Written For Private D. Sutherland
killed in action in the German trench,
and the others who died
So you were David’s father,
And he was your only son,
And the new-cut peats are rotting
And the work is left undone,
Because of an old man weeping,
Just an old man in pain,
For David, his son David,
That will not come again.
Oh, the letters he wrote you,
And I can see them still,
Not a word of the fighting,
But just the sheep on the hill
And how you should get the crops in
Ere the year get stormier,
And the Bosches have got his body,
And I was his officer.
You were only David’s father,
But I had fifty sons
When we went up in the evening
Under the arch of the guns,
And we came back at twilight -
O God! I heard them call
To me for help and pity
That could not help at all.
Oh, never will I forget you,
My men that trusted me,
More my sons than your fathers’,
For they could only see
The little helpless babies
And the young men in their pride.
They could not see you dying,
And hold you while you died.
Happy and young and gallant,
They saw their first-born go,
But not the strong limbs broken
And the beautiful men brought low,
The piteous writhing bodies,
The screamed ‘Don’t leave me, Sir’,
For they were only your fathers
But I was your officer.
Oh gay were we in spirit
In the hours of the night
When we lay at rest at Albert
And waited for the fight;
Gay and gallant were we
On the day that we set forth,
But broken, broken, broken
Is the valour of the North.
The wild warpipes were calling,
Our hearts were blithe and free
When we went up the valley
To the death we could not see.
Clear lay the wood before us
In the clear summer weather,
But broken, broken, broken
Are the sons of the heather.
In the cold of the morning,
In the burning of the day,
The thin lines stumbled forward,
The dead and dying lay.
By the unseen death that caught us
By the bullets’ raging hail
Broken, broken, broken
Is the pride of the Gael.
The guns were silent, and the silent hills had bowed their grasses to a gentle breeze I gazed upon the vales and on the rills, And whispered, “What of these?’ and “What of these? These long forgotten dead with sunken graves, Some crossless, with unwritten memories Their only mourners are the moaning waves, Their only minstrels are the singing trees And thus I mused and sorrowed wistfully
I watched the place where they had scaled the height, The height whereon they bled so bitterly Throughout each day and through each blistered night I sat there long, and listened – all things listened too I heard the epics of a thousand trees, A thousand waves I heard; and then I knew The waves were very old, the trees were wise: The dead would be remembered evermore- The valiant dead that gazed upon the skies, And slept in great battalions by the shore.
Onward led the road again
Through the sad uncoloured plain
Under twilight brooding dim,
And along the utmost rim
Wall and rampart risen to sight
Cast a shadow not of night,
And beyond them seemed to glow
Bonfires lighted long ago.
And my dark conductor broke
Silence at my side and spoke,
Saying, "You conjecture well:
Yonder is the gate of hell."
AE Houseman
One hundred years ago yesterday my Grandfather, Sam Robertson, 1/5th Royal Scots Fusiliers and Archibald McKinnon 1/4th Royal Scots Fusiliers, my friends Bruce and Scot Mathieson's great Grandfather, both landed in Gallipoli within a few hours of each other. These men, part of the 52nd Brigade were shelled on the beach for two days before being sent to the firing line on June 9th. By June 13th 4,800 of them were dead or wounded. A lesser known campaign here than the war in Europe, Gallipoli is marked for its brutality and the particularly merciless nature of the terrain and the fighting. The Royal Scots Fusiliers fought in The Battles of Gully Ravine, Achi Baba Nullah, Krithia Nullahs and The evacuation of Helles.
