November 11th, 2009
This should have been posted on Sunday - but today is equally appropriate.
There was something incredibly moving about commemerating Armistice Day, with NATO forces, in the middle of Germany. There were arround 600 troops from all the NATO countries, plus about 60 of us civilians assembled in front of the memorial, singing "Bread of Heaven" (which is apparently called something completely different) and listening to the Irish chaplain talk to us about remembering the fallen. Knowing that it is practically a statistical certainty that arround 30 of those assembled on Sunday will not return from war in the next 12 months, made it even more poignant. Then the last post was played, and we then could hear on the wind, the echo afterwards, presumably of it also being played at one of the other nearby bases.
Wilfred Owen: Anthem for Doomed Youth
There was something incredibly moving about commemerating Armistice Day, with NATO forces, in the middle of Germany. There were arround 600 troops from all the NATO countries, plus about 60 of us civilians assembled in front of the memorial, singing "Bread of Heaven" (which is apparently called something completely different) and listening to the Irish chaplain talk to us about remembering the fallen. Knowing that it is practically a statistical certainty that arround 30 of those assembled on Sunday will not return from war in the next 12 months, made it even more poignant. Then the last post was played, and we then could hear on the wind, the echo afterwards, presumably of it also being played at one of the other nearby bases.
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
Wilfred Owen: Anthem for Doomed Youth
- Location:Germany
- Mood:
contemplative
