Dusk was falling when from the German trenches in front of
the French line rose that strange green cloud of death. The light
north-easterly breeze wafted it toward them, and in a moment death had them by
the throat. One cannot blame them that they broke and fled. In the gathering
dark of that awful night they fought with the terror, running blindly in the
gas-cloud, and dropping with breasts heaving in agony and the slow poison of
suffocation mantling their dark faces. Hundreds of them fell and died; others
lay helpless, froth upon their agonized lips and their racked bodies powerfully
sick, with tearing nausea at short intervals. They too would die later – a slow
and lingering death of agony unspeakable. The whole air was tainted with the
acrid smell of chlorine that caught at the back of men's throats and filled
their mouths with its metallic taste.
— Captain Alfred Oliver Pollard, The Memoirs of a VC
(1932)
The poppy came to be used as a
symbol of remembrance for the soldiers who have fallen in battle, inspired by
Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae’s iconic poem written during the First World
War, “In Flanders Fields”. It was this Canadian doctor’s loss of a friend
during the Second Battle of Ypres that caused him to look upon the fields of
poppies growing over the battle-fields, that moved him to write about war and
loss and death and sacrifice.
I’ve had a few years on this
Earth, and some of them lately, I’ve been aware of Poppy
Day, and the discussion and the politics surrounding the celebrations. Last
year, I had a very long and frustrating discussion on the subject which should
not have happened. I was, alas, only just becoming familiar with the signs of
the internet troll. But it did cause me to think about things more deeply and
consciously.
In this post, I want to make two
things very clear.
Firstly, being a girl in armour,
I am aware of the very common misconception that we try to re-enact or recreate
“war” as it was in medieval times, in our sport. Let me fix that. We don’t.
In our sport, I don’t think I’ve
come across anyone who actually believes that what we do even approximates
actual warfare. Many of the athletes who compete in full contact medieval
combat are either in possession of a history degree of some sort, or are interested
in history, and have some kind of understanding of what went on during battles.
Speaking for myself, I think that taking the attitude that we are recreating “war”
when we fight would insult the hardships, pain and fear that soldiers have
always suffered in actual combat.
We recognise that we are safe. We
have rules to make us safe. We go willingly and with joy into the lists to
fight each other because we want to; we choose to. This is because we practice tournament
fighting as a sport. And it is certainly not even in the same realm of
experience. This, I acknowledge, as I am certain, do my peers in the sport.
And with that sorted out, I’d
like to move on to the other point.
This is a scene in Luxembourg’s National Museum of Military
History, (Diekirch), recreated from first-hand sources, detailing the
invasion of Luxembourg in 1940.
When one is standing there in the
museum, surrounded by all of the artefacts from that time, and so many others,
when men killed each other not because they hated, but because their leaders
decided it should be so, it is possible to feel the overwhelming sense of
futility of that time.
Those soldiers did not willingly
and happily go out to kill and to die. I believe that once the soldiers got to
that point, in the picture above, where they had been fighting for weeks or
months, without the feeling of safety, without the comfort of family, the snow
knee deep and deeper, the constant cold and need always present, I believe that
those who started out intending to happily go out and kill were only there
because they had no choice.
Once troops are committed, there
is no giving up and going home until the leader says it should be so. Those men
(and now women) who become soldiers accept that they will not choose their own
fate. They surrender it to the judgement of their leaders. And they are the
ones who must suffer and die. They know this, and they go anyway. I think that
must take some kind of bravery I can’t find in myself. And trust. Trust that their
leaders will use their lives wisely.
However you look at it, if you
are pro- or anti-war, you must acknowledge that a soldier – any soldier – is a
brave and trusting person, whose life is used as currency for the security of a
nation. And he KNOWS that. Whatever the politics and the philosophical
arguments behind it, they are just abstract notions that change and waft this
way and that, with time and wind.
The reality, the man in the
broken boots with too little ammunition for the task his unit was given, who
hasn’t eaten much, and who misses his children, who believes hard that his
sacrifice will make a good difference because it is too late to turn back, and
so he must believe; that man, every one, is worth remembering. They have a
bravery and selflessness that most of us will never know or appreciate.
The celebrated poet, Siegfried
Sassoon, was named “craven” by his commanding officers, after he sent his open
letter of defiance to the British government, during World War 1. In it, he
claimed that he was not returning to duty, following his convalescence, because
the war was being needlessly prolonged by those who could make an end to it.
This very famous letter has been the subject of much debate, and in everything
of this nature, there are always valid points to be made for every argument. It
is a recurring theme that we see in wars.
When does a war reach the point
where a peace can be made, or at least an end to the war itself, but yet it is
continued? That is something that the pro- anti-war camps can argue about
amongst themselves. I am not interested in the debate.
What I am interested in is the
value that leaders place on their soldiers. I think that whatever way we choose
to remember our fallen soldiers should be accompanied by a reminder to our
leaders to examine the value they place on those soldiers whose lives are still
their currency with which they can invest.
For, as much as leaders may talk
about “our men and women on the frontlines”, as if they know them, as if they
understand what they are experiencing, it is plain that they don’t. If they
did, our leaders would cease to treat their soldiers like .22 ammo (cheap and
cheerful), and instead treat them more like 50 cal rounds (trustworthy, effective,
and expensive to replace).
I’ll leave you all with the poem
that began this post.
In Flanders Fields
BY JOHN MCCRAE
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.
