We attended our second Armistice service here in France today. The school’s head teacher told me it would be taking place and so we made every effort to get there – even hubby the would be heathen came to mass with us.
As we arrived I recognized several people from the village and we stood on the verge of the church grounds as the brass band started to play and those who serve and have served walked behind. I became quite emotional; even though this is my adopted home I was affected by the poignancy.
It is a strange feeling. Again, the glass box scenario where we are a part of the event, yet our otherness is apparent if only to us. Indeed as the service continued many more people I recognized went out of their way to acknowledge us. It was so kind to welcome us into such a special event.
Those who are currently serving include the fire and police. Yet what caught my eye were the older men wearing their meddles.
France had such a different experience in relation to the world wars than we did. It was their earth the blood seeped into. I know too that they feel the scars of the second war in a different, painful way.
So often British people that have never served or suffered in this way take cheap shots. It makes me so angry. There were so many people in this land who continued to struggle even when their government had surrendered and carved areas of power out for themselves. This is a special kind of heroism; when those in authority have resigned their duty to you, but you continue to live in line with your conscience.
I find the strength of that conviction to goodness astonishing.
As the band came into the church service flags were held aloft and brought my attention to the stained glass window of Christ comforting the grieving of the Great War.
My attention was caught by the blue flower badges worn by those attending. Cornflowers that grew alongside the poppies in those fields.
With the mass over we waited as everyone left to walk to the cemetery. We weren’t with the main group of children, although a man had invited us to join them in the church. We saw one of my daughter’s teachers there, shepherding them to offer their bouquets at the feet of the memorial.
As we stood it started to rain and a kindly older woman offered us an umbrella so I could keep the rain from Ruby. She moved closer to her friend and I was again grateful for the grace shown to us.
La Marseillaise was played and our benefactor joined in, one of the few who knew all the words. We didn’t know any, something I plan to rectify for next year.
As we walked away I thought of the services I had seen in England. Her majesty had shed tears this year. It’s funny but the longer I’m away from home the more I appreciate that phenomenal woman and her life of dedication. I have no doubt that as her generation pass we will gradually lose the values they espouse. Perhaps this is why I became emotional when I heard the band today.
They have become a generation much maligned. Yet we have much to learn from them. Perhaps we should whilst we still have the chance.
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