Armistice Day
Before it was renamed and repurposed, this was Armistice Day. It was the day when all the carnage of WWI came to an official end, set aside originally to remind us all of the cost and horror of war, so that those fields would never again be fertilized by human blood and sacrifice.
It was a war that gave rise to the poetry of Wilfred Owen, when the very men fighting it could say that "It is sweet and proper to die for one's country" was a terrible lie to tell to "young men hungry for some desperate glory". (Dulce et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen) They called it "The War to End Wars", and they believed it could be.
It wasn't about the men who served; it was about keeping the memory of the reality of war alive, keeping their sons from ever having to face the guns and the gas again. That isn't to say we shouldn't express our appreciation of what they have done and are doing to those who have served. Absolutely we should, and I do. We don't think of them enough, nor give them credit for what they do out of our sight every day. But we should also remember the original intent of those who established the holiday. It wasn't about those who served in war. It was about the value of peace.
This is my personal favorite poem out of WWI. Like Wilfred Owen, the author was himself in the service. He was killed in action in November 1917. He was 24.
In Memoriam
Private D Sutherland killed in action in the German trench, May 16th, 1916, and the others who died.
So you were David’s father
And he was your only son
And the new-cut peats are rotting
And the work is left undone
Because of an old man weeping
Just an old man in pain
For David, his son David
That will not come again.
Oh, the letters he wrote you
And I can see them still
Not a word of the fighting
But just the sheep on the hill
And how you should get the crops in
Ere the year get stormier
And the Bosches have got his body
And I was his officer.
You were only David’s father
But I had fifty sons
When we went up in the evening
Under the arch of the guns
And we came back at twilight -
O God! I heard them call
To me for help and pity
That could not help at all.
Oh, never will I forget you
My men that trusted me
More my sons than your fathers’
For they could only see
The little helpless babies
And the young men in their pride
They could not see you dying
And hold you while you died.
Happy and young and gallant
They saw their first-born go
But not the strong limbs broken
And the beautiful men brought low
The piteous writing bodies
They screamed “Don’t leave me sir”
For they were only your fathers
But I was their officer.”
Written by E A Mackintosh
It was a war that gave rise to the poetry of Wilfred Owen, when the very men fighting it could say that "It is sweet and proper to die for one's country" was a terrible lie to tell to "young men hungry for some desperate glory". (Dulce et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen) They called it "The War to End Wars", and they believed it could be.
It wasn't about the men who served; it was about keeping the memory of the reality of war alive, keeping their sons from ever having to face the guns and the gas again. That isn't to say we shouldn't express our appreciation of what they have done and are doing to those who have served. Absolutely we should, and I do. We don't think of them enough, nor give them credit for what they do out of our sight every day. But we should also remember the original intent of those who established the holiday. It wasn't about those who served in war. It was about the value of peace.
This is my personal favorite poem out of WWI. Like Wilfred Owen, the author was himself in the service. He was killed in action in November 1917. He was 24.
In Memoriam
Private D Sutherland killed in action in the German trench, May 16th, 1916, and the others who died.
So you were David’s father
And he was your only son
And the new-cut peats are rotting
And the work is left undone
Because of an old man weeping
Just an old man in pain
For David, his son David
That will not come again.
Oh, the letters he wrote you
And I can see them still
Not a word of the fighting
But just the sheep on the hill
And how you should get the crops in
Ere the year get stormier
And the Bosches have got his body
And I was his officer.
You were only David’s father
But I had fifty sons
When we went up in the evening
Under the arch of the guns
And we came back at twilight -
O God! I heard them call
To me for help and pity
That could not help at all.
Oh, never will I forget you
My men that trusted me
More my sons than your fathers’
For they could only see
The little helpless babies
And the young men in their pride
They could not see you dying
And hold you while you died.
Happy and young and gallant
They saw their first-born go
But not the strong limbs broken
And the beautiful men brought low
The piteous writing bodies
They screamed “Don’t leave me sir”
For they were only your fathers
But I was their officer.”
Written by E A Mackintosh