Armistice Day- lest we forget.

 Armistice Day- lest we forget.

In a couple of hours time, London will once again grind to a standstill. It has done so for as long as any of us can remember and will continue to do so because respect and nostalgia must always be valued highly by those who should always remember the gallant deeds of those who put their lives on the line for all of us. It is a day heavy with solemnity, humble reflection and thoughtful reminiscence. It is a day we should never forget and lest we forget. It is a day of sombre poignancy, bowed heads and righteous obligation. 

Today is Armistice Day, a day to signify the passing of those who fought so courageously and yet unavailingly in the many battles that claimed so many soldiers during the First and Second World War. They fell in the muddy trenches, risking life and limb before dying tragically by thousands of bullets, bombs and grenades. Somehow war has always seemed the most futile of exercises, a senseless engagement with perceived enemies, a long held grudge that could never be resolved peacefully. 

But on this day in 1918 at 11.00 am, Britain, the Commonwealth and the rest of the world, will stop for a moment, traffic on roads and streets pausing for just a couple of minutes and just reduced to nothing but silence and contemplation. They will do so and always will. For 106 years now, the forces of peace, reconciliation, gentle agreement and rapprochement have remained in place, undisturbed by the threat of evil, tinpot dictators who just want to glare at the rest of the world with tyrannical hostility. Now though,it is an ugly, sick, bitter and twisted world at times but we should never overlook the importance of loving families and friends.

Thankfully the conflicts of Ypres, Passchendale and Gallipoli are now consigned to dusty and miserably horrendous history. But the deafening blasts of gunfire, explosive bombing campaigns and all the resultant shrapnel that killed so many brave men in action, can never be truly measured and valued. It all seemed to happen so violently and incessantly that none of us can judge the sickening impact of war. The First World War saw so many perish in the prime of their lives that the number of casualties are grim memorials. 

What we do know that men in mufti and khaki spent four years frantically running for safety across mudbaths littered with minefields, then hiding in trenches and garrisons, helmets on their heads, love letters in their pockets, hip flasks by their side for sustenance and nothing but heroism on their minds. They raced across desolate wastelands, hearts trembling and shaking, eyes narrowing with crippling fear and then recognised what they were doing. It was all about sacrifice, bloody minded commitment to the cause and the forlorn hope that one day the guns would stop booming and murdering. 

Then the gunfire would get noisier and then become almost unbearable. Death would be illustrated graphically by countless men in army uniform, desperately clinging onto the precious sanctity of life. They ran for their lives, leaping across their brothers in arms, friends now lying prostrate dead on the ground, bullets rattling furiously across acres of land. There is something truly unimaginable about a war that some of us can barely comprehend, let alone explain. 

We can still see men with filthy faces, blackened by a deadly combination of smoke and spent ammunition. They held onto their rifles tenaciously because they were terrified and petrified. They had no idea where they were going and what they were doing. They knew they were fighting for their country because that was the urgent necessity, something that had to be done. They jumped across trip and barbed wires, bodies crouching and cowering, ducking and dodging death and destruction.

But at the end of it all, the ones who survived were the ones who always believed that divine intervention would be on their side. They knew that girl and boy friends were waiting by the fireplace with a candle flickering nobly on the table, photographs faithfully gazing at treasured members of families. Then they would look at the piano for a small recital of Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Tin Can and Smile, Smile and Smile. These were the rallying calls to regiments and the Royal Fusiliers, the men in the front and in the firing line. 

We remembered the likes of Jona Lewie who pleaded with the Cavalry to just cease the killing, the murder and death. His sweetheart was waiting patiently at home and would always remain hopeful. Then that legendary Beatle Sir Paul McCartney would tug on the trenchcoat, hunkering down in more trenches and then sing romantically about his girlfriend back in their intimate living room.

And so today the nations of the world will become gravely self conscious, almost beside themselves with repentance and remorse for something they may feel they had nothing to do with but feel a debt of lasting gratitude for. Buses, cars, lorries and vans may pull up to their respective traffic lights and hope the red will keep them there for some time. It will be a deeply troubling and harrowing time for many of the centenarians whose faces will crumple with emotion, resigned to the fact that the memories will always be painful.

At 11.00, Big Ben will ring out with its familiar resonance and the veterans will weep with red eyes, recalling again the heart wrenching pain, the aching loss that never goes away, the endless private suffering, recollections that hurt and almost seemed to get lost in time. It's the day that should be celebrated if only because it marked the end of the First World War. But we will mourn and lament, cry and sob if the mood takes us and then remember over and over again. Lest we forget since we should never do that.