November 11, 2010--Armistice Day, the 92nd anniversary of the ending of the First World War--dawned overcast and damp in Ypres, Belgium. It started out for me with a delicious breakfast in Erna's home; I shared the bright dining room with an older couple from Antwerp, Belgium, and devoured some whole-grain bread and yogurt: sustenance for the day ahead. And what a day it turned out to be!
I made my way through them to "The British Grenadier" bookshope, where I met Steve, who was already busy with customers (and it wasn't even mid-morning).
I discovered that Steve had a special task waiting for me: he'd ordered a commemorative wreath to be placed during the Armistice Day ceremony, and asked if I could pick it up at a nearby florist. I said "Sure", and did as he asked; I told the florist who sent me, and she gladly gave me the wreath (Steve had already paid for it earlier): it was a beautiful combination of red roses and greenery. When I brought it back to Steve's shop, he placed a Welsh cross and a printed card with the name of a First World War Welsh soldier--and asked ME to take it in the procession already moving toward the Menin Gate!And so I did. I joined British and Sikh wreath-presenters, and hundreds of Belgians, Brits and others, as they marched towards the Gate. I was directed as to where the other wreath-presenters were standing and waiting, and found myself behind one of the outer, smaller gates facing the outskirts of the city.
Soon, the Armistice Day ceremony began. Martin and I, along with our fellow wreath-layers, couldn't see much of the actual ceremony, as it was hidden from view by the gate. But what we heard was very moving: prayers in Flemish and English, and music by the assembled bagpipe and brass bands.
At precisely 11 am, the massed crowd fell silent, as Ypres Fire Brigade members sounded the Last Post:
Here's a YouTube video taken from outside the Menin Gate.
I was located inside the left-hand gate, waiting to
present my wreath.
After the Last Post was sounded, a British man read a verse from British First World War war poet Laurence Binyon's "For the Fallen", which you can hear in the video. We all responded together to the last line:
"We will remember them".
Then the time came for the wreath-laying itself. I followed Martin, and some Sikhs who were standing nearby wearing their colorful turbans, and carrying massive floral wreaths. We wove our way round the inside of the Menin Gate, and stopped to present our wreaths, one by one. After I handed off mine, I followed Martin back to our starting spot, inside the smaller gate.
The pile of wreaths was growing minute by minute. There were 'official' wreaths presented by the US and UK ambassadors to Belgium, along with UK regimental memorials. What I also didn't realize until much later: this ceremony was being broadcast to crowds on a huge TV screen in the Grand'Place in Ypres. Did I show up on the screen, when I presented my wreath? That was a scary thought!
One of the songs played was the hymn "Jerusalem", made famous by its inclusion in the 1981 Oscar-winning film Chariots of Fire. It is also considered England's 'unofficial' national anthem in some quarters. I sang along with the crowds--and Martin complimented me on knowing the words--and I'm not even British! He said that, as an American, I probably put a lot of Brits to shame!! We also sang "God Save the Queen", and listened to La Brabanconne, the Belgian national anthem.
Near the end of the ceremony, a very moving moment occurred: poppy petals were 'raining' down on us! We looked up, and saw handfuls of red poppy petals being tossed down from several large openings in the ceiling of the Menin Gate. This is also done at the end of the Festival of Remembrance at the Royal Albert Hall in London, and is symbolic of all those who lost their lives in war.
A YouTube video showing the falling poppy petals.
The hymn being played is called "O Valiant Hearts",
which was composed after the First World War by
Sir John Stanhope Arkwright, with music by
Dr. Charles Harris.
The lyrics are below:
O valiant hearts who to your glory came
Through dust of conflict and through battle flame;
Tranquil you lie, your knightly virtue proved,
Your memory hallowed in the land you loved.
Proudly you gathered, rank on rank, to war
As who had heard God’s message from afar;
All you had hoped for, all you had, you gave,
To save mankind—yourselves you scorned to save.
Splendid you passed, the great surrender made;
Into the light that nevermore shall fade;
Deep your contentment in that blest abode,
Who wait the last clear trumpet call of God.
Long years ago, as earth lay dark and still,
Rose a loud cry upon a lonely hill,
While in the frailty of our human clay,
Christ, our Redeemer, passed the self same way.
Still stands His Cross from that dread hour to this,
Like some bright star above the dark abyss;
Still, through the veil, the Victor’s pitying eyes
Look down to bless our lesser Calvaries.
These were His servants, in His steps they trod,
Following through death the martyred Son of God:
Victor, He rose; victorious too shall rise
They who have drunk His cup of sacrifice.
O risen Lord, O Shepherd of our dead,
Whose cross has bought them and Whose staff has led,
In glorious hope their proud and sorrowing land
Commits her children to Thy gracious hand.
Through dust of conflict and through battle flame;
Tranquil you lie, your knightly virtue proved,
Your memory hallowed in the land you loved.
Proudly you gathered, rank on rank, to war
As who had heard God’s message from afar;
All you had hoped for, all you had, you gave,
To save mankind—yourselves you scorned to save.
