Garden of Remembrance, Westminster Abbey

In the week leading up to Remembrance Sunday the lawns of Westminster Abbey in London turn into the Garden of Remembrance and small crosses and poppies start sprouting in neat patches in the grounds of that venerable old church. The Abbey has been there for, sort of, forever, but I don't know when the Garden first appeared.

I work round the corner from the Abbey so it's easy enough to visit at lunchtime. I never cease to be amazed by how many people seem to have travelled from around the globe to see it. The British Legion always seems to do a roaring trade in selling poppies and little wooden crosses and, more recently, crescent moons, on which people can write the name of the person they're remembering and plant it in the appropriate plot.

The Garden is split into small plots for each regiment and country and there's a map at the entrance gates so you can find the plot you need. Some plots are fuller than others but they're all represented. It's also nice to see the range of generations wandering round the Garden and the range of wars (or 'conflicts') represented. Lots of people were wandering round with cameras and you can get good shots of Westminster Abbey, Big Ben, Parliament Square  and the Houses of Parliament in the background. Me? I had my phone.

Some of the names of the plots clearly harked back to when King and Empire called and the Empire sent its sons and some daughters to die in Flanders fields. Others are from more modern wars. The plot for Canada was very full (and some patriotic soul planted a flag) and it was nice to see the plots for Polish and Czechoslovakian servicemen from the Second World War when they joined the Allies. There were lots of African regiments and, of course, the Gurkahs of Nepal who are still part of the British Army.

I look for my Grandfather's regiment to make sure it's there. It always is. He didn't die in the First World War but two of his brothers did. I remember the old photographic portraits of them in uniform hanging in my grandparent's back bedroom when I was young. They died for King and country but was it worth it?

Anyway, here are some photos so you can see what it's like.

A Remembrance Too Far?

100 years ago the world went to war, or at least Europe and it's empires did. And that was the start of the end to empires. Naturally, there are lots of things to mark and commemorate and there will be up until 1918 when the 'war to end all wars' ended.

The Royal British Legion and Commonwealth War Graves Commission have launched a campaign to remember everyone who died in service between 1914-18. It's called Every Man Remembered (and includes Every Woman Remembered) and the website is here. It's a nice idea and has been picked up elsewhere. In my workplace there's a plaque on the wall near the front door listing the names of former staff who died in the wars and the management has invited volunteers to research their lives so we don't forget about them. Not forgetting is sometimes important.

The thing I'm not sure about is that this emphasis on remembrance is for those who died in the First World War. What about those who survived, made it through the war and had to live with their physical and mental disabilities and the memories? It's well documented that soldiers in the war didn't speak of the horrors they saw and I know that from personal experience. My Granda made it through the war, lost his left arm and never spoke of it. He was 18 years old when he lost his arm and lived until he was 92. That's a long time to carry the burden of memory.

My Granda was born in the last years of the 19th Century, a late Victorian, and here we are in the 21st Century. How time flies. It's odd to think that I knew Victorians in the shape of my grandparents. I remember sleeping in their back bedroom in their cottage at Emma Ville a former pit village, with photographic portraits of my Granda's two brothers hanging on the wall. Proud young men in uniform with their future's ahead of them. Futures cut short. If they were anything like my Granda then they were probably very popular and liked a pint or two on a Friday night. Or maybe three.

I remember seeing my Granda's medals with bright ribbons in a commemorative box. That's the thanks he got from the country for losing an arm and living a lifetime without it.  My Granda once told me about his granda - in a pub, of course - and how he was a navvy that dug the course of the River Tyne at Blaydon as it is today. But he never told me about the trenches or the bombardments or running into the hail of bullets that ruined his arm. He always covered his arm in photos so it wasn't seen, something to be hidden. He was less self-conscious about it in his later years, probably recognising that life is too short to be shy despite his going on and on and on until he got bored and left us.

I might browse through Every Man Remembered to see if my great uncles are there but I shall remember those who lived through the war and beyond. I'll remember those who went on to become award-winning gardeners and grandparents. I'll remember my Granda.