In Flanders fields the poppies blowBetween the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
Lt.-Col. John McCrae
Canadian Expeditionary Force
May 3, 1915, near Ypres, Belgium
Medical doctor John McCrea penned those lines during the Second Battle of Ypres after the death the previous day of his friend Lieutenant Alexis Helmer. Written in the voice of those who have perished, it has become an iconic expression of remembrance for the sacrifice of those who’ve fought in our wars.
When I was a child, In Flanders Fields was read over rows of crosses representing the fallen in our small town cemetery (the actual graves of those veterans are scattered among family plots in the Lutheran and Catholic sections). The poem (and the poppies) were originally associated with Armistice Day (now Veterans’ Day), commemorating the end of World War I on November 11, 1918. It still is with Remembrance Day in Canada and elsewhere amongst the allies of “The Great War.”
It should be a time to pause and appreciate those who have given their lives in the cause of our freedom. For far too many that’s just lip service, they disdain the service of our soldiers and veterans the rest of the year; certainly that disdain cannot turn to reverence in the instance of a day.
In July, my daughter Courtney, an instructor at the United States Military Academy at West Point, and I visited the grave in Connecticut of a comrade of another time. It was a sobering and long overdue visit. Brian was a soldier, a son of loving parents, a child of the sixties. Unlike those to whom we now apply that sobriquet, Brian still is, and will ever be. He – and we – had an innocent certainty that we were doing the right, in the moment, and for each other. Those others – and their successors – retain only one, disagreeable, part of that era’s popularized persona; a self-righteous and smug judgment of soldiers and soldiers’ endeavors. They have never shared the camaraderie of soldiers; they can can never, ever, understand.
I hold the torch proudly. I have not – will not – break faith with you - and I have passed that torch to others who will hold it in strong hands.
Canadian Expeditionary Force
May 3, 1915, near Ypres, Belgium
Medical doctor John McCrea penned those lines during the Second Battle of Ypres after the death the previous day of his friend Lieutenant Alexis Helmer. Written in the voice of those who have perished, it has become an iconic expression of remembrance for the sacrifice of those who’ve fought in our wars.
When I was a child, In Flanders Fields was read over rows of crosses representing the fallen in our small town cemetery (the actual graves of those veterans are scattered among family plots in the Lutheran and Catholic sections). The poem (and the poppies) were originally associated with Armistice Day (now Veterans’ Day), commemorating the end of World War I on November 11, 1918. It still is with Remembrance Day in Canada and elsewhere amongst the allies of “The Great War.”
It should be a time to pause and appreciate those who have given their lives in the cause of our freedom. For far too many that’s just lip service, they disdain the service of our soldiers and veterans the rest of the year; certainly that disdain cannot turn to reverence in the instance of a day.
In July, my daughter Courtney, an instructor at the United States Military Academy at West Point, and I visited the grave in Connecticut of a comrade of another time. It was a sobering and long overdue visit. Brian was a soldier, a son of loving parents, a child of the sixties. Unlike those to whom we now apply that sobriquet, Brian still is, and will ever be. He – and we – had an innocent certainty that we were doing the right, in the moment, and for each other. Those others – and their successors – retain only one, disagreeable, part of that era’s popularized persona; a self-righteous and smug judgment of soldiers and soldiers’ endeavors. They have never shared the camaraderie of soldiers; they can can never, ever, understand.
I hold the torch proudly. I have not – will not – break faith with you - and I have passed that torch to others who will hold it in strong hands.
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