Remembrance weekend- a time for reflection.

Remembrance weekend - a time for reflection.

A solemn hush fell over Whitehall. Thousands of cars, buses and lorries were thundering past in hot pursuit of some important or perhaps insignificant destination. Yesterday though, London came to a deeply respectful halt for just a couple of minutes or so. It does seem that London has little or no time for a sober perspective on world events but then we bowed our heads. There's too much to do, too much to agonise and worry over when perhaps the harsh reality is that yesterday's yearly Remembrance service underlined the depth of sorrow and compassion we will always reserve for those who made the ultimate sacrifices.

 And yet on a sharply cold morning in London's Whitehall they came from far and wide to pay their respects to their loved ones, to those who fell so horribly and tragically on the global fields of wars past and present. They came to march and march with their heads held high, proud to be associated with the one day of the year when sadness and private loss can never be measured.

 So it was that on a blustery but bright morning in Whitehall, old soldiers, old veterans, battle hardened campaigners and heroic figures all joined together united in silent grief, hardened by the passage of time and strengthened by the knowledge that the human spirit is still flourishing. Whatever the future might hold they can still share a common belief in goodness triumphing over the dark and evil ravages of war.

Once again the mighty columns of humanity gathered to pay their Remembrance respects to those who were barbarically killed, stabbed and cruelly murdered in cold blood. We remembered those who were shot down on the bloodiest of battlefields when death reared the ugliest of heads and ensured that future generations lives would never be the same again. But we cared deeply of course we did. Our hearts went out to the maimed, the unforgivably disabled, and those who never came home again because vile dictators rendered them helpless and permanently scarred, emotionally and physically broken with nowhere to go.

The focal points of our attention were the Second World War survivors who went beyond the call of duty and emerged into the bright sunlight of 1945 with spirits uplifted and morale boosted immeasurably by powers of human resilience. There they all were resplendent in immaculate black jackets, smart attire and medals glittering in victorious unison.

They were the essential representatives of military greatness. There was the Royal Navy, the Royal Artillery, the British army, the Royal Air Force, the splendid regiments and battalions in grey, the Royal Marines and the vast array of men and women, swinging their arms purposefully, saluting the Royal Family and steadfast in their determination to keep the peace in a society that remains as volatile and violent as ever.

Thousands of faces lined the streets of London, thickly wrapped in warm coats with bright red poppies decorating their lapels. There was a stern acknowledgement that had it not been for the brave and honest deeds of their ancestors none of us would still be here.  Sundays have always been contemplative days but now we reflected thoughtfully with understandable concerns and anxieties lodged firmly at the back of our minds.

At 11.00 Big Ben briefly came out with those low and haunting chimes. There were the by now familiar sounds of London, 11 sombre bells echoing over Westminster, the City of London and the West End. It was indeed the most humbling of sounds, Big Ben at its most resounding, confident and traditional. But by Monday morning Big Ben went back for major repairs and a heavy scaffolding almost seemed to disfigure this remarkable time-piece.

Now though it was for perhaps the most moving and extraordinary piece of music that can ever be heard at any time of the year. The Last Post has always sent the most emotional shiver down my spine and has a chilling finality about it that hits at the very core of your being. It is that slow, funereal dirge that is both shudderingly mournful and gravely tragic. All around Whitehall there were men in grey coats and busbys blowing wholehearted trumpets, faces rigid and unmoving, the sound of awful melancholy drifting inexorably towards Trafalgar Square.

Then the politicians emerge, briefly setting aside their difference of opinion just for one Sunday morning. Theresa May, the Prime Minister, stepped forward gingerly to lay her dark red wreath at the Cenotaph, a timeless memorial to the fallen and gallant. Jeremy Corbyn, the leader of the Labour Party, also leaned over to place his wreath and Sir Vince Cable completed the wreath laying ceremony.

The politicians were preceded by the Prince of Wales who was acting on behalf of Her Majesty The Queen, the rest of the royal family and a whole procession of world leaders, dignitaries, clusters of religious denominations, prime ministers, former British Prime Ministers and important ambassadors from far and wide. For just a few hours, London stopped what it was doing and prayed for permanent peace around the world. We must hope that somebody is listening.

Above all it was a Sunday to stand together in harmony, remembering the precious liberties and freedoms that mankind has so much to be grateful for. We know that blood has been shed, lives have been wantonly lost by the bullet, gun and the bomb. But yesterday should have reminded us that we have a long way to go before the ever present threat of terrorism can be completely eradicated.

At the end of the Remembrance service another silence fell and once again you could hardly hear a pin drop. There was a rustling of leaves across the Cenotaph, furiously chasing each other before just tiring of it all. Throughout the morning distant traffic lights were still winking despite the gravity of the occasion.Along Whitehall Her Majesty's armed forces were still assembled, their thoughts barely imaginable before the cannons exploded, booming and thudding, heavy and somehow forbidding.

It was now that our wonderful army veterans began to drift away into the watery November sunlight, always dignified and courteous, believing in their heart of hearts that the world will never ever see another First or Second World War. Their hair is now a snowy white and their cheeks are still healthily red, faces still glowing but age has certainly not withered them. They smile warmly for their grand and great grand children and then the thoughts that can't be spoken are painfully etched on pre-occupied foreheads. The suffering and heartache may never go away but they can still tell today's generation about their unsung deeds.

The Remembrance ceremony was now over and Sunday lunchtime had arrived in Whitehall. The trumpets and trombones had been packed away, the uniforms ready to be neatly folded away for another year. It is time to get back to the everyday business of every day life and light a candle for those whose lives can never see the light of day again. It is a truly a day that should never be forgotten and always recognised. Lest we ever forget.