Ambulance, Gully Ravine, Gallipoli
Jan 1916 Evacuated from Gallipoli to Egypt due to severe casualties from combat, disease and harsh weather. Took over defence of the Suez Canal and then engaged in the Palestine Campaign; Fought Battle of Dueidar, The Battle of Romani. 1917 The First Battle of Gaza, The Second Battle of Gaza, The Third Battle of Gaza, Wadi el Hesi, Burqa, El Maghar, The capture of Junction Station, The Battle of Nabi Samweil, The Battle of Jaffa. April 1918 Embarked for France landing at Marseilles and engaged in various actions on the Western Front including; The Battle of Albert, The Battle of the Scarpe, The Battle of the Drocourt-Queant Line, The Battle of the Canal du Nord, The Final Advance in Artois. 11.11.1918 Ended the war at Jurbise north of Mons, France. Both men lived to come home though both were injured, Archie was shipped home from Gallipoli with a bullet wound to the leg. My grandfather, who survived being shot on 3 separate occasions and was returned to the front line each time, left Gallipoli and served in France by the end of the war. At war's end he suffered a decline from the condition then known as 'shell shock' {now PTSD} into complete debilitation, intermittent hallucination and nightmares which lasted until his death in 1967. History neatly records the fighting ended in 1918. Life is rarely so neat.
On Friday we attended the funeral of my Uncle, Bill Robertson. This poem was used at the service and many commented on how fitting it was to him. I have never known so many people to say "I wouldn't be where I am now today if it wasn't for him." Rest in Peace Auld Yin.
Not how did he die, but how did he live?
Not what did he gain, but what did he give?
These are the units to measure the worth
Of a man as a man, regardless of birth.
Not, what was his church, nor what was his creed?
But had he befriended those really in need?
Was he ever ready, with word of good cheer,
To bring back a smile, to banish a tear?
Not what did the sketch in the newspaper say,
But how many were sorry when he passed away.
Sam Robertson. Royal Scots Fusiliers. WWI Gallipoli
Thomas Hughes Royal Flying Corps. WWI France
Sam Robertson RAF Bomber Command 1945
Pride, Respect and Gratitude
Remember today; brothers, fathers and sons.
The blood, the bullets, the terrible guns.
Far away places, far distant times,
Old family portraits, those names brought to mind.
Pause and reflect a moment or two.
But for them it could have been you.
Consider a moment a life unlived
How could it feel,
To give your expected days
And future stolen in myriad ways.
No mark on the world, all your dreams unfulfilled.
No aspirations, no regrets,
No life ever built.
Remember today; brothers, fathers and sons.
The blood and the bullets, the terrible guns.
Far away places, far distant times,
Old family portraits, those names brought to mind.
Pause and reflect a moment or two.
But for them it could have been you.
As I watched the service of commemoration the other day one of the commentators said "As these events will soon pass from living memory as these men are lost, we shall perhaps never see their like again."
Like many millions the world over I stopped a moment to stand with quiet respect in memory of those who sacrificed in conflicts around the world. As I always do on this day I thought on my Grandfather as his life was the only one within my knowing blighted by the horror of war, although when I knew him I was very young and was prevented from truly understanding his experience by a family protective of me and I now see with an adults understanding, even more protective of him.
Sam Robertson enlisted in The Royal Scots Fusiliers early 1915 and on completing basic training was sent to a place called Gallipoli. He and his 900 comrades were immediately put in the front line and within ten days 480 of them were dead. Months later he and what was left of his battalion were evacuated. Half of the men were sent to Palestine. The rest, including my Grandfather were sent to The Somme. One unfortunate who's experience encompassed two places now synonimous with carnage and the hellish brutality of war.
From a history of the regiment written by John Buchan.
July 26th. The attack on Guillemont.
"The attack was delivered by the 89th and 90th brigades and in the latter was the Manchester regiment and the Royal Scots Fusiliers. The Fusiliers assembled just east of Trones Wood, an indifferent jumping off ground - with D company in trenches north of Guillemont/Trones Wood road, A and B companies were south of the road and C in an improvised trench near to D. The frontage of the battalion was about two hundred and sixty yards.
