(Written 4th May 2006, following a three day birthday trip to France, Germany, Luxemburg and Belgium with some good friends.)
"Ting, ting, ting
War's a terrible thing."
As Donna, Charlie, Paul and I headed for a light lunch at Laon, the motorway signs indicated that Vimy Ridge was approaching on our left. Charlie mentioned that he intended going there one day, as his third cousin twice removed, Tom Small, was commemorated on the memorial to all the Canadians who fell there during the Great War who have no known grave.
Donna replied that the memorial was the one place she had wanted to stop at as she returned from holiday at Christmas, but the coach driver was more concerned with making it to the ferry on time.
Paul and I travel hopefully. The destination is less important than the journey, if that journey is an interesting one, and this seemed interesting enough for an unscheduled stop. So, turning off, we headed for Vimy, as Charlie and Donna told us the little they already knew about the place. "There are several graveyards..." "You can still see the old trenches..."
As we approached the site, the terrain either side of us became a series of depressions and undulations. "This must be the trenches we're seeing", I thought. "The sides have collapsed, and they're gradually disappearing over time. In time, everything will be smoothed over." I'd have stopped, but signs indicated that visitors were not allowed to walk there. That's an approximation, of course, my French hasn't improved one bit.
We drove up to the memorial, a huge, cloth covered shape. Yes, with our usual timing, it was closed for cleaning and maintenance. (You can see a picture of it here, though: http://tinyurl.com/k8ta7 and a few more here: http://tinyurl.com/fuglo ) What can I say? It's big. That's about it. So I turned the car round and we went to see one of the graveyards.
At the end of a wide avenue of trees there's a field of gravestones. We stopped to walk among them, across the neatly-trimmed grass that lies above the remains of a fraction of the men who died here. "A soldier of the Great War" the first gravestone read, "Known to God". I know what this means... that the body could not be identified. Face disfigured, dog tags gone, whatever. Terribly sad, that there was a family somewhere who had no idea where their son, brother, father ended up. Then I look around me, and it seems that almost all the inscriptions are the same... men whose names are known to God alone. Really, so sad.
Hang on, though, this one's different. "A soldier of the Yorkshire Regiment known to God". And another, "A soldier of the Machine Gun Corps Known to God". So why aren't the others recognised by their corps? Lord, then it hits me. The others were so blown apart, so shredded, that not even their uniforms could be identified. Sad isn't a big enough word, really. Saddest of all - "Two Marines Known to God". They couldn't work out which chunks belonged to who.
War's a terrible thing."
As Donna, Charlie, Paul and I headed for a light lunch at Laon, the motorway signs indicated that Vimy Ridge was approaching on our left. Charlie mentioned that he intended going there one day, as his third cousin twice removed, Tom Small, was commemorated on the memorial to all the Canadians who fell there during the Great War who have no known grave.
Donna replied that the memorial was the one place she had wanted to stop at as she returned from holiday at Christmas, but the coach driver was more concerned with making it to the ferry on time.
Paul and I travel hopefully. The destination is less important than the journey, if that journey is an interesting one, and this seemed interesting enough for an unscheduled stop. So, turning off, we headed for Vimy, as Charlie and Donna told us the little they already knew about the place. "There are several graveyards..." "You can still see the old trenches..."
As we approached the site, the terrain either side of us became a series of depressions and undulations. "This must be the trenches we're seeing", I thought. "The sides have collapsed, and they're gradually disappearing over time. In time, everything will be smoothed over." I'd have stopped, but signs indicated that visitors were not allowed to walk there. That's an approximation, of course, my French hasn't improved one bit.
We drove up to the memorial, a huge, cloth covered shape. Yes, with our usual timing, it was closed for cleaning and maintenance. (You can see a picture of it here, though: http://tinyurl.com/k8ta7 and a few more here: http://tinyurl.com/fuglo ) What can I say? It's big. That's about it. So I turned the car round and we went to see one of the graveyards.
