Voices of Silence

by Vivien Noakes

  A song we never shall forget,

  Seething with fierce, unbounded gladness;

  Tainted with no regret,

  Dulled with no touch of sadness.

  Come out, you happy ones, whose men are come safe through the fight,

  Thank God again you have them at your side.

  Come out, you Broken-hearted,

  Whose loved ones are departed:

  Thank God with all your strength to-night,

  That they for England died.

  Patrick Miles

  The Unknown Warrior

  Through the silent streets they bore him

  Proudly carried up on high.

  No one going, no one coming,

  To deter him from his triumph;

  Silent was his passing by.

  He wore no medals on his breast,

  And his head no crown adorned;

  But his eyes with tears were flowing

  Weeping for his living brother,

  Maimed, unreverenced, and scorned.

  John Waring

  Unknown

  (November 1920)

  Here, where our Kings are crowned;

  Here, where the brasses keep

  Scroll of the names that resound,

  Let one brass nameless be found,

  One unknown Englishman sleep.

  Here, where we cherish in stone

  Those who or ruled us or led –

  Statesmen and poets known –

  Carve we a tomb and a throne

  ‘To One of our Warrior-Dead.’

  Needless to carve us his name:

  Needless to know if he died

  By Yser, by Tigris, or Thame,

  Of the steel or the gas or the flame,

  At hazard of sky or of tide!

  Since he died for us and our Race

  And the Fine undying Things,

  Of his right (and not by their grace)

  He has earned him his resting-place

  With our poets, our priests, and our Kings.

  And even though his be the least

  Of all whose spirits went West

  From the fight we fought with the Beast,

  Yet neither a King nor a priest

  Shall grudge him his honoured rest;

  But an Empire stand at his grave,

  And an Emperor-King bare head,

  When we tomb with our lords of the waste and the wave,

  In the heart of a Nation he died to save,

  One Man of our Million Dead.

  Here let him sleep; for a sign

  Of high deeds wrought to an end

  By the lowly folk and the fine

  Whose lives were outspilled like wine

  For England – England, their friend.

  Here let us cherish in stone,

  Not one man’s worth, nor his name,

  But a million heroes . . . Unknown?

  Nay! their fame is as trumpets blown,

  Their fame is all England’s fame.

  And this England they saved shall endure,

  She shall neither dwindle nor pass,

  Her feet shall be virile and sure;

  She shall stamp on the creed impure –

  The creed of class-against-class.

  Neither in haste nor in hate,

  Neither with tumult nor guns,

  But duly in quiet debate

  Shall she deal with the fate of her State,

  Shall she order the claims of her sons.

  Wherefore, if any to-day

  Plot treason to ruin this land,

  Here – by our unknown clay –

  Let him kneel; and, kneeling, pray;

  And praying, understand

  The Cause for which one man died –

  The Cause which is neither Bread

  Nor Gold nor Conquest nor Creed nor Pride;

  But the Cause of all Englishmen side-by-side,

  The Cause of our Warrior Dead.

  Gilbert Frankau

  The War Memorial

  Old Brown’s speech I remember. Slow and wise.

  Slow-wagging forefinger; slow-blinking eyes.

  ‘The very thing we want’ (said Brown)

  ‘To make memorial for the dead

  Is something useful for the town.

  Some cosy reading-room?’ (Brown said).

  Jones smiled and nodded where he sat.

  ‘Ay, we’d be comfortable in that.’

  He coughed, empurpled; hoiked at phlegm.

  Tears filled my eyes. I had seen them,

  Swift, fair and eager . . . David . . . Yellow broom . . .

  Suddenly I left the room

  And them all gaping . . .

  Godfrey Elton

  Stranraer War Memorial

  Erect the Memorial where all may see,

  Let it have a fitting place;

  For the men who died that we might be free

  Were the flower of our race.

  Give it pride of place in the old grey town,

  Let it shine in the light of Heaven;

  Oh! proud are we of our glorious dead,

  For us their lives were given.

  Raise it aloft in God’s acre wide,

  In the place where their forebears sleep –

  Where men bow the head to honour the dead,

  And the women kneel to weep.

  The children shall hush their laughter

  When they trace, with loving pride,

  The name of a dear, dead daddy

  Or soldier brother who died.

  Let its column rise in the silence, sweet,

  Far from the revellers’ din;

  Though their graves are afar, their names shall be

  In the midst of their kith and kin.

  On the market square, or the churchyard green,

  Let our boys’ memorial rise,

  Where all who pass shall linger to read

  How great was the sacrifice.

  Mary Reid

  In Flanders, Poppies Red

  PLEASE READ THIS. Can you help this Ex-service Man by buying this Poetry. PRICE TWOPENCE. So please patronise an Ex-Soldier, Out of Work. NO PENSION. NO DOLE. I am a Genuine Discharged Soldier NOT AN IMPOSTER. I am compelled to sell these to keep myself, wife and children.

  Sold entirely by unemployed Ex-service men.

