I hope you like the new pic. Seems somewhat apt for this time of year.
And especially so given the rousing of Middle England for "our boys" in Afghanistan and elsewhere.
Actually, I think that Middle England has always had the troops in their hearts, it's just that the metropolitan media have only just noticed.
In actual fact, I don't think I can remember a wave of pride for our fighting forces quite like it since the Falklands conflict. Just another sign that the winds of change are blowing through the country.
I sometimes feel that the country has been snoozing for the past few years, and is now waking up and beginning to look around in a kind of sleepy daze and saying "What ? What the Fuck has been going on here ? Why didn't you wake me up before ?".
For me, the Poppies are a reminder of a Great Grandfather who survived the Great War, and a Paternal Grandfather who survived the horror of being a Japanese PoW, and who worked on the Burma Railway. Returning home, he was sick and emaciated and relived the horrors he had witnessed and experienced alone in the dark and in his nightmare plagued sleep.
I am told he screamed...
In this, he was not alone; and he bore his suffering, like most, in silence, never talking about his experiences. And lest we forget, the families to which they returned also paid a terrible price and had to pick up the pieces as best they could and get on with life.
My Grandfather shared my birthday, but he died when I was either 1 or 2. His Wife never forgave the Japs for what they did and was convinced until her last breath that they killed him.
Forgiveness, it it were ever granted, was pretty hard won from that generation.
My Great Grandfather, on the other hand, outlived his Son by some years, finally shuffling off this Mortal Coil in his mid-90's. My memories are somewhat hazy, although I remember the fantastic aroma of pipe tobacco and a predilection for Scotch served with a dash of water and a spoonful of sugar. During my times in Scotland, I learnt to love the Single Malt, and I now always have a light dash of (spring) water to bring it to life (but not sugar; I'll give it a try and let you know :-) ).
We are all descendants of these people and families, touched by war and horror. And in many cases, like mine, within one generation. It is part of who we (the collective nation "we") are.
And yet...
...how fast time flies. Within say 30 years, the living memory of those who served and those who lived through it will be gone. And at that point, it is up to us to ensure that their sacrifice, and the sacrifices of those who came after, are never forgotten.
So I for one am glad that we're finally waking up.
Anyway, I've got lots more to tell but that will have to wait until I get round to the next missive. But just to whet any appetites, I am planning an expose on the Great Norfolk Drought of 2009, expounding my theory on the Law of Entropy and how it pertains to Guitarists and all kinds of other stuff, of which some will be Prog Rock related.
In closing, and in line with the general theme as above, here are a couple of things to close with.
IN FLANDERS FIELDS
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.
And a modern take on this from the genius pen of R Waters:-
Southampton Dock
They disembarked in 45
And no-one spoke and no-one smiled
There were too many spaces in the line.
Gathered at the cenotaph
All agreed with the hand on heart
To sheath the sacrificial Knifes.
But now...
She stands upon Southampton dock
With her handkerchief
And her summer frock
Clings to her wet body in the rain.
In quiet desperation, knuckles
White upon the slippery reins
She bravely waves the boys goodbye again.
And still the dark stain spreads between
His shoulder blades.
A mute reminder of the poppy fields and graves.
And when the fight was over
We spent what they had made.
But in the bottom of our hearts
We felt The Final Cut.