At the end of a wide avenue of trees there's a field of gravestones. We stopped to walk among them, across the neatly-trimmed grass that lies above the remains of a fraction of the men who died here. "A soldier of the Great War" the first gravestone read, "Known to God". I know what this means... that the body could not be identified. Face disfigured, dog tags gone, whatever. Terribly sad, that there was a family somewhere who had no idea where their son, brother, father ended up. Then I look around me, and it seems that almost all the inscriptions are the same... men whose names are known to God alone. Really, so sad.
Hang on, though, this one's different. "A soldier of the Yorkshire Regiment known to God". And another, "A soldier of the Machine Gun Corps Known to God". So why aren't the others recognised by their corps? Lord, then it hits me. The others were so blown apart, so shredded, that not even their uniforms could be identified. Sad isn't a big enough word, really. Saddest of all - "Two Marines Known to God". They couldn't work out which chunks belonged to who.
There's a little brick structure that is no doubt provided for shelter on rainy days, and on one wall, there's a plaque with much information on it. Firstly, it tells me that there are over 2000 graves in this small field. It is small, too. I know people with bigger gardens. 2000 graves...
The plaque gives a short history of WW1. The Germans advanced through
Before we drive to the Visitor Centre, where Charlie has a faint hope of finding some information about Tom Small, I pick a gravestone at random and say a short prayer for the man whose remains beneath will always lie in this field, far from his home. It seems to me to be the best thing to do.
Parking at the Visitor Centre, Charlie heads off to do his research, while Donna, Paul and I walk in a different direction, towards a sign - "To the trenches". But I thought we saw them on the road in?
No. What I saw were shell craters, and some of them were huge, twenty feet across and ten feet deep. I mention my error to French-speaking Donna, who points out that there were signs posted to warn visitors not to walk around there, due to the unexploded ordnance known to be present. Mmm, and I thought they read something like "Don't walk on the grass". I make a mental note to try harder with the French language, on the basis that it could easily save my life one day. (At the Visitor Centre, later, we find that a shell-clearing exercise is still going on, even now.)
A section of the trenches has been preserved, and preserved very well. Concrete has been cast in bricks to resemble sandbags, and the bricks used to replace the walls of the trenches. The ones that lead to the front line are so low that soldiers must have had to duck to avoid shrapnel from German shells, but the walls at the front line are easily eight feet high. Part of the front line trench features a lookout post, a high step that would allow a soldier to keep an eye on enemy movements. I jump up... but why, then, do I crouch, and peep over the top? Here, on a sunny day, nearly ninety years after the last shot was fired? Don't ask me, but I didn't want to stand up and gaze, lest... what? I honestly can't tell you, but it just felt... foolhardy.
I peep across, and there's No Man's Land, and, gosh, there's the German front line... oh, but it's so near, I thought it would be further away. It's too close.
Time to go. There are no ghosts here, but remembrance is stamped on this place so hard that it cannot be ignored. Let's go and find Charlie.
Charlie is in the Visitor Centre, and he's gazing with wonder at the computer screen in front of a young Canadian woman, who is saying "I'm just emailing this photo to your address." On the screen is a photo of a tiny, tiny part of one of the walls of the memorial and at the centre of the photo are letters inscribed in stone - TOM SMALL. Charlie's found Tom, who has no known grave, whose whereabouts will always be a mystery... but from a distance of ninety years and several hundred miles, in a foreign country, Charlie's found him.
And that's why we inscribe names on memorials. So that those who never knew, but can never forget, can one day find those who were once there, remain there, yet left no trace of themselves.
There's a small exhibition at the Visitor Centre, telling the story of Vimy Ridge and the battle that took place in 1917 to claim it from the German forces. Vimy Ridge was of immense tactical importance, and its capture aided an Allied advance to the south. It was also used with great effect to repulse German offensives during 1918. The battle, although fought by soldiers of many nations, was mainly waged by four Canadian divisions, who had already demonstrated that they were one of the most outstanding formations on the Western Front, particularly in offensive warfare. Their victory on Vimy Ridge, despite their 10,000 casualties and 3,500 deaths, had a profound effect on future Allied military planning, as the Canadians had proved that no position was invulnerable to a well-planned attack. Yes, I took notes. What, you think I can write this stuff from memory?