  Out there in France on a battle’s front,

  Where poppies bloom so red,

  They grow in silent tribute

  On the graves of heroes dead.

  Dead for Britain’s honour,

  They freely gave their lives.

  And left behind to grieve them

  Are fathers, mothers, wives.

  England is proud in her sorrows,

  Proud of the blood that runs

  Through the hearts of her soldiers and sailors

  Who gallantly kept back the Huns.

  Ready when called for duty,

  Aye, ready to face the foe,

  Some are now facing starvation,

  All through no fault of their own.

  Is this the land for heroes

  Gained at such cost of life,

  Where nothing reigns but poverty

  And want and strife!

  I’m only one of many more,

  Admired while strong and well,

  But now I’m broken in the War,

  No words can my feelings tell.

  Because of England’s promises,

  We did our best out there,

  And now for those who have returned

  There is no work to spare.

  To gain an honest living

  I try so very hard;

  I ask you can you help me now

  By buying this small card?

  Only an Officer

  Only an officer! Only a chap

  Who carried on till the final scrap,

  Only a fellow who didn’t shirk –

  Homeless, penniless, out of work,

  Asking only a start in lif
e,

  A job that will keep himself and his wife,

  ‘And thank the Lord that we haven’t a kid.’

  Thus men pay for the deeds men did!

  Only an officer! Only a chap

  Wounded and gassed in a bit of a scrap,

  Only a fellow who didn’t shirk –

  Shaky and maimed and unfit for work,

  Asking only enough in life

  To keep a home for himself and his wife,

  ‘And she’ll work if she can, but, of course, there’s the kid.’

  Thus men pay for the deeds men did!

  Only our officers! Only the chaps

  That war-time uses and peace-time scraps,

  Only the fellows a bit too proud

  To beg a dole from the charity-crowd,

  Carrying on in civilian life,

  Carrying on – with a smile for the wife,

  ‘But it’s breaking his heart because of the kid!’

  Thus men starve for the deeds men did!

  Gilbert Frankau

  The Unemployed

  ‘You might have died heroically: France

  And Flanders surely gave you just the chance.

  You’d have escaped this marching thro’ the street,

  This sordid seeking after bread and meat,

  This aimless hunt for work. Work! Why, the war

  Was held at great expense to manage for

  The extra and unwanted carcases

  Of men whose mere existences makes our ease

  Uncertain. As your ranks go shuffling by,

  The Premier can’t enjoy tranquillity.

  Would you have us give you work and food, instead

  Of spending money on our gallant dead?

  ‘As you have marched, misled by Bolshie tricks,

  You must have noticed many a crucifix,

  Raised that the people never may forget

  Those who went out to pay our honor’s debt:

  Their glorious courage who would dare deny?

  And they, at least, had the good sense to die;

  Gass’d, shot, dismember’d, buried, blown to bits,

  They don’t come back and cry, where Dives sits,

  ‘Work! Work! Give us this day our daily bread!’

  Why are not you, like them, heroic dead?

  ‘At the packed meeting in the village hall,

  Where we have met for the Memorial,

  We choose the Crucifix: not the Risen Lord,

  Nor Baby Jesus, life still unexplored;

  Not the young Carpenter of Nazareth;

  Nor Christ speaking of Love before his Death;

  Nor the familiar Friend of Bethany –

  But Jesus, dead, on the accursèd tree:

  We lie more tranquil in our easy bed

  If God be, like our gallant heroes, dead.’

  ‘Give us this day our daily bread!’ I saw

  The long procession trying to get to Law;

  And as I looked I wondered – over there

  Walked one man with a more familiar air;

  Something remember’d in the way he stood

  Flashed to my mind —

  There is an empty rood!

  The dead Christ has come down, even as he said,

  And is walking with the men we wish were dead.

  Not in the crib, no, nor on Mary’s knee;

  Nor at feast or fast; nor on the sacred Tree;

  Not with the Saints, nor where the monstrance lifts

  Its mystic promise of supernal gifts –

  Not there can we find God, until, unless,

  We see him in that man whose rags are less

  Than the robe he wore when, in the palace-court,

  They flogged him at the column for their sport.

  The God whom we have imagined safely dead

  Is marching down the Strand, shouting for bread.

  R. Ellis Roberts

  In Memoriam

  RENNIE. – In loving memory of my dear son, Lance Corpl. Alex. Rennie, killed at Dardanelles, July 12th, 1915.

  Could we only have seen him once again,

  If he had only come home to die,

  To kiss the face we loved so well,

  And whisper, ‘Alex., good-bye.’

  – Inserted by his Mother (Mrs Rennie), Brother, and Sister. Backrampart.

  BRUNSKILL. – In loving remembrance of Pte Arthur Brunskill (15738), 11th East Lancs. Regt. (‘Pals’), who was killed in action on July 1st or 2nd, 1916, aged 22 years.

  May the heavenly winds blow softly,

  O’er that sweet and hallowed spot;

  Though the sea divides his grave from us,

  He will never be forgot.

  – From Mother and Father, 20 Princess-street, Burnley.

