Flanders Fields
On Saturday I took a tour to Flanders Fields, about 40 miles south-west of Bruges. These World War 1 battlefields remain infamous in military history for the hundreds of thousands of soldiers from fifty nations and five continents who, over a period of three and a half years, drew their last breaths here. Today one cannot drive through this part of Flanders without passing many war cemeteries, memorials and, indeed, artillery craters. I'll post a few photos of the Commonwealth War Cemetery at Ypres, the Australian Memorial there, King George V visiting the area (second from right), an unexploded shell and the Menin Gate. This impressive Victorian archway is etched with the names of thousands of British, Australian, New Zealand and Canadian troops who left Ypres for the battlefields and trenches, never to return. I stayed on for the moving Last Post Ceremony which is performed each evening by military personnel. I think it is fitting to end this post with a poem written by the Canadian surgeon, John McCrae, following the death of his close friend, Lieutenant Alexis Helmer, on May 2, 1915.
In Flanders Fields
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place, and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
In Flanders Fields
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place, and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
Always get a lump in my throat when I read that poem. Lovely post Neil. Also thankyou for the plethora of postcards which arrived in the post today. 💌💋
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