Absent friends

The absence of the veterans from the annual Remembrance Day ceremony in Whitehall made the occasion a surreal one, though no less dignified and poignant. As she has done for several years, the Queen watched from a balcony overlooking the Cenotaph, with the Prince of Wales laying a wreath on behalf of the nation.

Leading politicians, ambassadors and Armed Forces chiefs took part, along with representatives of organisations that have contributed to past conflicts. The respectful silence that is always a hallmark of this event was even more pronounced because the 10,000 veterans and crowds of onlookers were told not to come this year.

This was a dreadful wrench for many, not least the older soldiers, sailors and airmen who may not make it to the next commemoration. But at least the familiar ceremonial remained. The massed bands of the Armed Forces played Elgar, Purcell and Handel; the two-minute silence, heralded at 11am by the chimes of Big Ben, was followed by the Last Post; the choirboys of the Chapel Royal, resplendent in their red and white livery, sang O God, Our Help in Ages Past. There was not a mask to be seen. Social distancing rules altered, but could not diminish, an event that commemorates those who have sacrificed their lives for their country.

It is a ritual imbued with symbolism: the Crown, Parliament, the Armed Forces, the Church and the Commonwealth are among the country’s defining institutions. The Cenotaph service is first and foremost staged to honour the fallen; but it is also an act of annual renewal of the nation for which they died and whose continuation proves their sacrifice was not in vain. It was a desperate shame the veterans were not there to share it.