Flanders Fields

Remembering on November 11th

By Arnie Greenberg
ultours@aol.com

How can we forget what happened to thousands of young men and women during the wars that were fought in the name of freedom?

We can't and we won't.

We all remember in our own way, and it doesn't have to be at a particular time or of a particular event. The struggle for freedom in the twentieth century changed families and the lives of the dead and wounded forever.

Many soldiers returned with wounds we couldn't see. They were traumatized, shocked, broken men who yelled in the night as the recurring nightmares revisited them.

I was surprised recently to learn that there are so few veterans of World War I who are still alive. Considering that the war ended in 1918, the veterans would have to be over 100 today.

In time, we tend to forget, but here in Canada we mark the occasion of the eleventh hour of the eleventh month of the year to stand silently during a minute of silence and remember. I still think of my classroom days when even as 6-year-olds we stood silently at our desks for a minute of silence.

Now as I walk through the streets, I see veterans of all wars, wearing their battle ribbons and medals, selling bright red poppies that we wear proudly as a symbol of our memory.

It matters not if the commemoration is for World War I or II, for Korea, Vietnam, Iraq or any conflict. We remember our dead. And at cenotaphs throughout the country, we stand at attention and listen to the wail of a bugle blowing taps.

Even if we didn't personally lose friends or relatives, we MUST REMEMBER. I think of the fields of Flanders, where men died in WW I trenches in Northern France at Amiens, Vimy, Bellow Wood and Ypres. I think of the landings at Normandy in 1944 and the fallen heroes.

I think of those who are still dying for the cause of freedom. I read war poetry and agree with Sigfreid Sassoon, who says that it is a lie to tell the youth of the country 'Dolce Et Decorum Est Pro Patria More' ( 'How sweet and peaceful it is to die for your country'). It is the greatest sacrifice one can make, but there is nothing sweet about death.

I have walked among the neat rows of graves in France, in Thailand, in Belgium and The Netherlands. I am always amazed at the ages of those who gave their lives. I marvel at the neatness of these cemeteries, lovingly tended as a symbol of respect.

It is like walking through a sea of crosses, monuments and stones sitting in the sun. And the silence is eerie.

In every town square in France there is some sort of monument with the names of the men from that city. There is one such monument close to where I live in Canada. There are monuments in Washington, in London and in Brussels. They rest in peace, and we must never forget them.

Maybe you will take a moment to remember. Maybe in some schoolhouse a teacher will tell his or her class why we must remember. Maybe someone will read a special poem as my teachers did.

I still remember the words to In Flanders Fields, written by an alumnus of my University (McGill). Major John McCrae was a doctor working in the Flanders battlefields, trying to save lives. In just 20 minutes he wrote the following:

In Flanders field 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,
We loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields

Take up your 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.

Once on a walk near the tiny French village of Fere En Tardenois, I found a very old section of a stone bridge. I walked around and under it. On the walls, carved with a knife, were names of U.S. soldiers and their hometowns dating back to WW I.

Here I read names like John…from Detroit, Bill…from Chicago,and Sonny…from Akron, Ohio. These boys had carved their own memories. They are still there over 85 years later. One wonders what happened to them.

I walk on the beaches of Dunkirk, and I remember. I climb to the top of Vimy Ridge, and I remember. I watch veterans sell their poppies on street corners. I wear mine proudly. I remember. I have no choice.

We cannot change history, but by not forgetting, we may help mold the future.

LEST WE FORGET!

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	Remembering on November 11th *By Arnie Greenberg* ultours@aol.com How can we forget what happened to thousands of young men and women during the wars that were fought in the name of freedom? We can't and we won't. We all remember in our own way, and it doesn't have to be at a particular time or of a particular event. The struggle for freedom in the twentieth century changed families and the lives of the dead and wounded forever. Many soldiers returned with wounds we couldn't see. They were traumatized, shocked, broken men who yelled in the night as the recurring nightmares revisited them. I was surprised recently to learn that there are so few veterans of World War I who are still alive. Considering that the war ended in 1918, the veterans would have to be over 100 today. In time, we tend to forget, but here in Canada we mark the occasion of the eleventh hour of the eleventh month of the year to stand silently during a minute of silence and remember. I still think of my classroom days when even as 6-year-olds we stood silently at our desks for a minute of silence. Now as I walk through the streets, I see veterans of all wars, wearing their battle ribbons and medals, selling bright red poppies that we wear proudly as a symbol of our memory. It matters not if the commemoration is for World War I or II, for Korea, Vietnam, Iraq or any conflict. We remember our dead. And at cenotaphs throughout the country, we stand at attention and listen to the wail of a bugle blowing taps. Even if we didn't personally lose friends or relatives, we MUST REMEMBER. I think of the fields of Flanders, where men died in WW I trenches in Northern France at Amiens, Vimy, Bellow Wood and Ypres. I think of the landings at Normandy in 1944 and the fallen heroes. I think of those who are still dying for the cause of freedom. I read war poetry and agree with Sigfreid Sassoon, who says that it is a lie to tell the youth of the country 'Dolce Et Decorum Est Pro Patria More' ( 'How sweet and peaceful it is to die for your country'). It is the greatest sacrifice one can make, but there is nothing sweet about death. I have walked among the neat rows of graves in France, in Thailand, in Belgium and The Netherlands. I am always amazed at the ages of those who gave their lives. I marvel at the neatness of these cemeteries, lovingly tended as a symbol of respect. It is like walking through a sea of crosses, monuments and stones sitting in the sun. And the silence is eerie. In every town square in France there is some sort of monument with the names of the men from that city. There is one such monument close to where I live in Canada. There are monuments in Washington, in London and in Brussels. They rest in peace, and we must never forget them. Maybe you will take a moment to remember. Maybe in some schoolhouse a teacher will tell his or her class why we must remember. Maybe someone will read a special poem as my teachers did. I still remember the words to In Flanders Fields, written by an alumnus of my University (McGill). Major John McCrae was a doctor working in the Flanders battlefields, trying to save lives. In just 20 minutes he wrote the following: In Flanders field 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, We loved, and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields Take up your 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. Once on a walk near the tiny French village of Fere En Tardenois, I found a very old section of a stone bridge. I walked around and under it. On the walls, carved with a knife, were names of U.S. soldiers and their hometowns dating back to WW I. Here I read names like John…from Detroit, Bill…from Chicago,and Sonny…from Akron, Ohio. These boys had carved their own memories. They are still there over 85 years later. One wonders what happened to them. I walk on the beaches of Dunkirk, and I remember. I climb to the top of Vimy Ridge, and I remember. I watch veterans sell their poppies on street corners. I wear mine proudly. I remember. I have no choice. We cannot change history, but by not forgetting, we may help mold the future. LEST WE FORGET! (Click below for more travel stories!)