The attack started at 4.45am and almost from the first things went wrong. The Manchesters were late in starting. Colonel Walsh was to move forward in support with the Fusiliers battalion headquarters and two companies of the 16th Manchesters but the two companies never appeared, and communication with the first wave very soon became impossible. Meanwhile the Scots Fusiliers had made straight for their objective, but the advance on both their flanks halted, and presently they were a lone spearhead without support. There was a heavy enemy barrage on the east front of Trones Wood and the Guillemont Rd was swept by machine guns. It would appear that D company and about one third of A company reached the east side of Guillemont village and that B and C companies were on the western face. The commander of D company Lt. Murray, forced his way back to headquarters about noon to say that without immediate support the battalion would be cut off. He himself had been right through the village. But there were no adequate reserves available and soon nothing could move and live on the ground between Trones Wood and Guillemont. Everywhere, except in the Scots Fusiliers sector, the attack had failed, and the battalion had to pay the price for its lonely glory. Colonel Walsh could do nothing but hold the trenches east of Trones Wood until relieved on 1st of August.
The Royal Scots went into action with 20 officers and 750 men. Of these 3 officers and 40 others, chiefly headquarters staff, remained with Colonel Walsh at the close of the day, and later less than 100 others dribbled back through another brigade. The rest of the battalion were dead, wounded or captured. Total losses were 633 men.
The division commander wired to Colonel Walsh during that day 'I cannot tell you how grieved I am for the loss of your splendid battalion and above all for those still left in Guillemont. They did grandly and all that men could do'
The scanty remains of the battalion moved north on 11 August to Bethune, where for two months while it regained it strength it stayed in a relatively quiet part of the front."
In some three years in front line service my Grandfather went 'over the top' on several major offensives, survived being shot three times and was returned to the trenches on recovery each time. He came home suffering from what we now call post traumatic stress disorder. In his day it was called the less technical but probably more accurate name of 'shell shock'. When I knew him he was completely bedridden and could barely speak. He shook constantly. Cared for within the family, my job was to shave him which is why I remember him so very clearly and so fondly. He died in 1968 when I was nine having suffered for more than fifty years.
The tragedy of war is that it affects not only individuals but families and communities. The effects last generations.
Battle of Britain day is the anniversary of the heaviest day of fighting during the desperate fight to keep Nazi Germany at bay and this scene depicts the first 'scramble' experienced by 18 year old newby spitfire pilot Geoffrey Wellum in 1940. It captures the intensity of combat these often inexperienced and barely trained young men faced.
The excellent film is based on his book 'First Light'. The voice at the end of the scene is Geoffrey's.
This week saw the unveiling of the memorial to RAF Bomber Command take place in London.
During WWII men from all parts of Britain, from allied and occupied nations and from around the world volunteered to become aircrew in RAF Bomber Command and took part in the most consistently dangerous operations against the Nazi regime. Of the 125,000 who served almost 60%, over 73,500 men, would be killed or wounded, a figure that in percentage terms far surpassed the losses of men in the trenches of WWI and the highest losses sustained by any armed forces in WWII. The dangerous nature of their missions meant the aircraft they flew had an average lifespan of just four weeks and six missions while operational aircrew, who's average age was twenty two, were expected to complete a minimum of thirty operations to earn a temporary posting to less dangerous activities - a posting that many chose to forego to keep fighting.
For a large part of the war, losses of 5% per mission were so high that for front line crews life expectancy was in effect just three weeks.
After the war, when the real effect of the bombing campaign could be seen, many were appalled, especially as a terrible destruction of the German city of Dresden had occurred just weeks before the end of fighting. Politicians who had been at the front in ordering wartime action and the taking of war to the enemy in this way quickly backpedalled and ducked responsibility in moves of neck-saving political expediency, while a war weary public were only too keen to forget in their need to move on and build a better future. No mention of these Bomber Boys or their sacrifice was made by our famous wartime PM Winston Churchill in his victory address to the nation. No medal was given -then or since - the only branch of the Armed Services to be treated in this way. Over generations, while the brave men of fighter command were rightly seen as heroes, the Bomber Boys were ignored, their actions vilified and their courage and sacrifice unrecognised by the British public. A few complained and campaigned for recognition of the sacrifice, but most lived quietly, carrying the scars and weight of memory with the same kind of dignity and fortitude they'd demonstrated as young men. Over time, to our national shame, their story was forgotten, buried for political expediency under the myth of those famous 'few' RAF heroes fighting the Battle of Britain. For more than 50 years their story has largely gone unrecognised except for one heroic raid by a squadron who became known as 'The Dambusters'. They became lost to us because it was the easy thing to do to avoid facing some uncomfortable truths. When a small memorial was erected in London twenty years ago to the wartime leader of Bomber Command, Arthur {bomber} Harris, it had to be put under police guard for several months to protect it from attack.
