A nation united in moving requiem to our war dead
The Armistice Day commemorations reflected the rich tapestry of UK life for which millions fought and died
Beneath rainwashed skies the nation gathered from early morning. By carved memorials in city squares and on blustery village greens, young and old stood in quiet contemplation. Just as the Great War summoned volunteers from factory and field, bustling streets and overgrown bridleways, so did the deeply moving Armistice Day commemorations reflect the rich patchwork of British life that a generation fought and died to preserve.
As Big Ben’s sonorous chimes ushered in two minutes’ silence from London, across the country communities large and small paid their own poignant tributes to those who were slain.
In the Norfolk Domesday village of Snettisham, tears flowed for the 45 men – a heartbreaking one in six of the male population – who were lost. At services in St Mary’s Church and the high street, memorial hymns were sung, prayers said and poetry recited.
In an astonishing, unique act of remembrance, the entire village has taken part in a year-long quest to discover the identity of those who died. A delegation has travelled a total of 12,500 miles to every one of their distant graves and the older children at the school each “adopted” a soldier and wrote him a letter that was left, along with a posy of North Norfolk lavender, by his gravestone.
“These men mean more to us than names on a plaque,” said councillor Stuart Dark, a decorated former policeman who spearheaded the project known as the Snettisham 45.
“To remember someone, you need to know who they were, who they loved, what they left behind.
“It’s incumbent on us to make sure future generations understand the sacrifice of war; that’s why we have created a living memorial that connects us all to our shared past.”
Meanwhile, in Liverpool, a cascade of poppies was released above St George’s plateau, the place where thousands of local men queued up over a century ago to enlist for the Great War. Petals floated down on to the crowds who had lined the streets outside St George’s Hall, where an act of remembrance was held for the 14,000 sons of the city who ended their days in the trenches.
The scenes in Durham, which lost a catastrophic eight per cent of its population – 6,353 men died – were no less touching. Present at the Durham Cathedral service and parade was a 15-strong detachment of matelots from Pluvier, the French warship, which has been berthed on the River Tyne.
As elsewhere, the mood was sombre as befitted the centenary of an appalling conflict. To paraphrase the war poet Wilfred Owen, who was killed a week before the Armistice in 1918, this day was not about glory, honour, majesty or dominion, but “war, and the pity of war”.
At Christ Church Cathedral, in Oxford, 80-year-old Denise Walker laid a wreath of remembrance in honour of 239 soldiers.
“My grandfather lost an arm and an eye just weeks before the end of the war and he endured many problems after the war ended,” she said. “So I want to pray for the people who have suffered through war and for those whose suffering may be ongoing.”
Hers was a sentiment that resonated at many events. In Portsmouth, members of the Royal Navy and Army marched into Guildhall Square to loud, spontaneous clapping.
“I think it was lovely how the public applauded the forces,” said John Richards, 59, a former sailor on HMS Coventry in the Falklands War in 1982.
“I haven’t seen that at a service before and it made what was a moving service even more special.”
Another sailor, 94-year-old Frank Cole, who served during the Second World War, was part of the D-day landings and was recently awarded the Legion d’honneur for his bravery, also paid his respects.
“My father served in World War I and despite being seriously injured, somehow survived. That was 100 years ago and it’s been 70 years since I served,” he said. “But we must never stop remembering the millions who sacrificed their lives in battle.”
In Edinburgh, the names of the fallen were projected on to the front of the Scottish Parliament building from 5pm, ending seven hours later with the Last Post at midnight. And in Wales, where more than 6,000 crosses and commemorative poppy markers
‘To remember someone, you need to know who they were, who they loved, what they left behind’
created a Field of Remembrance at Cardiff Castle, a service was held at nearby Llandaff Cathedral.
As gratitude was expressed by the great and the good, one newlydiscovered “thankful village” had reason to feel especially privileged. The tiny, close-knit settlement of Butterton, nestled in the Staffordshire Moorlands, is one of the few communities that welcomed back all 15 of its menfolk from the war. It is one of just 54 such “thankful villages” in England and Wales.
Butterton, which has 250 inhabitants, is also part of an even smaller group of 18 “doubly thankful” villages, after all 13 of its servicemen returned from the Second World War.
“We give rare thanks that not one person from this village fell in the Great War,” said the Rev Alan Beahan, who officiated at St Bartholomew’s Church. However, he spoke of a legacy of trauma and distress caused by frontline action. “Our men survived but they did suffer and saw the horror which changed their lives forever.”
History has judged what was supposed to be the “war to end all wars” as a blood-soaked tragedy. Yet that does not diminish the debt we owe to those who fought. In the words of the Kohima Epitaph: “When you go home tell them of us and say/for your tomorrow we gave our today.”
Back in Snettisham, nine-year-old Bella Gee, wearing her Brownie uniform, expressed her admiration for “her” adopted soldier. “His name was Mr George Henry Benstead,” she said. “He enlisted in December 1916 at the age of 32 and was killed in May 1917. He went to the same school as me and I feel very proud to have been able to write him a letter telling him how things have changed in the village.”
Change is inevitable but we must never underestimate the power of
‘I think it was lovely how the public applauded the forces. It made what was a moving service even more special.’
continuity. After the sorrow of war came the midday peace bells, joyously pealing from thousands of church towers the length and breadth of the land to proclaim that those who laid down their lives did not die in vain.
The harmonious strains were the culmination of a year-long campaign, Ringing Remembers, that was intended to commemorate the 1,400 bell ringers who died in First World War by recruiting the same number of campanologists.
In the event, 2,400 people came forward; like everything about this anniversary, expectations were surpassed.
As evening fell and more than 1,000 beacons were lit, what shone through was a sense of the indomitable British spirit, that even in the darkest of days of war would not concede defeat.
The nation remembered. The nation was united. That, in itself, was perhaps the most moving requiem of all.