In Flanders Fields

Puester said:

In Flanders Fields
By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)
Canadian Army

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.

gloria p

nice very nice

Grizzman

Puester said:

In Flanders Fields
By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)
Canadian Army

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.

Five years ago when my wife and I were wandering around
Europe we went to Ypres. We drove around to see some of the
battle fields and cemeteries and came across the field
hospital where McCrae wrote that. It was a real eye opener
to visit some of those cemeteries. One of the eeriest things
we saw was the battlefield on the top of the hill at Verdun.
The place is pockmarked with artillery craters. There is
hardly a square foot of space up there that is not cratered.
There are craters inside of craters. You just can't imagine
the carnage that went on for more than 5 years.

"Dave Smith" <[email hidden]> wrote in message
news:[email hidden]...

Quoted message said:

Puester said:

In Flanders Fields
By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)
Canadian Army

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.

Five years ago when my wife and I were wandering around
Europe we went to Ypres. We drove around to see some of the
battle fields and cemeteries and came across the field
hospital where McCrae wrote that. It was a real eye opener
to visit some of those cemeteries. One of the eeriest things
we saw was the battlefield on the top of the hill at Verdun.
The place is pockmarked with artillery craters. There is
hardly a square foot of space up there that is not cratered.
There are craters inside of craters. You just can't imagine
the carnage that went on for more than 5 years.

My father served in Flanders from 1914 until 1918, when he was too young to
see all that carnage.
Years later, and long after I was born, he would duck and sweat at a sudden
noise, such as a car backfiring or other sudden loud explosion. He was
gassed near the end of the war but recovered, although he had lung problems
for the rest of his life.

Dora

Puester said:

In Flanders Fields
By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)
Canadian Army

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.

gloria p

At the Memorial Day service at DD's high school, part of the ceremony
was dramatic readings (I think that's what you call it) of the
Gettysburg Address, In Flanders Field, and this one that I hadn't heard
before:

America's Answer
(by R. W. Lilliard)

Rest ye in peace, ye Flanders dead.
The fight that ye so bravely led
We've taken up. And we will keep
True faith with you who lie asleep
With a cross to mark his bed,
In Flanders Fields.

Fear not that ye have died for naught.
The torch ye threw to us we caught.
Ten million hands will hold it high,
And Freedom's light shall never die!
We've learned the lesson that ye taught
In Flanders Fields.

Best regards,
Bob

limey said:

My father served in Flanders from 1914 until 1918, when he was too young to
see all that carnage.
Years later, and long after I was born, he would duck and sweat at a sudden
noise, such as a car backfiring or other sudden loud explosion. He was
gassed near the end of the war but recovered, although he had lung problems
for the rest of his life.

Having been there and seen the battle fields and the cemeteries and the museums
with graphic exhibits I really sympathize with all those young men who were
sent there. As if it were not bad enough to be ordered to attack fortified
positions protected with machine guns, and to be subjected to relentless
artillery barrages, they lived in trenches that were always were running with
water, cold water for 3/4 of the year, the rats, the lice, the boredom. What
must have been especially hard to deal with was the stench of death. Imagine
being ordered to an attack, retreating to your trenched and then having the
smell of your buddies rotting on the ground or hung up in the wire a few yards
away.

My father in law was lucky. He was in the American army, so he was only over
there for about a year. He had mostly good memories, like unloading a box car
and stealing some champagne designated for the officers' mess and getting drunk
for the first time. He had some close calls.

Puester said:

In Flanders Fields
By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)
Canadian Army

<snip second most well known Great War poem>

Here is the other one we did at school, arguably the most well known
Great War poem and almost certainly the most moving. The last phrase,
from an ode by Horace, translates as "it is sweet and right to die for
your country".

*Wilfred Owen*

*Dulce Et Decorum Est*

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.

GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Christine

"Old Mother Ashby" <[email hidden]> wrote in message
news:[email hidden]...

Quoted message said:

Puester said:

In Flanders Fields
By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)
Canadian Army

<snip second most well known Great War poem>

Here is the other one we did at school, arguably the most well known Great
War poem and almost certainly the most moving. The last phrase, from an
ode by Horace, translates as "it is sweet and right to die for your
country".

