance days as I find it too upsetting.
In Memoriam
Private D. Sutherland killed in action in the German trench, May 16th, 1916, and the others who died.
So you were David's father,
And he was your only son,
And the new-cut peats are rotting
And the work is left undone,
Because of an old man weeping,
Just an old man in pain,
For David, his son David,
That will not come again.
Oh, the letters he wrote you,
And I can see them still,
Not a word of the fighting
But just the sheep on the hill
And how you should get the crops in
Ere the year get stormier,
And the Bosches have got his body,
And I was his officer.
You were only David's father,
But I had fifty sons
When we went up in the evening
Under the arch of the guns,
And we came back at twilight -
O God! I heard them call
To me for help and pity
That could not help at all.
Oh, never will I forget you,
My men that trusted me,
More my sons than your fathers',
For they could only see
The helpless little babies
And the young men intheir pride.
They could not see you dying,
And hold you while you died.
Happy and young and gallant,
They saw their first-born go,
But not the strong limbs broken
And the beautiful men brought low,
The piteous writhing bodies,
They screamed 'Don't leave me, sir,'
For they were only your fathers
But I was your officer.
E. A. Mackintosh killed in action, 1916
I would also like to add a poem to the selection. It's not very well known but it always reduces me to tears. I try not to read it between remembrance days as I find it too upsetting.
In Memoriam
Private D. Sutherland killed in action in the German trench, May 16th, 1916, and the others who died.
So you were David's father,
And he was your only son,
And the new-cut peats are rotting
And the work is left undone,
Because of an old man weeping,
Just an old man in pain,
For David, his son David,
That will not come again.
Oh, the letters he wrote you,
And I can see them still,
Not a word of the fighting
But just the sheep on the hill
And how you should get the crops in
Ere the year get stormier,
And the Bosches have got his body,
And I was his officer.
You were only David's father,
But I had fifty sons
When we went up in the evening
Under the arch of the guns,
And we came back at twilight -
O God! I heard them call
To me for help and pity
That could not help at all.
Oh, never will I forget you,
My men that trusted me,
More my sons than your fathers',
For they could only see
The helpless little babies
And the young men intheir pride.
They could not see you dying,
And hold you while you died.
Happy and young and gallant,
They saw their first-born go,
But not the strong limbs broken
And the beautiful men brought low,
The piteous writhing bodies,
They screamed 'Don't leave me, sir,'
For they were only your fathers
But I was your officer.
E. A. Mackintosh killed in action, 1916
Indeed, Speedbird, it means "It is sweet and fitting to die for one's country." Powerful irony indeed, especially from a winner of the Military Cross.speedbird591 wrote:Well done, lads. Some very moving and appropriate tributes there. Out of interest, in case of you are a bit rusty with the latin in Wilfred Owen's poem; Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori translates as something like 'It is good and proper to die for the Fatherland'. A motto that adds a bitter irony to the poem.
Wilfred was killed on November 4th, and his parents received the telegram from the War Office seven days later just as the church bells were ringing outside at celebrate the Armistice.
The Soldier
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
Rupert Brooke
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
Rupert Brooke