Slowly support built up around them; families who saw the injustice and servicemen who understood the contribution; politicians who had not been so closely involved as to share responsibility; historians who sought to clarify and analyse fact objectively. People saw bomber crews in the USA lauded as heroes on TV and in film and began to wonder what had happened to our men, what difference in their experience to justify having them treated with such neglect, to be expunged from public consciousness. Despite this burgeoning movement it took years to peel away the history that had been established, to remove the layers and to recognise the truth behind the myth.
Finally today these men have permanent and public recognition.
It's a story close to my heart because of my late father's involvement. I've written extensively here about their story and experiences so long ago. The memorial to bomber command may be seventy years too late but it's there and it's theirs. It belongs to them now as should unconditional acceptance and recognition by us of their stories as part of our history.
I watched a recording of the dedication service. I saw the great and the good parade in their ceremonial uniforms and finery and much of it washed over me, leaving me unmoved for the establishment preening and posturing some of it was but I watched an old man in the crowd standing there, his bowed head covered with an aircrew cap, listen attentively with eyes closed and I saw him smile and nod in quiet satisfaction when a speaker tried to describe the dedication and sacrifice of all those years ago. They're still here, these final few who served with such quiet courage, determination and dignity and who have waited so long in the same way.
On coming back from holiday I began catching up on e-mail that had been delivered while I was away. My e-mail account isn't particularly busy so it didn't take long to go through my inbox and deal with anything needing a response and deleting e-mails from businesses and sites that I didn't need. As usual at the end of that I went to the spam box and saw some 47 items listed. I was just about to hit the clear button when one of them for some unknown reason, caught my eye. It said it was from a Dr Josef Levy and the subject was simply ‘Dear Sir’. The unknown name and dubious subject would normally immediately qualify such e-mail for the bin and I have no idea why this e-mail was different, but something made me not only hesitate but actually open it:
Dear Sir, I am writing you to ask you for cooperation. I am from town Hranice in Czech Republic. The bomber AVRO LANCASTER B.MK.I, serial number PB 872, code indication P4-X 153. bomb squadron. crashed there on 6th March, 1945. I would like put up information panel with memory of this crash and memory of pilots on place where bomber crashed. Now there is only a small memorial. There is a few documents and no photos related to this crash in Czech republic. I would therefore request you for some information. Can you send me some photos of crewmen or information about flight and falling? I welcome every information.
I thank you for your help. Best regards, Dr. Josef Levý.
Because of my father's involvement I've written extensively across the blog about his Lancaster Squadron. In 2010 I posted their 1945 daily campaign diary in real-time covering the last few months of the war. As a result the blog regularly receives visits from people looking for information about 153 Squadron or Bomber Command Squadrons and I've been contacted by the families of many men who served or were lost so long ago. To be able to answer questions that have in some cases haunted people for almost 70 years or to be able to put people in touch with someone who actually served with their relative has been a rewarding and humbling experience, one that I never dreamt of when I began to write their story. This query would bring a different and more personal twist.
I clicked across onto the blog and looked at the entry relating to the sixth of March 1945, reminding myself of the details I had written and mentally recalling the sources used for the information I'd posted. I often had more information than was in the post as I didn't want to overload the blog with detail and put visitors off reading because it was heavy and inaccessable, so I began to hunt through the library for notes and other bits and pieces. I transferred the e-mail out of spam and composed a reply saying that I would provide any information I could and would send an e-mail back as soon as I had anything. Over the next couple of days I found information relating to the aircraft manufacture and delivery to the Squadron, the aircraft crew and their previous missions and detail about the final operation. I found the aircraft had been listed as ‘missing, nothing heard since take-off’. Somewhere in my mind this started an insistent recollection.
