They shall not grow old as we that are left grow old;
Age will not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun, and in the morning
We will remember them.
I stood in Market Square, outside the old Lancaster Town Hall, and I bowed my head as the clock struck eleven and the standards were lowered. The bugler, an old man who had walked across the square earlier on two crutches, hunched and weatherbeaten, played the Last Post. His back was ramrod straight, his eyes bright, his lay sticks forgotten behind him.
It was eerie, that silence. It always is. On every single Armistice Day that I can remember, I have fancied that in my mind's ear I can hear the sound of big guns, the cries of the wounded and the dying, and the awful quiet that comes after.
I stood with the men and women and listened as the last post faded away. Another man, in the centre of the museum steps, spoke the words that we have all heard, reading that famous verse from For the Fallen: We will remember them.
The reveille played as the silence ended, the standards were once again held aloft, and the man in the centre of the steps thanked us for observing the silence and for being so generous with our donations to the poppy appeal.
Afterwards, as the crowd was drifting away, I happened to walk past a group of veterans. I stopped.
"Excuse me," I said. They turned to me. Their eyes were bright with tears. They had been remembering those who they were not standing with today.
"I just wanted to say thank you," I said.
They looked almost puzzled.
"For being there," I said, "for doing what you did."
They nodded. One by one, I shook their hands.
I do not have the words to describe the debt of gratitude that we owe every last serviceman and woman, the ones who died, the ones who live, the ones who did not fight but worked to keep others alive, supplied and able to fight for their country and their cause.
There are those who would say that we should not observe Armistice Day. It glorifies war, they tell us, makes heroes out of politicians who killed thousands with a single decision.
Once again, I find myself without the words to express myself. So, as I often do, I shall turn to the words of a friend:
I have stood in the trenches, watched the wind move the poppies on the Somme, walked along the beaches in Normandy and seen rows upon rows upon rows upon rows of perfectly maintained white crosses. I have heard the last post played on every cold, grey windswept November 11th as far back as I can remember and have shed a tear on every single one. There is no glory standing at the cenotaph in the rain, only somber, humble silence and overwhelming sorrow. You are faced with the consequences of humanity at it's worst and give thanks for the freedoms you enjoy and the choices you can make to ensure it never happens again.
We will remember them.
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.
~ John McCrae
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With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
They mingle not with laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.
But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;
As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain,
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.
~ Laurence Binyon
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