Queen’s lonely vigil of remembrance
As an eerie quiet fell over Whitehall at the 11th hour, empty pavements laid bare the nation’s sacrifice
SILENCE on Remembrance Sunday is normally a unifying force, a moment when the whole nation comes together to honour its war dead. Yesterday, at a near-deserted Cenotaph, that silence served a very different purpose – a painful reminder of a country in lockdown and a wartime generation forced to observe one of the most sacred days of the year in isolation.
Where normally 10,000 pairs of boots would ring out down Whitehall as part of the veterans’ parade, yesterday just 25 people were invited to attend.
Instead of the usual crowds, six-people deep and bristling with raw emotion, the empty pavements were left to the pigeons with the public locked out.
And while every year provides an opportunity to hail the grit and sacrifice of the veterans of the Second World War, that dwindling band to whom this ceremony rightly means so much, only one was invited to march yesterday: 96-year-old John Aitchison.
“I couldn’t believe I was the only one,” said the former driver mechanic who took part in the D-day landings with the 53rd Heavy Field Artillery, during which he endured German shelling that left him shaking for three days.
Yesterday was Mr Aitchison’s 28th visit to the Cenotaph on Remembrance Sunday and he admits the empty streets – and spaces next to him – made an eerie sight: “It would have been nice to talk to a few others and I’m sure a few more must have been wanting to come.”
Nobody here was disputing the unique danger Covid-19 poses to the oldest and most vulnerable, and the obvious folly of gathering too many together at once. nce. But as Lt Col Chris Warren, a 58-year-old -year-old Kosovo veteran who laid a wreath eath on behalf of the Royal Commonwealth alth Ex-services League, observed following the ceremony: “Twenty-five did seem a bit too few to me.”
Of course, there was one other Second World d War veteran in attendance. As the only living head of state to o have served in the war (with h the Auxiliary Territory Service) vice) one wonders what she e made of the decision to keep ep her generation at bay. The present risks aside, nobody is more keenly aware ware than the woman who ho has led the nation in tribute for so long as to what remembrance means. s.
As has been n the case in recent years, , the Queen watched proceedings ceedings from a Foreign Office ffice balcony overlooking the Cenotaph. Social distancing ncing requirements meant she was accompanied only by Susan Rhodes, a lady-in-waiting, while the Duchess of Cornwall and Duchess of Cambridge, who joined her last year, watched from an adjoining balcony. All three wore black coats and hats with the Queen wearing a clutch of poppies pinned to hers. Her wreath was laid by the Prince of Wales who was followed by an equerry laying one on behalf of the Duke of Edinburgh. The Duke of Cambridge, like his father wearing a ceremonial coat of RAF blue, laid his wreath and crisply saluted with a whitegloved hand.
The Queen’s wreath bore a simple message “In memory of the Glorious Dead”, and a fitting one considering this year marks the centenary of the Cenotaph.
Sir Edwin Lutyens’s memorial to the Glorious Dead was unveiled by the Queen’s grandfather, King George V, in
For all the veterans who could not attend, ‘we are here for them’
November 1920. Within five days, more than a million people had laid 100,000 wreaths at the foot of the monument and every year since it has been a focal point of national commemorations.
Even without the crowds this year, the traditions that over the course of a century have become woven into the fabric of a nation were scrupulously observed.
The Bands of the Household Division and Pipes and Drums of the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards played the likes of Elgar’s Nimrod and lament.
As Big Ben struck the 11th hour and a field gun from the King’s Troop Royal Horse Artillery blasted out, Last Post was sounded by five buglers of the Royal Marines before those present fell silent in remembrance.
While in 2019’s commemorations there were 874 military personnel present on Whitehall, this year their numbers were cut to just 148.
During the service, that figure was reduced further still when a soldier of the Scots Guards fainted and was stretchered off. One of those in the veterans’ parade, Pasan Kularatne, a former colonel in the Sri Lanka army, was also briefly taken ill, although returned to complete the march.
Sir Keir Starmer, the Labour leader, wearing a dress coat at his first Cenotaph remembrance service, cut a stark contrast to his predecessor Jeremy Corbyn, who was criticised for wearing an anorak to the event in 2018. Alongside him stood Boris Johnson, the Prime Minister, left, who hosted a reception for the veterans after the ceremony.
As customary, former prime ministers were in attendance although this year Gordon Brown was absent, tweeting that he was unable to attend due to “observing guidance on travel”.
The Duke and Duchess of Gloucester were al s o missing as a medical precaution, according to Buckingham Palace, although no further details were given.
Five Chelsea Pensioners, led by their Regimental Sergeant Major, took part in the veterans’ parade. Among them was Alan Collins, who served for 22 years with the 18th Royal Hussars and retired as a warrant officer. Collins was struck down by Covid-19 in March and spent 10 days at Chelsea and Westminster Hospital. His condition was so severe he lost two days of memory and he has been warned by the doctors that the virus may be lingering in his system.
None the less he considers himself “one of the lucky ones” and was determined to take part. “This year it means a hell of a lot to me to be here,” he said, although he added the absence of fellow veterans was “ever so sad”.
All of those marching yesterday did so with others in their hearts.
Steve Mullis, a 66-year-old RAF veteran who was representing the Royal Air Forces Association, said he marched to remember his father Kenneth Mullis, who served in the Second World War, his father-in-law Douglas Wickwar, a Burma Star holder, and the 55,573 members of Bomber Command who died in the Second World War.
For all the veterans who could not attend, he said, “we are here for them”.