"Nothing heard since take-off" is a phrase chillingly familiar to the men who served in bomber command in World War II, or those who worked behind at base. It was written onto operation boards when an aircraft failed to return home by the due time at the end of the mission. Usually it was the first indication that yet another aircraft and its seven man crew had been lost, either killed or hopefully - but rarely - to become prisoners of war. Another seven names added to the list of 73,700 aircrew casualties from the 125,000 who served. "Nothing heard since take-off" was also the name of a small book, privately published by a family member of the crew of a missing Lancaster bomber. I had found the book during my researchers for the 153 Squadron story because it related to one of their Lancasters. It was a poignant tale because not only of the tragic loss of the crew but that one of the air gunners, Bill Meechan, lived in a village near our home and was a friend of my father who had been a member of 137 (Ayr) Squadron ATC (Air Training Corps) with him before joining up.
With the help of The Lovely G, who helped me look, I found the book and was astonished to find that it was the story of exactly the same aircraft that Dr Levy was interested in researching.
Lancaster PB 872 P4-X was a Lancaster mark B1 built by A V Roe's Woodford factory in November 1944. It was fitted with four Rolls-Royce Merlin 22 engines and delivered to 153 Squadron at Scampton on 5 December 1944. The night it crashed it was exactly 3 months old and had completed 15 operations. The average life expectancy of a Lancaster in World War II was just six missions which gives an idea of just how dangerous and damaging these operations were. An operational tour for the crew was 30 missions completed.
The crew that night were relatively inexperienced and had been with the squadron just over four weeks. Their final mission was their 6th:
William Bailey – pilot {20}
Reg Adlam – navigator {21}
Edward Morris – air bomber {22}
James Howard – flight engineer {27}
Jack Dixon – wireless operator {22}
Bill Meechan – mid upper gunner {19}
Walter Simpson – rear gunner {18}
By March 1945, although the Germans were in retreat and under attack on the ground on German soil, bomber command was still losing many crews to the well-organised German night fighter force and anti-aircraft defence systems. On 5 March 1945, 153 Squadron’s battle order number 92 directed 13 aircraft to be sent to attack Chemnitz, including Bill Bailey’s crew who had by this time completed their five operations since late January.
L - R: F/O. William Bailey, Sgt. James Howard, F/O. Reginald Adlam and F/O. Edward Morris
Take-off was logged from Scampton at precisely 16:40 hours. Over the next few hours ground crews passed the time waiting for the return of their particular Lancaster. In flying control rooms others were listening to radio frequencies, crash crews and medical staff were on standby in case they would be needed, transport staff stood by to collect men from returned aircraft and ferry them to the debriefing rooms for post-op intelligence gathering. Eventually about 2am there was the sound of engines as one by one Lancaster's joined a circuit around the airfield and landed, exhausted crews climbing wearily out onto solid ground, perhaps lighting a first cigarette or just breathing fresh night air. The operations board and flying control soon showed 12 aircraft had landed safely, but an unmarked space was left beside PB 872 P4-X as staff waited for confirmation of its return. Time passed slowly as anxious staff waited until the maximum possible flying time had elapsed before entering ‘missing’ in that space. Checks were quickly made to see if X – Ray had landed safely somewhere away from base on its return but all enquiries were negative. Squadron records for the operation were duly typed up and in the column marked "details of sortie or flight" for Lancaster PB 872 were typed the words "Failed to return. Nothing heard since take-off"
The following day, once verification was received that X – Ray had been lost, the personal effects of each crew member and any equipment belonging to them was collected and taken to stores. Personal effects would be forwarded to a central point where they would eventually be returned to each person's next of kin. Telegrams were now sent out to the next of kin, informing them their member of the family was missing from operations on the fifth/sixth of March. A letter would follow from the commanding officer expressing great sadness but pointing out at this stage the person was missing only and that should any news be received it would be communicated to them immediately.
