by John McCrae
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.
During the early days of the Second Battle of Ypres a young Canadian artillery officer, Lieutenant Alexis Helmer, was killed on 2nd May, 1915 in the gun positions near Ypres. An exploding German artillery shell landed near him. He was serving in the same Canadian artillery unit as a friend of his, the Canadian military doctor and artillery commander Major John McCrae.
As the brigade doctor, John McCrae was asked to conduct the burial service for Alexis because the chaplain had been called away somewhere else on duty that evening. It is believed that later that evening, after the burial, John began the draft for his now famous poem “In Flanders Fields”.
There are two versions of the Flanders Field poem.
It is ‘unfair’ to only publish one of them.
John McCrae was the author and the only “version” other than the published one centers around whether the first line ended in “blow” or “grow”.
Is there another and different version written by McCrae that I’m not finding somewhere?
Two years ago I heard both versions on Veterans Day. They were spoken by the Commander of my VFW Post in Salem CT.
Don’t remember anything other than they were different and I don’t think they were by the same author. Our next meeting is on 06/13 – hope I remember to ask him and maybe get info.
Regardless, the poem versions, the essence is clear.
There is no way to stop conflict between tribes and
groups, counties and states. However in the enlightened “West,” one would think we could imagine
better strategies than throwing fire breathing bombs
at each other.
We may want to admire Trump, hope he will clean
up corruption, and talk about 4D chess. Alas, billions
in arms sales does support the continuation and
perpetration of shooting people to bits, and or
even melting/vaporizing innocents, and destroying
“nations” lives and futures.
Is our role in these actions (American) to serve the
banking system/petro-dollar system? Anyone that
lauds the system, for their own gain, is guilty of
crimes against mankind, and serves a selfish evil.
So there!
We will continue to have war in increasing intensity and scope until the final battle is fought and Satan is banished from the world.
There is no way around that.
But at least we could fight to win sometime instead of just fighting to fight as we seem intent on doing now. Actual defeat and conquest of an enemy seems to be a thing of the past.
“They flutter behind you your possible pasts
Some bright-eyed and crazy, some frightened and lost.
A warning to anyone still in command
of their possible future, to take care.
In derelict sidings the poppies entwine,
with cattle trucks lying in wait for the next time.”
– Pink Floyd (Your Possible Pasts)
War is nothing more than the entertainment sideshow the globalists amuse themselves with while they are counting the Billions they make at the concession stand.
Anzac day is Australia’s equivalent:
Grandpa, What Did You Do In The War?
I’d been mowing the lawn and pulling some weeds, and slipped inside for a breather
I picked up the paper and turned on the news, not paying attention to either
When my grandson came in with a look on his face and a question that hit me full bore
An innocent question, no intention to hurt, “Grandpa, what did you do in the war”?
My skin went all creepy, I had sweat on my brow, my mind shot back fifty years
To bullets that thudded and whined all around, to terror, to nightmares, to tears
I was crawling through mud, I was shooting at men, tried to kill them before they killed me
Men who had wives and children at home, just like mine, just like my family.
“What did you do in the war?” he had asked, a question not meant to cause pain
But it brought back the horrors I’d left far behind in a deep dark recess of my brain
I remembered the bombs being dropped from the planes, the explosions, the screams, and the loss
Of a friend – or an enemy – but a life just the same, replaced by a small wooden cross.
The visions attacked me of tramping through jungles, hot and stinking, with leeches and flies
Of orders that seemed to make no sense at all – of distrust, of suspicions, of lies
I lived once again all those terrible storms, the dysentery, fever, the snakes,
The blisters that lived with me month after month, all those blunders, and costly mistakes.
But how could I tell the boy all about that, ’Twould be better if he didn’t know
It’s a part of my life that I don’t talk about from a good half a century ago
So I gulped, took a breath and tried to sound calm, and bid him to sit at my side
Then opened my mouth to say a few words, but the tears welled up and I cried.
He cuddled to me with a look of concern, and I mumbled of feeling unwell
Then took hold of myself, blew hard on my nose, while I thought of some tales I could tell
“What did I do in the war,” I began, then the stories began tumbling out
And they flowed with such ease I felt better again, and got over my pain and my doubt.
I told him of how I had made many friends, how I’d trained and had gone overseas
Made a joke of how seasick I’d been on the way, almost dirtied myself when I’d sneezed
I told of the joy of the letters from home, of the hand-knitted socks and the cake
That I got for my birthday but three weeks too late ’cause it went somewhere else by mistake.
We talked about mateship and what it had meant to trust someone else with your life
And of when I came home to my family again, to my kids, Mum and Dad, and my wife
Of the crowd on the wharf, the bands, and the pomp, and the pride I felt in the parade
But I’m not ashamed that I hood-winked the boy, a decision I’m glad that I made.
He can grow up without seeing fear in my eyes, or know of the terror I knew
For he’d not understand – and neither he should – all those memories that hit me anew
But maybe some day when he’s older than now, I will tell him what war did to me
But with luck he won’t ask me ever again, about wars that never should be.
Jeff Cook