Hero. My contribution to Sunday Scribblings.
On the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month we pause to remember those killed and injured in war. Those people who fought for our freedom. The often times very young men and women who have died on our behalf.
This year my brothers Air Training Corps (boys and girls aged 13-18) marched in my local town centre to honour those who gave their lives. I hadn't been to one of these ceremonies in a long time and I was moved to tears by the readings the priest gave, the playing of The Last Post and by watching the elderly survivors of the Second World War standing proudly, although now supported by sticks, wearing their medals and strangely never once shedding a tear.
I guess these former soldiers or volunteers have had many years to come to terms with their experiences, and maybe there are no more tears to shed?
On Rememberance Sunday 4 British soldiers, 3 men and 1 women were killed in Iraq. 3 of their colleagues were seriously injured. Their boat hit by a home made bomb whilst they were patrolling the waterways around Basra.
November 11th is a sad day and somehow it was made even worse by these deaths.
My condolences to anyone who has lost their loved ones in conflict.
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.