Remembrance Weekend
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Did?nt need an alarm call this morning, anticipation had me awake ,anticipation of the service of Remembrance that I was to attend in Birmingham. As I stood in the shower ,washing off the nights slumbers, I recalled that 50 years ago this very morning ,I was stood in the showers at Gravesend Sea Training School, getting ready to depart to the Royal Albert Hall ,to take part in the British Legions Festival of Remembrance. The images came flooding back of we lads struggling to get into the boiled and starched white shirts with the separate collars. Studs had to be used to attach the collars to shirt and the collars were like celluloid, cut your throat if you turned your head fast enough. This was the first time any of us had ever worn such fancy items. The creases in our trousers were knife edged and our boots were gleaming like mirrors, thus kitted up we were loaded on to a motor coach and driven through London to the mighty Albert Hall ,stopping first at Derry and Thoms department store to have a wonderful cooked breakfast in its rooftop restaurant..
We were not seated in groups but were dispersed amongst the throng of diners who were all taking some part in the days festivities .Thus it was that I found myself seated opposite a Chelsea Pensioner who was a veteran of the Boer War, next to him sat an army officer with gold tabs on his collar and a triple row of ribbons on his chest, a pretty young Wren sat on my left and an R.N. rating sat on my right. I was totally overawed; as I sat staring at the array of cutlery before the officer winked and motioned that I should start from the outside and work in.
Such were my memories as I made myself ready this morning, clean white shirt,collar attached this time, Masonic tie and cufflinks , grey trousers ,with creases just as sharp as those of yesteryear, and shoes you could see your face in. Silver M.N. badge pinned to my lapel ,and beneath that ,a little blue forget-me- not, in remembrance of those who died in the death camps of WW11. A blood red poppy on my left lapel and my sailors cap with its Training School badge, I was ready for the service.
The temple was full of people of all races. religions , sexes and ages. A Christian priest presided over the prayers and the room resounded to the opening hymn ?Oh God our help in ages past?. This was not a celebration of war , but a remembrance of its horrors and the losses of loved ones. Overhead , at the rear of the temple the silvery tones of a bugle sounded as the Last Post was played, a tune so redolent of pain and loss; as the last notes faded we stood in silence for two minutes, the standard bearer with his ensign pointed to the floor. Those two minutes were long and sombre, a time for old men to remember their lost comrades and for young men to see how the old were united in their ,still painful, sense of loss. As the silence ended Reveille was sounded and old sweats ,eyes aglitter with unshed tears ,saluted. The Lords Prayer followed ,voiced by all and sundry regardless of creed ,and the national Anthem was sung with a gusto that I had?nt heard since I was at school. We did?nt rush away after the service, people gathered in little groups, chatting and recalling times past. I was invited to dinner by a man I had only met there this morning , it was a splendid occasion ,one which will be repeated throughout Britain and all those Dominions that fought on the fields of war in the last century ,and , sadly ,this one too.
Lest we Forget??
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