Passchendaele Poppys

The forecast today was not promising, when I got up just after 4 30 there was a brightness I hadn't expected, I went to the kitchen and as bright as it had been at the front of the house it was as dark out the back, the clouds were forming and as I made my tea and got into the car it was still bright in front of me but in the rear view the sky was as dark as the Earl of Hells waistcoat.

I have been watching for today's shot for a week or so, these poppys on the verge have been slowly blossoming. the advantage of being out so early, weather aside this morning is that I was able to venture out into the carriageway to shoot the shot without the fear of being mown down by speeding traffic. I parked and walked the short distance back to the location, taking my life in my hands, not from the traffic but the poppys themselves, I am highly allergic to them, I shot a few frames, some mono, some colour and retreated to the safety of the verge, happy with what I had I set off again, by the time I walked the short distance back to the car the cloud had caught up with me and by the time I got the the motorway the spots of rain were spattering the windscreen and I was glad the little glimmer of sun had been there long enough to get my shot.

I had read an article this week about the Menin Gate in Ypres and how every day snce 1918 the last post has been played there, a reminder of the carnage of war, the loss of life of both sides, the futility of it all something I wrote about in my entry Memories of War The article was about the planned remembrance of the men who fell, next year marks the centenary of the start of WWI and the commemoration Ypres will run for 4 years, the duration of the war itself.

It made me think of Harry Patch, the last Tommy, Harry died aged 111 in 2009, after 95 years WWI had passed from living memory into history, in my lifetime I suspect WWII will also pass into history, for history is where these dreadful events need to be, we will never see these wars again, death and destruction on such a scale could not be comprehended. I hope during the commemorations to be able to take the twins to Ypres to let them see first hand the area, the monuments and the graves, to gently educate them that they must never forget, they recognise the symbolism of the poppy and know of its derivation from Flanders Fields but it is made very real to see these first hand.

The horror of these battles was written about by Steve Harris of Iron Maiden, a wonderful lyricist and I want to share them with you, read them and close your eyes, the imagery is frightening. Rupert Brooke, Robert Graves, John McCrae, Wilfred Owen, Isaac Rosenberg and Siegfried Sassoon were all great poets, their words taught in schools to this day but many boys in particular have learned through music and Harris is a master of his craft, maybe in years to come this verse too will be studied but maybe Iron Maiden will always be too Anti Establishment for this to prevail.


In a foreign field he lay
lonely soldier unknown grave
on his dying words he prays
tell the world of Paschendale

Relive all that he's been through
last communion of his soul
rust your bullets with his tears
let me tell you 'bout his years

Laying low in a blood filled trench
killing time 'til my very own death
on my face I can feel the fallin' rain
never see my friends again
in the smoke in the mud and lead
the smell of fear and the feeling of dread
soon be time to go over the wall
rapid fire and the end of us all

Whistles, shouts and more gun-fire
lifeless bodies hang on barbed wire
battlefield nothing but a bloody tomb
be reunited with my dead friends soon
many soldiers eighteen years
drowned in mud, no more tears
surely a war no one can win
killing time about to begin

Home, far away. From the war, a chance to live again
Home, far away. But the war, no chance to live again

The bodies of ours and our foes
the sea of death it overflows
in no-man's land God only knows
into jaws of death we go...

Crucified as if on a cross
allied troops, they mourn their loss
German war propaganda machine
such before has never been seen
swear I heard the angels cry
pray to God no more may die
so that people know the truth
tell the tale of Paschendale

Cruelty has a human heart
every man does play his part
terror of the men we kill
the human heart is hungry still

I stand my ground for the very last time
gun is ready as I stand in line
nervous wait for the whistle to blow
rush of blood and over we go...

Blood is falling like the rain
its crimson cloak unveils again
the sound of guns can't hide their shame
and so we die in Paschendale

Dodging shrapnel and barbed wire
running straight at canon fire
running blind as I hold my breath
say a prayer symphony of death
as we charge the enemy lines
a burst of fire and we go down
I choke I cry but no one hears
feel the blood go down my throat

Home, far away. From the war, a chance to live again
Home, far away. But the war, no chance to live again
Home, far away. From the war, a chance to live again
Home, far away. But the war, no chance to live again

See my spirit on the wind
across the lines beyond the hill
friend and foe will meet again
those who died at Paschendale

Remember all of those who went before us, remember those who serve tonight and tomorrow to afford us the freedom to express our views free from persecution and fear, enjoy the shot and best in large I suspect