Sgt. Jack Dixon, Sgt. William Meechan and Sgt. Walter Simpson
The families would not find out the fate of their relatives until 1947.
Lancaster PB 872 P4-X crashed at 2130 British time on the night of 5 March 1945 just outside the town of Rossbach, now called Hranice, then in Nazi occupied Czech territory. In all probability it had become separated from the main bomber stream in the dark, probably without even knowing it, perhaps due to the higher than forecast winds affecting navigational calculations by this relatively inexperienced crew. Once alone and isolated it would have become an obvious and easy target for night fighter attention, easily directed and guided in by their radar stations. At approximately 22:30 local time in Rossbach that night the air raid sirens were activated and soon afterwards the aircraft appeared. Witnesses remember the sound of tortured engines screaming and the aircraft in a slow descending curve, trailing flame from one wing and just missing the town before there was an explosion in the burning wing - probably the fuel tank - and the aircraft crashed in a meadow outside of town. The Fire Brigade and many local people hurried through the woods but nothing could be done and there were no survivors. The following day the crew were officially identified and buried in the town cemetery next to the church in a corner of the grounds next to some Russian prisoners of war. The details of the crash were recorded in the town police reports. One member of the crew had attempted to bail out but the altitude was too low for the parachute to open. The other crew members were still in the aircraft when it crashed, the tail-gunner still strapped in his turret, two others had managed to put on their parachutes but had not managed to exit.
We’ll almost certainly never know the whole story of Lancaster PB 872 P4-X and what happened in their last hours and moments. Were many of the crew dead or seriously injured while still airborne? Perhaps the intercom been damaged and the crew not heard the pilots instruction to bail out? Maybe instuments been damaged, the ground invisible in the dark until the order came too late leaving them with no time to act? Of course after all this time it's academic - but still tragic.
The book and all the information I have is now on its way to the Czech Republic. Crew photos will shortly follow supplied by 153 Squadron Association. I hope the information is useful to Dr Levy and that ultimately he is successful in increasing the information about the aircraft and crew and in completing his project to highlight the sacrifice of these young men, like so many others in Bomber Command. I'm glad too to have played a part. I think my old man would have approved. I'm glad that there are still people and places out there keen to remember and recognise what happened so long ago and willing to do something about it.
For Dad, who died three years ago today and who taught me much.
Reach me down my Tycho Brahe,
I would know him when we meet,
When I share my later science, sitting humbly at his feet;
He may know the law of all things, yet be ignorant of how
We are working to completion, working on from then to now.
Pray remember that I leave you all my theory complete,
Lacking only certain data for your adding, as is meet,
And remember men will scorn it, 'tis original and true,
And the obloquy of newness may fall bitterly on you.
But, my pupil, as my pupil you have learned the worth of scorn,
You have laughed with me at pity, we have joyed to be forlorn,
What for us are all distractions of men's fellowship and wiles;
What for us the Goddess Pleasure with her meretricious smiles!
You may tell that German College that their honour comes too late,
But they must not waste repentance on the grizzly savant's fate.
Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;
I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.
The Battle of Britain Memorial Flight - an Excellent Film
A poem for Remembrance Day.
LIE IN THE DARK AND LISTEN by Noel Coward.
Lie in the dark and listen,
It's clear tonight so they're flying high
Hundreds of them, thousands perhaps,
Riding the icy, moonlight sky.
Men, materials, bombs and maps
Altimeters and guns and charts
Coffee, sandwiches, fleece-lined boots
Bones and muscles and minds and hearts
English saplings with English roots
Deep in the earth they've left below
Lie in the dark and let them go
Lie in the dark and listen.
Lie in the dark and listen
They're going over in waves and waves
High above villages, hills and streams
Country churches and little graves
And little citizen's worried dreams.
