It was not a public holiday but, in my elementary school, we had a Remembrance Day Assembly that mimicked the official ceremonies held at the Cenotaph in Ottawa and in communities all over Canada. The whole school gathered in the auditorium at about 10:30. We sang “God Save the Queen” and “Abide with me”. A class recited or a teacher read “In Flanders Fields”. By this time it was just before 11:00 when a recording of “The Last Post” was played and two minutes of silence began. We were admonished to remember the soldiers of World War I who had died for our freedom. I tried every year. It was hard because I didn’t know anyone who had fought in that war. With relief and a slight feeling of guilt, I listened for the bugle to play again, signaling the end of the two minutes of silence. We then sang “O Canada” and filed back to our classrooms. This simple ceremony, repeated annually, made a deep impression on me.
As I grew older and moved from Canada to Jamaica to Ohio, the significance of this day faded. Then I went to France. There the day is called "November 11th". Some dates need no explanation. Every town and village has a “Monument aux Morts” (Monument to the Dead). Some facts require no euphemisms.
"Monument aux Morts" in Provence.
Some village monuments have plaques provided by their families
Though some of these monuments include the names of the fallen of World War II, many remain exclusively for the dead of the four and a half year war that cost France 10% of its male population. Commemorations are held at each of these monuments every year. The official ceremony takes place at the “Arc de Triomphe” in Paris where the President lays a wreath at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Until last year, when the last veteran died at age 110, all the French World War I veterans able to travel were present and, later, interviewed by the press. Their story was one of hardship and horror. The official message was “Never again" -- a message stronger than ever this year as Nicolas Sarkozy of France and Angela Merkel of Germany, lit the eternal flame at the “Arc de Triomphe” together, reviewed French and German troops, heard the national anthems of both countries played and made brief speeches. As one of the major French newspapers put it “”Hereafter on November 11th, we will no longer celebrate the victory of one country over another”.
But I was not there. I spent my first November 11th in the United States in 39 years where I discovered in shocked surprise that, about the time I was learning “In Flanders Fields” in Canada, the 83rd Congress, at the urging of veterans’ service groups, had passed a law turning Armistice Day into Veterans Day – a day honoring, not those who died in World War I, but those who served in all wars --and lived.
I have been pondering cultural relativity ever since.
My maternal grandfather served briefly in WWI. He was shipped out towards the end, in 1918, and I do not believe he ever saw combat. He was born in 1892 and was 8 years older than my grandmother. My mother has a wonderful letter that she wrote to him on Armistice day of 1918 describing what went on in Toledo. I'm not sure exactly where that letter is right now but I want to find it again. We have no conception now of what that war was like for our grandparent's generation. Obviously it hit France in a much harder way than it did in the U.S. but it was still a terrible war. The toll from influenza along with the horror of the battlefield stopped many young men permanently. One only needs to read _All Quiet on the Western Front_ to realize this. I read it many years ago and am not sure I could steel myself for another read. We have been very very lucky here in the U.S.
ReplyDeleteI was sent pics of Poppy Day, 2009, and the Parade in Exeter, U.K., by my daughter Sara who knows it has a special place in my heart.
ReplyDeleteMy father late Paul Antony Pais fought in WW II under Subhash Chandra Bose. As a freedom fighter, he was imprisoned in Burma & then in Changi Prison which is today under Changi Airport, considered to be the most beautiful in the world.
His parents received a telegram "Missing In Action" and had given him up for dead, when 2 years after WW II was over, he walked into his home in Mangalore and kids screamed that he was a ghost!
During the black-outs in 1969 due to the war between India & Pakistan, daddy often told us hair raising tales of his war experiences.
I treasure his diary, the rosary he made out of brown twine on which he devoutly prayed, and his war discharge book, which recommended him for the Victoria Cross.
I seriously doubt men like him are made any more.