Today, on November 11th, the United States celebrates Veteran's Day. I know it as Armistice Day, as it is celebrated as such in Belgium and across Europe. President Woodrow Wilson instituted this day on Nov. 11, 1919, with these words:
"To us in America, the reflections of Armistice Day will be filled with solemn pride in the heroism of those who died in the country's service and with gratitude for the victory, both because of the thing from which it has freed us and because of the opportunity it has given America to show her sympathy with peace and justice in the councils of the nations."
He’s right, and I celebrate with him and my American friends and veterans that I know personally this sacrifice from those who gave all, and that of those who did come back after their service. But I would like to add this Belgian/Flemish perspective. 11-11-11 is the code we all know. The 11th hour, of the 11th day, of the 11th month. Exactly 100 years ago... The moment the guns finally fell silent, after 4 years of a war that was so horrible people just wanted to forget about it. A war that left a horrific scar over hundreds upon hundreds of miles. Even today, on the mere 20-30 miles of front lines that was in Belgium, every single year between 150 and 300 tons (sometimes a lot more) of unexploded ammunition are found and disposed of!
The first image above is from an early artillery warning and location system, that used sound triangulation to locate the position of enemy artillery batteries. Below an image from a French ranging system, notice the ‘film spool’ on the right. The above example is from the last minutes of the war, when batteries all over the front erupted in a last, murderous volley, shooting away whatever ammo they had still laying around. The silence that followed must have been otherworldly to the soldiers, dazed, crawling out of their bunkers, fox holes, hiding places, struggling with the disbelief that this nightmare could really be over…
It is hard for us to appreciate that silence that fell over the front on that day, and how thunderously loud that silence must have sounded to the soldiers, some waiting in their trenches, guns in hand, or to those who were ordered into a last, futile attack, as each side fired everything they had at each other in those last hours before 11am.
A silence of relief, of disbelief, of shock, of a sadness heavier than anything. The jubilant celebrations was for the civilians at home, as the wives, the mothers, the fathers, the children of the soldiers sang and danced. Those who survived the fighting, the mud and blood of 4 years of horror still on their clothes, hands and soul, just kept silent. Let’s join that silence for a moment today. In gratitude for those who shouldered the burden of defense and protection.
A look at the war graves tells a story about war, silently, yet poignant. Visit a French war grave, and one sees a post-Romantic heroic celebration of the victorious dead. Very dated, it stands in chilling contrast with the reality of the butchery that took place for years and years. The British commonwealth grave sites are sublime, in that they managed to understand the real cost, and understated the visual presentation. Simple white slabs, with a name, a regiment symbol, a date, and sometimes a heartbreaking verse left by the family ("We have lost, heaven has gained, one of the best, the world contained"). Laid out in strict lines, it is as if the grave stones still stand in attention, as silent onlookers to our own deeds, reminding us of the price they have paid. The grave stone of another British soldier, somewhere in Flanders Fields, has this inscription: “Our sacrifice is in what we have lost. His, in what he has given.”
But there is another step up to fully grasping what had happened in those terrible 4 years: the German cemeteries. Devoid of any victory, glory, or heroism, they hold up an image of peace, heavy as lead, dripping with blood. They understood: in the end, nobody won, everyone lost. In small spaces (the German cemeteries are never large), thousands upon thousands of soldiers lay buried, often most are unknown, piled together in mass graves. Small flat square stones hold 10-20 people at a time, showing name, rank, specialty and day of death. It is telling when you suddenly see about 6 names, different ranks, all ending with “Kannonier, 14-06-1917”. A battery got hit in counter fire, and the whole crew perished… Amidst those flat grave markers stand spread out throughout the field small groupings of three roughly hewn crosses. And that is it. Somber. Chilling to the bone. Here one meets the true face of war.
In Vladslo a German war cemetery contains the remains of over 25,000 German soldiers. One of them is Peter Kollwitz, 17 year old son of the famed German sculptor Käthe Kollwitz who died at the beginning of the war, October 23rd, 1914, in nearby Esen. As monument to her son Käthe made a group of sculptures that is haunting: the mourning parents (Trauerndes Elternpaar). It shows a father and a mother, united in mourning, yet so different and separated in the way they try to cope with their loss. You see the father trying to control his pain, arms crossed over his chest, back straight, looking straight ahead, fighting the tears that are welling up. In contrast the mother, bent over, broken, crying, warm motherly love, not just a mother to Peter, but to all the men who perished at the front.
