In a world more used to 9/11 or 7/7 it was really good to return to remember the historical date of 11/11. A date with more death associated to it but that in recent times attempts to hide behind the inconveniences of modern day life, shifting its importance sideways toward a day of rest that fits more conveniently! Remembrance Day should be marked, however inconvenient, on the day it occurs. It is the least we can do, surely? It is enough that time attempts to throw a veil over the events by burying them in the fading memory. A veil that the Western Front Association and the nation as one have a duty to remember and to perpetuate. It was with this realisation I made my journey to London for the WFA's instigated ceremony on the true day of remembrance last month.
Thus I found myself standing in the company of friends in front of the Cenotaph as the traffic halted. The talk went to whispers and then to silence, as the bugle played out and the quiet respectfulness resounded out in silence. The eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, it has certain symmetry to it, a symmetry that the men and women who fought on all sides did not experience during 1914-18.
The ‘class' of 14-18 broke the mould, before them war had never been so bad, after them it would never be - or seem - so bad again. The vision of the men walking to their deaths clouds so much and opens a debate as to the conduct to the war. Are you a 'lion and donkey', a 'learning process', or a 'butcher and bungler'? Yet what is not disputable is the deaths, they remain a lasting monument to man's want to extinguish itself. If we forget, we run the risk of it happening again, yet that is in many ways what we do year in and year out. A 'war to end wars' Lloyd-George prophesised, yet it was more than any one man can promise. The second ‘Great War' showed that falsehood and every decade since, across the globe, it has been driven home how vain a hope that was.
Knowing that debt we owe and understanding the honour handed to me some months back, I was now preparing to say the words of Pericles Funeral oration. The daunting, yet beautiful, surroundings of the Guards' Chapel loomed in under an hour as the silence held around the Cenotaph. Only minutes earlier David Henderson (Exhortation) and Bill Fulton (The Lesson, Psalm 3) had owned up to 'pre-match' nerves. We were all aware of the honour we had been given but were less sure of the rational decision in agreeing - yet none would have swopped places - it meant far more than a few butterflies. Those nerves were borne not of getting the words wrong, the inflection out of place but of ‘letting the side down'. We can do so little to honour the fallen, so that a few words correctly spoken seem little to ask, and thus that little becomes magnified.
To anyone who has never been in the Guards Chapel, I would urge you to do so: it is a place steeped in tradition and respectfulness. Faded colours hang silently from the walls, hiding the sacrifice and death they have witnessed in their folds. The chapel was almost destroyed in 1944 by a doodlebug and yet, in some ways, it has emerged from those ashes with a brighter, more open look to it. Its little alcoves bear plaques and other reminders to the names of its Colonels and other prominent officers. Lord Gort VC and Harold Alexander are just two who spring to mind. In fact, a superbly done statue of Alexander looks over you as you approach the doors to the chapel, weathered by time, his gaze looks down upon you, and the flyer's jacket he habitually wore in WW2 does not detract from a presence that, even in a statue, emanates toward you as you walk by.
Alexander's reassuring presence did not however quell the rising nerves as I entered the chapel. A brisk walk from the Cenotaph to the chapel with friends had halted the nerves somewhat but, as I passed ‘Alex', I knew the time was coming.
I hesitated as I entered and took in once again the surroundings and then made my way to the front where David and Bill were already getting some instructions. I listened intently to make sure I knew what we were about and then we went to our seats and quietly contemplated the next few minutes. Surprisingly I can remember the service: Bill's excellent reading, my approach to the lectern, the realisation my voice had held, my careful step down (I did not wish to fall face first as apparently the steps were "a killer") and David's well-spoken words ringing out, "They shall grow not old as we that are left grow old...." David later said that when he finished he was not sure he had said the first words! I was able to reassure him that he had.
Lt-General Sir Robin Ross (of the Soldiers, Sailors, Airmen and Families Association) spoke briefly but tellingly about courage and what that meant, and how courage comes in many forms. They were powerful words, with meaning, and well said. I recall the choir, so beautiful and the service led by the Rev Beaver (Officiating Chaplain to the Household Cavalry Mounted Regiment) who also spoke clearly and well. I do not recall how long we were there yet it seemed just right, the words and hymns just long enough, respectfully orchestrated and delivered.
With the ‘ordeal' over I was able to relax and now wondered why I had felt so nervous; it had been a breeze, a walk in the park, done with ease and little worry!! There seemed little to reproach anyone for, because the whole service had gone according to plan as had the previous proceedings around the Cenotaph.
With the chapel service over we made our way to the Peelers' Restaurant and the finale to the day. As I spoke to Maurice Johnson he owned to the fact that he could relax, his part was done and I marvelled at the way he had looked calm and collected all morning. In fact, I marvelled at how the day had developed. Les Carter had ably orchestrated the ceremony at the Cenotaph, weaving silently around the crowd directing, and Maurice himself who had planned the Chapel service, ably aided by Tom Miles on the day. To many these actions would have gone unnoticed as just part of the day but I was given to think that my nerves had been bad enough just to say a few words, how would they have been had I have undertaken what these men had just done! Little did I or they know what was in store for them later!
It seemed to me that the meal (arranged by the last of the organising quartet, Stuart Bufton), after the events of the morning, was a time to unwind and catch up with old friends. And this was how it was, a lovely meal washed down with a glass of red - thank you Maurice - and a time to chat about the day and other things. Thus, as the mid-afternoon hove onto the horizon and the weather that had held good for us began to hammer on the windows of the restaurant, Bruce Simpson stood to say a few words and to offer his thanks for those who had made the time to attend. But for four people Bruce had a special thanks: Les Carter, Maurice Johnson, Tom Miles and Stuart Bufton had each played a part in the day's events, and not for the first time. Stalwarts of time they had honed the day's events over years of involvement and, not only were these four offered a bottle of their favourite to reflect on, but they were further and rightly honoured by the certificate of honorary members of the Western Front Association. Having witnessed the smoothness of the day's operation I could only offer my own agreement with the award.
All too soon it was time to make tracks and head for home, the offer of a beverage reluctantly declined. Once again the weather was kind and the London Underground good, so by 4.30pm I was sitting on a train back home and the time to reflect on the day. For the first time in a long while I was left with a feeling of both joy and sadness. I wanted to think that day had been enjoyable, yet that seemed disrespectful. Finally I was able to sum it up by recalling later to friends that it had been a memorable day, spent in the company of some good friends.
Lest we forget
Les receives his award from the Chairman
Maurice with his Certificate of Honorary Membership and Bruce
Stuart enjoys his certificate and the President's speech (not sure which!)
[unfortunately, Tom Miles could not be present to receive his award]
Article contributed by Andy Lonergan.
Cenotaph image courtesy the MoD.
All other images courtesy Roy Backhouse.