Splendid you passed, the great surrender made;
Into the light that nevermore shall fade;
Deep your contentment in that blest abode,
Who wait the last clear trumpet call of God.
Long years ago, as earth lay dark and still,
Rose a loud cry upon a lonely hill,
While in the frailty of our human clay,
Christ, our Redeemer, passed the self same way.
Still stands His Cross from that dread hour to this,
Like some bright star above the dark abyss;
Still, through the veil, the Victor’s pitying eyes
Look down to bless our lesser Calvaries.
These were His servants, in His steps they trod,
Following through death the martyred Son of God:
Victor, He rose; victorious too shall rise
They who have drunk His cup of sacrifice.
O risen Lord, O Shepherd of our dead,
Whose cross has bought them and Whose staff has led,
In glorious hope their proud and sorrowing land
Commits her children to Thy gracious hand.
I also took a photo of the falling poppy petals (left). I wondered who was standing on the outer roof of the Menin Gate, and tossing handfuls of petals through the three openings in the ceiling? Citizens of Ypres, perhaps? Or visiting Brits, or veterans? Whoever did it, I found it all so very moving.
As the bagpipers, bands and crowds filed out after the ceremony, I bid farewell to Martin, and walked over to look at the masses of wreaths. Many had personal messages written on them, in memory of the fallen, from regimental associations, military-assistance organizations, and the like.
The spectators, and those who participated in the wreath-laying, both lingered after the ceremony to look at all the wreaths, and to read the messages attached to them. Nearly all were snapping photos, or taking video, of the scene. Strangely enough, there wasn't much idle chit-chat going on. Most were quietly reading individual messages, or just taking in the entire scene.
The flowers and wreaths (photo left) created a splash of welcome color, on this somber day. And it was rather windy and cold as well, with frequent rain showers.
A number of people--including myself!--were especially intrigued by the visiting Sikhs, who wore their distinctive turban headgear. We took a lot of photos of them, and they were quite obliging, as you can see (photo right). I stood near a couple of them during the march to the Menin Gate, and during the ceremony, while waiting to hand off my wreath. And they didn't seem to mind standing close to a woman. One or two smiled at me, in fact. But I made sure not to stare unduly at them.
Before I left the Menin Gate, I encountered an elderly Second World War veteran, who attended the ceremony in a wheelchair. He was wearing his service medals, and he had paused to look at the piles of wreaths. I went to him and thanked him for his service; I believe he had fought on D-Day, 6 June 1944, on the beaches of Normandy. I took his hand, and bent down to kiss his cheek. Not to brag, but I think I made his day.
I followed the crowds back into Ypres, but stopped to see Steve at his shop. I found I could not put into words how I felt about this ceremony. Steve smiled, to indicate he understood. I didn't stay long in the shop, as it was pretty crowded, so I decided to go back to the Grand'Place, and visit the "In Flanders Fields" Great War Museum, inside the rebuilt medieval Cloth Hall.
It was a cold and wet walk along the cobblestone street to the Grand'Place. It was also very windy, and it wrecked a lot of people's umbrellas, turning them inside out. I saw numerous broken umbrellas dumped in trash cans along the way. I pulled up the hood on my jacket as I leaned against the wind and rain.
I found the entrance to the "In Flanders Fields" Museum, and got inside out of the rain and strong winds. By this time, my hands were freezing, as I followed several other visitors up several flights of stairs to the Museum itself.
This is no ordinary museum: it had lots of interactive stuff (wartime newsreel footage and such), and an incredible amount of actual artefacts and photos. The explanations were in English, French and Flemish, and many visitors were about, perusing the massive amounts of artefacts: soldiers' relics, equipment--and first-hand accounts of surgery in-the-field, being under fire in battle, and life as a prisoner-of-war, as read by unseen presenters. The battlefield account was particularly difficult to 'witness': visitors stood in a big room, as period footage was superimposed on the walls, and flashes resembling shellfire (with accompanying crashes) startled all.
I cannot begin to imagine the terror felt by the citizens of Ypres on that day. To see their beautiful town needlessly destroyed in this way must have broken their hearts--and fed a healthy hatred for the occupying Germans.
In Flanders' Fields was written by John McCrae after witnessing the death, and presiding over the funeral of, a friend, Lt. Alexis Helmer. By most accounts, McCrae wrote it in his notebook--and inexplicably ripped it out, and threw it away. Thankfully, the poem was rescued by a fellow officer, and submitted to the British magazine Punch, for publication.
The Punch editor at the time, however, claims it was submitted in a more prosaic way: by simply putting it in an envelope and sending it in. Either way, it would have been a tragedy, had In Flanders' Fields been discarded. It is one of the most well-known, and most remembered, poems of the First World War.
Passchendaele is a village not far from Ypres. And I would be not far from it on the following day.
After finishing my Museum tour, I stopped in their gift shop to buy a few things. They were all poppy-themed: two poppy drink coasters, a poppy umbrella, and a poppy fridge magnet. The "In Flanders Fields" Museum is a must-see for any visitor to Ypres, and it is a very moving experience.
Next, I will describe for you an incredible concert experience in Ypres. Come on back!
