A day to remember - the annual ex Jewish servicemen's remembrance ceremony.

A day to remember - the annual ex Jewish servicemen's remembrance ceremony.

The day was heavy with sadness, reverence, remembrance and sombre commemoration. Above Whitehall in the heart of London, a helicopter whirred ominously and insistently around the brightest and clearest of blue skies. As a homage to the ex Jewish servicemen and women who had given everything during the Second World War, it was a fitting metaphor for a Sunday afternoon in the middle of November in the heart of London.

In perhaps one of the mildest of autumns in recent history, Whitehall was dutifully mournful, deeply respectful and admirably reflective. Occasionally, the rustling brown leaves could be heard quite clearly, chasing each other, scurrying and scampering towards some unknown destination. But then there was the eerie and moving silence, a silence that almost had its very own eloquence, needing no explanation whatsoever and if anything was perfectly self explanatory.

They gathered in their solemn multitudes, heads covered in a thousand shades of Jewish kipot, berets in yet more shades of maroon or most appropriately black. They came from France, all four corners of London and then yet more arrivals. They'd travelled from Ilford, Edgware, Hendon, Leeds, Nottingham, Liverpool and Manchester. They'd crossed continents, flown in from distant shores and came because they had to be there, expressing their innermost feelings and heartfelt emotions.

They were the men and women whose unstinting sacrifice and dedication to duty through the War had maintained morale, who'd fought in the trenches, who'd protected each other in the gravest moments of crises, who'd bandied together and rallied together heroically when adversity and defeat might have seemed the only option. They were the ones who'd taken shelter in London Underground Tube stations as the bombs and bullets blasted and thudded out their horrible sounds of discordance and ugly destruction.

But 73 years after the end of hostilities over the landing grounds and beaches of Churchill's noble Britain, we came to mark again their wonderful contributions in a way that could never ever be faulted. There was a lingering sense of honourable gravitas about yesterday afternoon in Whitehall, a sense that for all the heartache and tragedy that had gone before the human spirit is alive and well and flourishing.

Of course it was a difficult day because these days have to be and it would have been perfectly understandable if a million tears were privately shed. This was a day for quietness, strength of character, humbling sincerity, global integrity, for being true to ourselves, solitary reminiscence, bowing the head on innumerable occasions, for standing still, for trying to comprehend the incomprehensible, wrestling with the ghastly facts, figures and statistics of wartime fatalities.

At Horseguards Parade, the men and women in impeccably smart coats and uniforms held onto their standards, slowly filling the ground with their nostalgic thoughts, a cheery joke or two to lighten the sullen mood. It was all so long ago and yet it wasn't because minds were still scarred with grotesque sights and images, the bloody stains of trauma and death. These were the lovely men and women who were huddling together in warm harmony, still together, still united, giant hearts that could never ever be broken.

Undoubtedly they were still traumatised by the horrific and obscene losses of life, the battles, the separations, the rat a tat of those brutally, cacophonously deafening bullets. They were here to recall the families that had been broken irreparably, the children who were torn away from sobbing parents. It had all been a dreadful loss of life and the most horrendous crime against humanity. The ex Jewish servicemen and women were here to pray and plead for eternal world peace, to chant their hymns in the most fervent hope that none should ever pick up a gun or destroy a city ever again.

We looked up from our prayer books at the greyness of the buildings, the timeless respectability of government buildings, the arched windows and the solid impregnability of white brickwork. But then the white started fading unmistakably when the sun went in and daylight was replaced by inevitable early evening. It was almost as if the whole of Whitehall was trying to tell us something we couldn't possibly hear.

For the best part of the service there was a ten minute spell when you felt helpless, overwhelmed by the momentousness of it all, the immensity of grief, the cutting callousness of  mindless murder, the depth of contemplation in every single mind. We walked uprightly towards Whitehall, to the enduring Memorials, the Unknown Soldiers, the cluster of carved black soldiers with rifles in their hands and tears in their eyes from the senseless futility of War.

It was now that you became painfully aware of your surroundings. In the distance you could still hear the distant echo of Sunday traffic, the sweet whistling of birds, trees, now naked and bare but still melodious, yellowing leaves whispering their deferential notes. There was a regimented uniformity about the day and yet it still felt as though all of the ceremony and formality was so important and essential.

Shortly, we would all line up in all our orderly columns and formations. Now the whole occasion took on a rather too serious complexion. Beautiful flowers and wreaths were laid at the memorial, men dressed in military uniform shook gentle hands and then spoke in softly soothing tones. More prayers were said before the men and women set off once again on their final walk of the day. All the while they kept thinking and kept thinking back, utterly dignified figures, heroes one and all but never coveting attention for a single moment.

And then finally there were the men and women in their thick black coats, vivid red poppies securely tied to their lapel and pride swelling quite noticeably by the minute, smiling their warm acknowledgements and weeping the smallest of tears. It had been a day none of us would ever forget because we knew exactly how they must have been feeling.

 We were the 21st century generation peering over the shoulders of the 20th century and finding that although history had told us a bitterly cautionary tale we would never ever overlook they who had given us such whole hearted heroism and bravery. November afternoons in Whitehall should always be warmly cherished . Lest we ever forget.