For me, this poem haunts me, on this day. One of the earliest ones I learned by heart. Composed by Canadian Lieutenant-Colonel John MacRae, a physician, and a poet. He wrote it early May 1915, after he had presided over the funeral of a dear fried of his. Lieutenant Alexis Helmer had died in the second battle for Ypres, that had started on April 22nd, and would rage for a few more weeks, until May 25. That battle had the macabre distinction of being the first battle that saw widespread use of poison gas. The Germans managed to push back the British, who heroically fought and managed to minimize the German advance.
I can’t imagine the state of mind Lt.-Col. MacRae must have been in. Having lost his friend, having seen all the mangled corpses pass by, having had to work on hopelessly maimed and wounded soldiers, trying not just to save them, but to save as much of them as possible. Having seen for the first time the horrendous wounds and suffering caused by mustard gas… Looking at his poem, he was angry, livid even, while dejected and struggling to grasp what had really happened. Yet defiant, too, and with half an accusation, half a missive, asks us to take up the quarrel with the foe: not the Germans, I believe. He had certainly treated German prisoners as well, and noticed they bled just the same red blood as his fellow Canadian and British soldiers. But the foe, that drove this tumult out of the trenches, into the skies…
With a glimpse of despair, then, trying to find meaning in his suffering and sacrifice, the sacrifice of his friend, and the suffering of his fellow soldiers, we are asked to take over the torch, thrown to us from failing hands.
Not to burn down, in an endless cycle that renders any sacrifice meaningless, but to bring light, and peace, as the ultimate goal and dream of those who remained behind...
Lt.-Col. MacRae would write about that experience in a letter to his mother: “For seventeen days and seventeen nights none of us have had our clothes off, nor our boots even, except occasionally. In all that time while I was awake, gunfire and rifle fire never ceased for sixty seconds ... And behind it all was the constant background of the sights of the dead, the wounded, the maimed, and a terrible anxiety lest the line should give way.”
The war would exact a heavy toll on him. Having contracted pneumonia, he also got cerebral meningitis, and died late January, 1918. He did not see the end of this nightmare…
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.
Having grown up 'In Flanders Fields', I can’t say ‘happy Armistice Day’. The memory is that of a horrible nightmare, still a scar in the landscape, still killing people with left-over ammunition, still weighing heavy on the mind and soul of Europe. While happy that hellish war is over, the memory of it is not a happy celebration.
Living now in the United States, however, I do celebrate Veterans' Day. Both remembrances, however, point at the same reality, and give us the same lesson. Please do remember those who sacrificed, then and now, and reflect on this: be a peacemaker, not just in the grand scheme of things, but especially in the small day to day life you lead. Honor the dead (and those that came back), by living out the peace they paid for. We owe them that much.
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Addendum:
I have to share this French song, as well. The video shows actual footage of the war, and in the middle part, about shell-shocked soldiers. It is harrowing. But a must-watch, to get an idea of that ‘Forgotten War’, so horrible that people did not want to think about it, or even talk about. The gay twenties was the ultimate expression of that escapist attitude.
The refrain captures the plight of a soldier well:
Chante, oh chante, ma belle!
Prie pour moi dans les batailles,
Prie pour moi et pour mes freres,
J’ai bien peur de te revoir jamais!
Sing, oh sing, my beauty!
Pray for me in the battles,
pray for me and for my brothers,
I’m really afraid that I’ll never see you again!
Harrowing, this war, more than any other, I dare say, even if the horror of each is the same.
Beautifully written and heartfelt. Thank you.
Yes, well said. I am rememinded of ome of my favorite poets, who unfortunately was killed two days prior to the Armistice. Wilfred Owen, First ran into him back when I was eighteen, many, many years ago.
Stange Meeting
It seemed that out of battle I escaped
Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites which titanic wars had groined.
Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.
Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared
With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
Lifting distressful hands, as if to bless.
And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall,—
By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.
With a thousand fears that vision’s face was grained;
Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,
And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.
‘Strange friend,’ I said, ‘here is no cause to mourn.’
‘None,’ said that other, ‘save the undone years,
The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,
Was my life also; I went hunting wild
After the wildest beauty in the world,
Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,
But mocks the steady running of the hour,
And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.
For by my glee might many men have laughed,
And of my weeping something had been left,
Which must die now. I mean the truth untold,
The pity of war, the pity war distilled.
Now men will go content with what we spoiled.
Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled.
They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress.
None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.
Courage was mine, and I had mystery;
Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery:
To miss the march of this retreating world
Into vain citadels that are not walled.
Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels,
I would go up and wash them from sweet wells,
Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.
I would have poured my spirit without stint
But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.
Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.
‘I am the enemy you killed, my friend.
I knew you in this dark: for so you frowned
Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.
I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.
Let us sleep now. . . .’