Defence of the realm

I listened to the Remembrance Day ceremony at the Cenotaph and, especially as the mother of sons, felt choked as usual by the loss of so many young lives to war. But frankly this creaking old ritual disgusts me with its nationalistic pomp and Christian circumstance: why does a procession of medal-bedecked royals and a trickle of tawdry politicians take precedence over the actual combatants in laying wreaths? And why are the Lord's Prayer and other declarations of gratitude to Almighty God intoned to the assembled crowd when large numbers of those who have fought for this country were not Christians but atheists, Jews, Hindus, Sikh, Muslims and so on? Surely it is time to relinquish this exclusivity and honour everyone who has perished in war, whatever their nationality or creed?

My blip today shows the remains of the WW2 coastal artillery battery perched below the cliffs not much more than a mile from where I live. An observation post, searchlight emplacements and rocket launcher bases can still be distinguished among a cluster of old structures that have been incorporated into a caravan holiday park. The battery was there to protect the harbour and to monitor the seas around for U boats and other enemy activity.

My half-brother whose 90th birthday we celebrated recently, joined up in 1940 at the age of 19, crossed to France shortly after D Day and fought through Normandy and Belgium. He survived the war (luckily for me or I would never have known him) but subsequently spurned anything that smacked of reminiscence or old comradeship: it was not a part of his life he ever wanted to revisit. However, when he started spending time with us here, he got to know a local man of similar age who was also a war veteran. The old warriors found they had things in common, enjoyed talking and even joked about how they might have come close to meeting as combatants. In reality that was not very likely because they were fighting on opposite sides.

Werner died last year, a remarkable man who arrived in Pembrokeshire as a prisoner of war but settled here, farmed, married, raised a family and became a respected member of the local community. Prior to that he had had an eventful career in the German navy: his first ship was bombed by British planes and, wounded, he spent several days in the water before being picked up and nursed back to health by Italian nuns prior to repatriation. Then, bored, he volunteered for the U boat division and rose in rank until captured by an American warship, subsequently spending time as a prisoner in Canada and Virginia.

He and my brother shook their heads over the fact that two of them felt no enmity only comradeship and companionship as they compared notes on their wartime experiences or watched the changing seasons. This surely is how it should be, that we remember not only our own but all who have died in war, and that victims and survivors are united not divided by the bloodshed.