And here in the Visitor Centre, amongst the contemporary photos and easily understood history and maps and recovered shells and bullets and original documents and copies of war poems and accounts of the four Victoria Crosses that were won at Vimy Ridge and line drawings of the position of trenches as at one date and where they were a month later, where bomb craters that could still hold deadly explosives lie a few hundred yards away, where stones mark deaths that are known only to God... here are a couple of stanchions that supported barbed wire ninety years ago, and on top of each one are two rusty helmets. One is German, one is Allied. Both the lids have been torn open by some terrible force.
Brave men who were scared shitless died here, and bravery wasn't a commodity that was confined to Allied soldiers. Canadian, British, German... if they had time to realise, they all died wanting their mummy to make it stop hurting. Nationality and patriotism conferred no discrimination in death.
"And that's why I sing, sing, sing
War's a terrible thing."
A section of the trenches has been preserved, and preserved very well. Concrete has been cast in bricks to resemble sandbags, and the bricks used to replace the walls of the trenches. The ones that lead to the front line are so low that soldiers must have had to duck to avoid shrapnel from German shells, but the walls at the front line are easily eight feet high. Part of the front line trench features a lookout post, a high step that would allow a soldier to keep an eye on enemy movements. I jump up... but why, then, do I crouch, and peep over the top? Here, on a sunny day, nearly ninety years after the last shot was fired? Don't ask me, but I didn't want to stand up and gaze, lest... what? I honestly can't tell you, but it just felt... foolhardy.
I peep across, and there's No Man's Land, and, gosh, there's the German front line... oh, but it's so near, I thought it would be further away. It's too close.
Time to go. There are no ghosts here, but remembrance is stamped on this place so hard that it cannot be ignored. Let's go and find Charlie.
Charlie is in the Visitor Centre, and he's gazing with wonder at the computer screen in front of a young Canadian woman, who is saying "I'm just emailing this photo to your address." On the screen is a photo of a tiny, tiny part of one of the walls of the memorial and at the centre of the photo are letters inscribed in stone - TOM SMALL. Charlie's found Tom, who has no known grave, whose whereabouts will always be a mystery... but from a distance of ninety years and several hundred miles, in a foreign country, Charlie's found him.
And that's why we inscribe names on memorials. So that those who never knew, but can never forget, can one day find those who were once there, remain there, yet left no trace of themselves.
There's a small exhibition at the Visitor Centre, telling the story of Vimy Ridge and the battle that took place in 1917 to claim it from the German forces. Vimy Ridge was of immense tactical importance, and its capture aided an Allied advance to the south. It was also used with great effect to repulse German offensives during 1918. The battle, although fought by soldiers of many nations, was mainly waged by four Canadian divisions, who had already demonstrated that they were one of the most outstanding formations on the Western Front, particularly in offensive warfare. Their victory on Vimy Ridge, despite their 10,000 casualties and 3,500 deaths, had a profound effect on future Allied military planning, as the Canadians had proved that no position was invulnerable to a well-planned attack. Yes, I took notes. What, you think I can write this stuff from memory?
And here in the Visitor Centre, amongst the contemporary photos and easily understood history and maps and recovered shells and bullets and original documents and copies of war poems and accounts of the four Victoria Crosses that were won at Vimy Ridge and line drawings of the position of trenches as at one date and where they were a month later, where bomb craters that could still hold deadly explosives lie a few hundred yards away, where stones mark deaths that are known only to God... here are a couple of stanchions that supported barbed wire ninety years ago, and on top of each one are two rusty helmets. One is German, one is Allied. Both the lids have been torn open by some terrible force.
Brave men who were scared shitless died here, and bravery wasn't a commodity that was confined to Allied soldiers. Canadian, British, German... if they had time to realise, they all died wanting their mummy to make it stop hurting. Nationality and patriotism conferred no discrimination in death.
"And that's why I sing, sing, sing
War's a terrible thing."
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