I don't like Remembrance Sunday. it is probably my one of my least favourite days of the year. As a Cub or Scout I took place in numerous parades often carrying the flag. A lot of time was spent making sure my uniform was ironed and the flag pole and other gear was properly polished.
However, as I have gotten older, and as I have studied the First and Second World War's in a lot of detail, I have become less and less comfortable with the tone and feel of many Remembrance day Services and parades.
I am uncomfortable with the way in which it often feels the sacrifice of those men and women who have served in the military was and is glorified and their virtues extoled to almost mythic proportions, often without taking into account the cost to those who survived or the cost to the friends and families of those who died.
A few years ago I heard a sermon which was given the title of "what did you do in the war daddy" a slogan taken from a well known recruitment poster which sought to shame people into joining the armed forces. To be honest I was disgusted, for the next 20 minutes all I heard was about the glory of sacrifice and how those men where all akin to Jesus, giving their lives for the good of others. There was nothing of the horror and futility of war, and the scars it has left on so many people, merely the heroic sacrifice. For me this felt at odds with the understanding I have always had of this act of Remembrance.
In both the First and Second World War, ordinary men and women, put their lives on the line to protect the vulnerable and to correct the mistakes of those in power who had turned a blind eye to authoritarianism and Fascism. It was neither glorious nor glamorous, and it should not have been necessary. It is deeply saddening to see so many around the world decide that the key to their happiness and security lies in the leadership and promises of precisely the kind of people that those we remember on 11th of November died to protect against.
This is the story of one person who was deeply affected by the Second World War. In some ways it is not my story to tell, but he can't tell it again, and I have heard it so many times it is impossible to forget.
On the 27thAugust 2021 my Grandad died. Born in April 1937, he was 84 years old. It came as a bit of a shock he seemed to be in good health he went out to buy his morning paper and collapsed only a short distance down the road, my grandma was able to be with him as he passed away.
He didn’t go to church he didn’t enjoy singing hymns or listening to sermons. He was the last of a group known as the “old gits” who met regularly in a local café on the waterfront for a healthy brunch which absolutely did not involve any bacon. During this lunch they would have lively conversations on all sorts of topics including on many occasions’ scripture. People vied for a nearby table to listen in to the discussion. They helped each other out and anyone else that they found out needed help, as the rest of the group passed on my grandad frequently helped their wives with bits of DIY or gardening. He would stop and chat to anyone and would always have time for people.
Over the years I have heard many of his stories, some several times, from the impossible, such as his time as a deep-sea diver checking the ships anchor was down and stopping for a cigarette on the way back up so the officers wouldn’t catch him, to the stories of his National Service in the Royal Navy as well as his apprenticeship and subsequent career with British Telecom. But it was only more recently that he finally started to open-up about his experience of growing up in war torn Britain. He talked of collecting shrapnel, the fear he felt seeing a V1 bomb crash on the street his best friend lived on and the relief at finding out that no one had been home.
He also talked about the death of his father in the sinking of the destroyer HMS Blean in December 1942, the visit of the smartly turned-out naval officer … and his mother sitting him down and telling him that he was now the man of the family. He was five years old and had only just learnt how to write. The first letter he had written to his dad never reached him. The thing that stood out to me was how raw this was for him almost 80 years later.
After the war he was sent on a boarding program to Switzerland and lived with a family in the countryside. They gave him new clothes and welcomed him into their home during his stay. One day while out walking with the family he heard gunshots from someone nearby hunting and instinctively dived into the nearest ditch, full of muddy water. He expected the man he was staying with to be cross … his new coat was ruined, but instead he surfaced to find him weeping at the cost of war on this young boy.
On another occasion they went to a chalet on the border with Germany, there was a garden party with children from all over Europe. But there was one part he could not bring himself to enter. As the house was on the border, there were uniformed Swiss and German guards, it was not until they asked the German guard to move out of sight that he was able to enter that section of the garden and even then, he would not play or even talk to the children from Germany or Austria.
The fear and hatred of German people that he learnt in the war stayed with him for the rest of his life. The experience of war and loss left a mark that time could not erase. The true cost of war is almost immeasurable and lingers on long after the guns have fallen silent.
I cannot stand the glorification or glamourisation of war and will continue to struggle with the way in which Remembrance Sunday is so often celebrated. Yet despite this discomfort I am determined that I will always try to honour that call to remember all those who suffered and continue to suffer due to war and conflict. For me that includes my Grandad.
But this cannot be relegated to the 11th November, but needs to take place with each new day.
A few years ago I put a piece of my mums poetry to music, the words here feel very appropriate for today.
Just to clarify a couple of points that could possibly have been clearer. I am not a pacifist and believe that there are times when fighting is necessary. When it comes to remembrance day I believe that it is important that we remember those who have died, but how we remember is crucial. The militaristic and nationalistic imagery and language is, for me, uncomfortable and inappropriate. We also need to remember that it is not only soldiers who are affected by war. Others lose their lives and others have to live with the consequences of conflict. They should also be remembered.