The flowers left thick at nightfall in the wood
This Eastertide call into mind the men,
Now far from home, who, with their sweethearts, should. Have gathered them and will do never again.
Edward Thomas - 1915
Lest I forget
After The Great War, known more recently as World War One, there was a massive outpouring of grief. Some villages lost entire generations, often due to Pals Battalions, whereby the local lads from the same tight-knit place of work or town would all go to the same theatre of war, and suffer the same fate, unlike those randomly scattered across the battlefield.
There was of course a flip-side, the Thankful Villages. To make it home safe and sound, unscathed, was very rare indeed.
For those who suffered the loss of loved ones, a world-weary country set about raising homes fit for heroes and memorials fitting for those who did not make it home.
Whenever I step into any village or town, I am drawn to these memorials, not from grief, but to witness these edifices which stand in pride of place. Vernacular memorials, each as individual as the next. Hand-crafted no doubt by those who knew well the names on the wall.
The Pals knew exactly what they were fighting for, dropped whatever they were doing, said their goodbyes, thrown into a creeping barrage where even the stoic might walk afraid.
My ancestors now dwell as carved names on the Menin Gate at Ypres, the Navy’s memorial at Plymouth Hoe and various humble stones in the Cotswolds.
No family was left alone without the loss of a friend, brother or lover, and so these memorials stand through all seasons to mark those who fell in Somme mud, foreign fields and swollen seas.