I remember ...

Its Remembrance Day, or Poppy Day, on November 11th, to commemorate all the brave soldiers who have given their lives, and the end of World War 1. The children in my school bring in their money, bless them, excited and pleased to hand it over in exchange for a little red fabric or paper flower. There will be an assembly on it, and two minute’s silence to remember the monstrosities of war.

But they won’t understand, just as I didn’t understand, as a child. I can barely understand it all now; that human beings, who should be bound together in their mortality and the fragility of life, can point blank kill each other. I’m not even sure it’s something a child should properly understand.

I did learn about the two World Wars throughout school, but in all honesty all that I can remember about the 1st is the horrors of Trench Warfare, and going ‘over the top.’ Even as a child, the futility and sheer barbarism of it really struck me. But then, in my childhood bubble, they were nameless, faceless soldiers whose ‘job’ it was to face certain death, and I thought about them with no more empathy as children today surely think about their interactive gaming counterparts.    

It was only as I got older did I come to understand that those grubby, uniformed soldiers, sent ‘over the top’ in waves to meet death head-on, were people’s husbands, brothers, sons and daddy’s. Now that I have a baby, I can’t conceive of the horror that many women must have felt as their man was taken off to war, of having to tell their child that Daddy wasn’t coming home …

One night last week I dreamt that I was one of those soldiers - although in the madness of the dreamscape I was actually in my Nan’s spare bed - but that’s beside the point, in the dream I was set to go ‘over the top’ that very day, and the fear and terror that I felt were unparalleled. Then I woke, heart pounding and sweat-sodden, the dream and the fear lingering as reality for a few waking moments, before I realised, thank god, that it hadn’t been real after all.    

‘Convenient,’ you might think, to dream this a week before Poppy Day. Only I think that’s why I dreamt it – I often seem to dream about things that I’ve seen or thought about that day. There’s a heart-wrenching advert on TV at the moment, promoting a series of Remembrance programmes – people telling us who they remember – which really gets to me.

Of course I’m not claiming to know anything about how those soldiers felt as they went to their deaths. I’m just thinking about the tragedy of it, the sadness, and the horror. Wikipedia puts it well: ‘Trench warfare is associated with needless slaughter in appalling conditions, combined with the view that brave men went to their deaths because of incompetent and narrow-minded commanders who failed to adapt to the new conditions of trench warfare: class-ridden and backward-looking generals put their faith in the attack, believing superior morale and dash would overcome the weapons and moral inferiority of the defender.[11] The British and Empire troops on the Western Front are commonly referred to as "lions led by donkeys."[12]’

Poppy Day is all about remembering those brave soldiers, those ‘lions.’ As a kid I used to wonder how I could ‘remember’ something that seemed to me to have happened aeons ago. How could I ‘remember’ men that I had never met? But I get it now – it’s about remembering that those soldiers were real and everyday people, with homes and families and parents and children. It’s about honouring their brave sacrifice, and being thankful. It’s about showing respect for those that survived, too, and those that continue to fight for country to this day. And in remembering the horrors of war, we are mindful of them, to prevent future war.

In all honesty I’m sorry to say it’s not something I ever thought deeply about before. Only now that I have a child and life seems infinitely more precious, I find I’m able to empathise with others in a way I never did before.

So I’m thankful, which seems a pathetic word for such sacrifices. ‘Thanks’ isn’t a good enough word. I’m finding there are no words to convey what I’m trying to say.

Which leaves me with only one short but heartfelt phrase - I remember.