Very soon they'll have reached the sea
And far below them will lie the bays
And coves and sands where they used to be
Taken for summer holidays.
Lie in the dark and let them go
Lie in the dark and listen.
Lie in the dark and listen
City magnates and steel contractors,
Factory workers and politicians
Soft hysterical little actors Ballet dancers, 'reserved' musicians,
Safe in your warm civilian beds
Count your profits and count your sheep
Life is flying above your heads
Just turn over and try to sleep.
Lie in the dark and let them go
Theirs is a world you'll never know
Lie in the dark and listen.
In loving memory. Sam Robertson - Bomber Command, 1944-1945 Thomas Hughes - Royal Flying Corps France, 1914 -1918 Sam Robertson - Royal Scots Fusiliers, Gallipoli and Ypres 1914 -1918
Interested in history as I am I cannot let today go past without marking what is known as 'Battle Of Britain Day'. This year is the 70th anniversary of the day when the heaviest fighting took place.
In his political career, our famous wartime leader Sir Winston Churchill made many great speeches but two or three in particular are perhaps remembered most. Two of those relate to the war in the skies. Even today these stand as great examples of oratory and are capable of touching the heart. It's especially interesting to note that these two iconic speeches occured within just two months in 1940, indicating the dire situation facing the country at that time. Especially perhaps on a day such as this, it's worthwhile remembering too, that while oratory remains, it is those individuals and their deeds, which are more transient, which stand behind those words and should be remembered most.
Winston Churchill's address to Parliament June 18th 1940.
"What General Weygand called the Battle of France is over. I expect that the Battle of Britain is about to begin. Upon this battle depends the survival of Christian civilization. Upon it depends our own British life, and the long continuity of our institutions and our Empire. The whole fury and might of the enemy must very soon be turned on us. Hitler knows that he will have to break us in this Island or lose the war. If we can stand up to him, all Europe may be free and the life of the world may move forward into broad, sunlit uplands. But if we fail, then the whole world, including the United States, including all that we have known and cared for, will sink into the abyss of a new Dark Age made more sinister, and perhaps more protracted, by the lights of perverted science. Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves that, if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will still say; This was their finest hour."
Winston Churchill's address to Parliament; 20th August 1940.
"The gratitude of every home in our Island, in our Empire, and indeed throughout the world, except in the abodes of the guilty, goes out to the British airmen who, undaunted by odds, unwearied in their constant challenge and mortal danger, are turning the tide of the World War by their prowess and by their devotion. Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few. All hearts go out to the fighter pilots, whose brilliant actions we see with our own eyes day after day; but we must never forget that all the time, night after night, month after month, our bomber squadrons travel far into Germany, find their targets in the darkness by the highest navigational skill, aim their attacks, often under the heaviest fire, often with serious loss, with deliberate careful discrimination, and inflict shattering blows upon the whole of the technical and war-making structure of the Nazi power. On no part of the Royal Air Force does the weight of the war fall more heavily than on the daylight bombers, who will play an invaluable part in the case of invasion and whose unflinching zeal it has been necessary in the meanwhile on numerous occasions to restrain."
Keith Douglas was a war poet, killed in WWII serving in a tank regiment aged just 24. He's much less well known than Wilfred Owen or Seigfried Sassoon, those greats of WWI war poetry, but deserves to be much better known.
This excerpt fits well with remembrance Sunday.
From his poem 'How To Kill'
Now in my dial of glass appears
the soldier who is going to die.
He smiles, and moves about in ways
his mother knows, habits of his.
The wires touch his face: I cry
Now. Death, like a familiar, hears
and look, has made a man of dust
of a man of flesh.
In memory of the fallen, the departed and any who continue to suffer the effect of war.
Sam Robertson Royal Scots Fusiliers 1915- 1918 Gallipoli and France.
Thomas Hughes Royal Flying Corps 1914 - 1918 France
Sam Robertson 153 Sqdn RAF Bomber Command 1944-1945.
Bill Robertson Fleet Air Arm 1944-1945.
