What crosses my mind every year come Remembrance Sunday is my Great Uncle- my late Grannie’s younger brother who went to war and never returned. He was 22 when he was killed. Right up until her death last year, she kept hold of his trunk of letters. I can’t imagine losing someone so young let alone the huge numbers of casualties lost to combat over time.
We owe so much to so few.
Today, we all owe those who have been lost the decency of a minute’s silence come 11 o’clock. Please remember.
I watch the white dawn gleam,
To the thunder of hidden guns.
I hear the hot shells scream
Through skies as sweet as a dream
Where the silver dawnbreak runs.
And stabbing of light
Scorches the virginal white.
But I feel in my being the old, high, sanctified thrill,
And I thank the gods that dawn is beautiful still.
From death that hurtles by
I crouch in the trench day-long
But up to a cloudless sky
From the ground where our dead men lie
A brown lark soars in song.
Through the tortured air,
Rent by the shrapnel’s flare,
Over the troubless dead he carols his fill,
And I thank the gods that the birds are beautiful still.
Where the parapet is low
And level with the eye
Poppies and cornflowers glow
And the corn sways to and fro
In a pattern against the sky.
The gold stalks hide
Bodies of men who died
Charging at dawn through the dew to be killed or to kill.
I thank the gods that the flowers are beautiful still.
When night falls dark we creep
In silence to our dead.
We dig a few feet deep
And leave them there to sleep –
But blood at night is red,
Yea, even at night,
And a dead man’s face is white.
And I dry my hands, that are also trained to kill,
And I look at the stars – for the stars are beautiful still.
-Leslie Coulson, c.1916
I’ve managed to locate my great uncle’s details by searching online. If you have deceased veterans in your family that you’d like to know more about then you can try searching the Commonwealth War Graves Commission here.