by Martin Sewell
The melancholy days of November are a perfect time for our nation’s traditional commemoration of our war dead. For centuries the country has been served by its soldiers and sailors, some were following tradition, some sought adventure, still others were pressed into service, whilst others were driven by economic necessity.
Despite historic heroism across the globe on land and sea, the ordinary man was not accorded the same recognition as Clive of India, the Duke of Marlborough, Horatio Nelson, Arthur Gordon of Khartoum etc.
That indifference to “Tommy Atkins” changed after the 11th November 1918. Between the first 1914 combat death of Pt J Parr and that of the tragic Pt GE Ellison who died immediately before the armistice hour, millions of ordinary men from across Britain and its Empire had enlisted and endured the unspeakable horrors of industrial warfare, for which few had had the slightest preparation. .
It is equally hard for modern Britons to comprehend the depth of that sorrow and loss at the conclusion of hostilities. Out of a UK population of 39m some 900k had been killed; few of whom had had any expectation of military service. Loss on such cataclysmic scale needed expression in multiple ways. A temporary wooden Cenotaph was erected in Whitehall as a focus for grief, for the first anniversary of peace; it was replaced by the now familiar stone edifice the following year.
At the same time, the vision of the Revd David Railton MC came to fruition. As an Army Chaplain, sitting by a garden grave of an unknown British Soldier in Armentiéres in 1916, he conceived idea that the families of such soldier needed and should have a tangible place to which to make a pilgrimage of grief. He shared the idea of a Tomb of the Unknown Soldier with the Dean of Westminster who secured the support of the Prime Minister and eventually the King who had initially hesitated, lest it detract from the recently erected Cenotaph. Crucial support came from Chief of the General Staff Field Marshal Sir Henry Wilson, who told the King “ no words could tell how proud we officers and men would be to have one of our simple soldiers buried in Westminster Abbey”.
When that anonymous representative body had been gathered and randomly selected from four drawn from four Western Front battlefields, it was interred in the Abbey in the presence of 100 holders of the Victoria Cross and nearly 100 widows, each of whom had lost a husband and five sons to the service of their country. That representative “Everyman” might be anyone from anywhere; he could be the son of an English reader unionist, a gay under-age butcher’s boy from Limerick or a Quaker stretcher bearer.
In the week following week, a million grieving people filed past the grave. I wonder how many of us can generate a tenth of the empathy needed to grasp the depth of that emotional response of our forebears.
The traditional red poppy similarly arose from the needs of ordinary people and their egalitarian impulses. The Royal British Legion came into being in 1921 launching its first poppy appeal that year. It merged four associations of old comrades drawing them to focus upon the many needs of ex-servicemen three decades before the Welfare State came into existence.
The “Earl Haig Fund” may seem a curious choice of name to those educated in modern times; was he not the Commander whose orders sent so many to death and dreadful injury? In reality, his efforts to alleviate the suffering of his soldiery after the war was so appreciated that when he was buried, more people turned out to line the streets of London to honour and and mourn him, than responded to the death of Princess Diana.
His post-war legacy extended beyond its important charitable purpose . The Royal British Legion under his leadership channelled the mindset of military veterans into the support of old comrades with a focus on the pity of war. This may have contributed to a reluctance to re-arm as the threats of renewed war returned in the 1930s, however such a national ecology of remembrance of sacrifice meant that almost uniquely in Europe, Britain did not produce at scale the-old soldier cultures which evolved into the militaristic fascist and communist movements across so much of Europe.
As the late Harold Macmillan famously reproved Sir Oswald Mosely for his un-British ways “When an Englishman goes marching, he does not wear a black shirt- he puts on a tweed jacket and flannel trousers”.
Our expressions of Remembrance today need to remain anchored in those origins. The form may rightly embrace a proud recognition and appreciation for the precision and efficiency of the military, but the underpinning are rooted in our Christian heritage. The words of “ I vow to thee my country” penned by a deeply grieving father, are not jingoistic words extolling an Empire but expressions of hope founded upon sacrifice, pointing to a better, perfect place, built upon idealism, because otherwise, such sorrow is unbearable.
In Britain our Remembrance rituals are infused with the Christian sentiment which framed it, but in France, with which I am proudly familiar, their ritual is secular but no less moving. In the tiny commune in which I have a house, the villages gather round the war memorial – always on the day of the Armistice. The military send a small contingent and the local school children read each of the names of the commune fallen – around 60 men from a commune of 600. As each name is spoke, a single voice intones “ Mort pour La France” That phrase sounds like bell tolling and as it repeats and repeats the full impact of that community’s loss is brought home. I always drive home looking at the homes on the way reflecting on how the news arrived of a father, sons, friends and neighbour within those walls.
Outside another French commune, on the fringe of the wood where he died fighting with his resistance comrades, a rather unusual name will be claimed for France. Rudolph Pfandaur was an Austrian who, at the height of Nazi power in Europe deserted the German army. Especially remarkable is the fact that he joined the Resistance, who accepted him. His native German speaking and genuine Army uniform was a real asset. When the wood was surrounded in 1944, some of his group surrendered, survived and told his story in later years, but Rudolph knew that for him, surrender was not an option, and with others fought to the last.
How trust in him was ever engendered I will never know, but knowing a fragment of his story wins him a regular place in my Remembrance recollections during the 2 minutes silence. Perhaps for him we should intone “ Died for Humanity”.
In recent times, some have sought to import division and discord into our national day of remembrance; there are 364 days in which to debate controversy and satellite causes. It is right and proper that on one day each year we set other considerations temporarily aside and insist that the rituals thoughtfully assembled for us by the grieving of the Great War, should be respected.
Within that envelope of collective pity, there is room for everyone, man, woman, gay, Christian, Atheist, Muslim, Hindu, Sikh, Jew, Empire Loyalist, Socialist, Conservative, Liberal, Anarchist; nobody is excluded from Remembrance, whether they be personally mourned within family and/or community recollection, or even forgotten; collectively as a nation “We will remember them”.
It is the most inclusive day of the year
Film clip of the inauguration of the Cenotaph in 1920
My Uncle Peter Fife was the Scotland Yard detective who arrested Oswald Mosley – an aspect of my family history of which I’m very proud.