100 years on scars of WWI impress upon us still the gross folly of war
THE past week has been emotional for many people as memories of loved ones who gave the ultimate sacrifice, paying with their lives in remote beaches, fields and trenches – in the air and on the sea – in a war that was billed as ‘The War to End All Wars’.
Across the world commemorative events were held this past weekend and I attended three in my home town.
Back at school the exploits of soldiers from Ireland who fought with the British army was airbrushed from the history books, to a degree and I wonder if events like the unveiling of a plaque to a WWI soldier, the memorial concert and the 6 a.m. playing of When The Battle is O’er would have attracted the crowds they did even a decade ago.
As the Edwin Starr song goes ‘War, What is it good for, Absolutely nothing!’ and the truth of this now axiom rang home time and again to me over recent days.
The BBC had an excellent series on the war, which I watched most nights last week. The footage brought home the horror of war as I sat in comfort in my living-room. From the terror of ‘going over the top’ to the toll the war took on the bodies of young men who had taken the king’s shilling for romantic glory, for an escape from the monotony of life in rural Ireland, to escape poverty, for whatever reason, jumped out at me from the screen.
The harrowing images of young men, bodies broken, mind’s destroyed, suffering from post traumatic shock disorder, were almost too much to bear, even from this century long remove.
The first commemorative event saw a man who showed remarkable bravery in rescuing a fallen officer honoured and over the weekend there were numerous stories, (too many to list here), of men who showed true courage and grit in the most difficult conditions, to win a war, fought for what? Influence? Money? Power?
At 5.30 a.m. on Sunday, long before the birds were singing their sweet dawn chorus, I was up and joining the shadowy figures climbing the hill to a local church – where a lone piper, accompanied by a keyboard player – played the mournful, powerful strains of ‘When the Battle is O’er’.
Seated opposite a stone plaque mounted on the church wall with the names of several local World War I dead men was a sobering, humbling experience.
Across the world some 2,200 pipers played the tune and it was a privilege to attend such a moving occasion.
Afterwards, on the steps of the church, as the dawn light limned the sky, I chatted with an old friend – who had travelled the width of the country to attend the previous night’s concert – about his wife’s grandfather who drowned in a trench in France, where he is now buried. As we were chatting another man I know from the school run, recalled the loss of a relative in the war. How many have a tragic war story to tell? Sipping tea in plastic cups to stave off the chill, we tried to imagine the sacrifice, the night patrols, the sheer terror of man young men from towns and villages like yours and men, endured, but all we could do was imagine. There’s was a sacrifice that we can only read about.