*Wilfred Owen*

*Dulce Et Decorum Est*

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.

GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

I've never heard this before.

How awful.

E.

In article <[email hidden]>, [email hidden]
says...

Quoted message said:

limey said:

My father served in Flanders from 1914 until 1918, when he was too young to
see all that carnage.
Years later, and long after I was born, he would duck and sweat at a sudden
noise, such as a car backfiring or other sudden loud explosion. He was
gassed near the end of the war but recovered, although he had lung problems
for the rest of his life.

Having been there and seen the battle fields and the cemeteries and the museums
with graphic exhibits I really sympathize with all those young men who were
sent there. As if it were not bad enough to be ordered to attack fortified
positions protected with machine guns, and to be subjected to relentless
artillery barrages, they lived in trenches that were always were running with
water, cold water for 3/4 of the year, the rats, the lice, the boredom. What
must have been especially hard to deal with was the stench of death. Imagine
being ordered to an attack, retreating to your trenched and then having the
smell of your buddies rotting on the ground or hung up in the wire a few yards
away.

My father in law was lucky. He was in the American army, so he was only over
there for about a year. He had mostly good memories, like unloading a box car
and stealing some champagne designated for the officers' mess and getting drunk
for the first time. He had some close calls.

Never really ran across any World War I vets but did run into several
World War II vets when I belonged to a local amateur radio club. The one
factor was the mud - they were pretty humorous about it but those guys
must have gone through hell.

Old Mother Ashby said:

To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Yes. The old lie. A few years ago I went to Ypres, and to Langemark
where my grandfather was sent into the fire. He was 28 and never saw
his son who was born a month later. I had to think of the many roads
in Germany that had been named Langemark Street after 1918, the death
cult that they nurtured, sprouting the seed for the next one,
requesting even more carnage. The old lie. (The streets have different
names today.)

I kept searching until a few miles east and a few hundred meters from
the French border I found the small area with the stone with my family
name on it. An entire row of stones, each for a dozen names, all with
the same date of death, 21 Nov 1914. I sat there, as close as I could
come to my grandfather, then I left. Happy for the peace that has
prevailed throughout my own life span so far.

By chance, the cathedral of Ypres had been thoroughly mapped and
researched and very carefully documented stone by stone around 1909.
In the Fall of 1914 it was the target of German artillery fire until
it was 1.5 m high. The Belgians used the documentation to reconstruct
the cathedral, stone by stone, including all the repairs that had been
done since 1300 AD.

I had a hard time to find the cemetery. A Belgian cop helped me and
drove ahead of me. Somehow I found it very comforting and
reconciliating that there was a bus with two highschool classes of
British school kids on this German cemetery.

Hayabusa

Hayabusa said:

Yes. The old lie. A few years ago I went to Ypres, and to Langemark
where my grandfather was sent into the fire. He was 28 and never saw
his son who was born a month later. I had to think of the many roads
in Germany that had been named Langemark Street after 1918, the death
cult that they nurtured, sprouting the seed for the next one,
requesting even more carnage. The old lie. (The streets have different
names today.)

I kept searching until a few miles east and a few hundred meters from
the French border I found the small area with the stone with my family
name on it. An entire row of stones, each for a dozen names, all with
the same date of death, 21 Nov 1914. I sat there, as close as I could
come to my grandfather, then I left. Happy for the peace that has
prevailed throughout my own life span so far.

By chance, the cathedral of Ypres had been thoroughly mapped and
researched and very carefully documented stone by stone around 1909.
In the Fall of 1914 it was the target of German artillery fire until
it was 1.5 m high. The Belgians used the documentation to reconstruct
the cathedral, stone by stone, including all the repairs that had been
done since 1300 AD.

I had a hard time to find the cemetery. A Belgian cop helped me and
drove ahead of me. Somehow I found it very comforting and
reconciliating that there was a bus with two highschool classes of
British school kids on this German cemetery.

I visited that German cemetery in Langemark. It was eerie. Great little
sculpture.