In Flanders Fields.

IN FLANDERS FIELDS the poppies blow
Between 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.

How long I wonder, have I been aware of the words to this poem? I have vague and unrefined memories of hearing it long long ago when I could not have been more than five years old. Of course at that age I could not have appreciated the words - even up until yesterday, I could not have appreciated the words but today... today is very very different.

Ypres has always held a compelling yet distant allure for me. For as long as I can remember, it has been there in the back of my mind and as enticing to me a Siren's song. So much history and so much bloodshed that turned out to be largely needless in a faraway place I learned of as "Wipers” simply because that was what my Grandfather called it... when he spoke of it at all. Would it still be such an important place in my mind if I had not known someone who had fought there? Images assaulted my mind from the history books and films and photo's I have seen and I am curious in a melancholic way as to what it all looks like. My interest in the terrible battles that ravaged Belgium and France along what the Germans refered to as The Western Front, between 1914 and 1918 is founded on an empathy for those who suffered, as opposed to the finer points of military strategy. Ypres, twinned with Hiroshima, became an international symbol of senseless military violence in its most cruel form.

I stand on the path with Steve that leads from the Boezinge - Ieper road onto the west bank of the Yser Canal (Ieper-Ijser Canal - pronounced "ee-zi-er") that runs beside Essex Farm Cemetery and stop, suddenly questioning my being here at all. Would it have been better to just leave this as one of those places on the other side of the world and in the history books? Almost as if to answer me, a bronzed tablet to my left catches my attention and I turn to read it. It is the poem "In Flanders Fields" and I realise that I am literally standing on the ground where it was written by John McCrae describing the events he saw with such emotional clarity. The powerful feeling that comes from being able to view this in person is indescribable. This place, this poem is the very reason we wear red poppies on Remembrance Day.

Essex Farm Dressing Station was the location in May 1915 where the Canadian Army Doctor Major John McCrae wrote his famous poem. He was inspired to write the poem following the death of a friend during the Second Battle of Ypres. Rifleman Valentine Joe Strudwick is buried here. He was no 5750, of the 8th Battalion The Rifle Brigade, British Expeditionary Force and was aged only just 14 when he died on 14 January 1916. He is said to be the youngest British casualties of the Great War - this boy soldier. Of the 1,199 British casualties buried or commemorated in this cemetery only 1,100 are identified.

The visit to Essex Farm happened quite by accident despite the fact that we had planned to visit it regardless. As so often happened on our trip, we took a wrong turn and ended up lost. The graves at Essex Farm stand as silent sentinels to the monstrous impact of the first real 'modern' war. To the left and down a small series of steps stand the massive concrete bunkers of the dressing station which we explore in the drizzling rain and under clouds massing to the north and speaking of a frightening storm to come in the night.

I find it hard to imagine this place during the summer. I see it as I once viewed it in old photographs; shades of black and grey, sombre and slightly blurred, sepia tones, slightly touched up. It could be the rain which is now soaking into my bones - could be the tears just below the surface. Surrounding the bunkers are walls made from what look like concrete replicas of army sandbags but are in fact real and hardened to rock over the years. British Legion crosses with poppies are tucked into the concrete seams of the bunker, many with messages.
"Grandpa George, I love you. Rest in Peace."
"I will never forget."
Another reads a sad poignant "Why didn't you come home to us?"

Steve wanders about taking photos and looking doleful and solemn. He takes a picture of one bunker that is bent in the middle above the door, impacted by a German artillery shell. Water drips down into a puddle on the floor but I can't help thinking that this place, were it anywhere else in the world, it would smell of urine in the corners and have litter scattered about. Just as we left a tour bus pulled up disgorging teenagers, laughing and disorderly and being pulled and called to order by their tour guide and teachers and I wonder if they can ever appreciate the suffering, the forbearance and the sacrifice of those who are buried here. Probably not. Do they realise they walk on sacred ground? Probably not. It's just a school trip.