  DUCKWORTH. In loving memory of my dear son, Sergt. Wilfred Duckworth, 1st East Lancs., who was killed in action in France, July 1st, 1916.

  Take the soul that died for duty,

  In Thy tender loving hand;

  Crown his life with heavenly beauty,

  Life laid down for Motherland.

  Always in our thoughts.

  – From Mother, Brother, Sisters, and Janey, 21 Rumley-road, Burnley.

  MAKIN. In loving memory of our dear son, Pte. Herbert Makin (1st East Lancashire Regiment), killed in France, July 1st, 1916.

  Can a mother ever forget the son she loved so dear!

  Oh, no! the voice that now is still keeps ringing in our ears,

  Mother cease your weeping, angels round me smile,

  We are only parted, just for a little while.

  – From his sorrowing Mother, Sister, Mary, Hannah, Harry, and little Tom, and Herbert and Thomas, and Nellie, 6 Marquis-street, Accrington.

  LOMAX. In loving memory of our dear son, Private George R. Lomax, RMLI, RND, who was presumed dead November 13th, 1916; aged 18 years.

  We think of him in silence,

  We make no outward show,

  For hearts that mourn sincerely,

  Mourn silently and low.

  – From Father, Mother, Brother Allan, 5 Lang-street, Accrington.

  MCCULLOCH – In fond remembrance of our dear sons, William and David McCulloch, RN, who died on March 9th, 1917.

  Four years ago a message came

  From God, who thought it best

  To take them from this weary world

  And give them peace and rest.

  It was God’s will it should be so,

  By His command we all must go.

  – Inserted by their loving Father and Mother, Sisters and Brothers. Auchneight Dairy, Drummore.

  MURRAY. – In loving memory of our son and brother, Pte. John Murray, 1st Gordon Highlanders, who was killed at Infantry Hill, France, on 16th June, 1917, aged 19 years.

  The fairest flowers are first to fall,

  The best are first to fade,

  The sweetest, dearest, best of all

  Within their graves are laid.

  O, Lord, how wondrous are thy ways,

  To pass the frail and old

  And take the young and beautiful –

  The choicest of the fold.

  – Inserted by his loving Father and Mother, Sister and Brothers. 48 Fisher St., Stranraer.

  HOWARTH. In loving memory of Driver William Howarth, who died in France on November 10th, 1918.

  Time does not change our thoughts of him;

  Love and dear memories linger still;

  Sunshine passes, shadows fall;

  But true remembrance outlasts all.

  – From his dear Mother and Brothers, Milton and Arthur, 88, Made-street, Church.

  The Cenotaph: Armistice Day

  To house the unburied spirits of our Dead

  We built this Tomb, and brought our simple flowers

  That they might, lying with Death a few short hours,

  Utter our grief: for all our hearts were sad.

  Mute and immovable, and with bowed head

  We stood: two minutes pas
sed: worlds rose, dreams, fears,

  Chaos and quiet, old pain and sudden tears,

  But we remembered, and for this, were glad.

  Then someone moved; men breathed again: the earth

  Flung off her trance, and shuddered wearily.

  Traffic and turmoil had a swift rebirth,

  And dim confusion shook the morning sky.

  But we could not forget. There was no dearth

  Of thoughts for Those we loved, as we passed by.

  A.L. Boden

  TWENTY-ONE

  The Return to France

  Searching for graves, the next war

  Early in the war – because of the scale of the casualties and the logistical problems of repatriating thousands of bodies while fighting continued – a decision had been made that the bodies of all the dead would be buried in the countries where they had fallen. Officers and men who had fought together would lie together, side by side in individual graves, without distinction. An organisation – now known as the Commonwealth War Graves Commission – was set up to oversee this burial.

  After the war, the battlefields were gradually cleared and the fallen were reinterred in permanent cemeteries built to replace the many wayside burial sites. The land on which these stood was given to Britain in perpetuity. In each cemetery was a Cross of Sacrifice, a Stone of Remembrance inscribed ‘Their name liveth for evermore’, and simple, uniform headstones. On these were engraved the soldier’s name, number, regiment, regimental emblem, age and date of death. If the family wished, they could pay to have an inscription of their choice engraved at the base of the stone: because of the problems this raised with poor families, this payment later became voluntary.

  On the headstones of the many unidentified bodies were the words ‘A soldier of the Great War known unto God’. The names of all those with no known grave were carved on stone panels in cemeteries or on the walls of the two great memorials to the fallen – the Menin Gate at Ypres and at Thiepval on the Somme. On the Menin Gate Memorial, which was unveiled on 24 July 1927, are inscribed the names of 54,900 men missing in the Ypres Salient; to this day the Last Post is sounded there every night at eight o’clock. That at Thiepval has the names of the 73,357 British and South African missing of the Somme; the Canadians and ANZACs have their own memorials. It was unveiled on Monday 1 August 1932, and was the last large-scale memorial to be dedicated. On that day the 3.30 a.m. edition of the Daily Telegraph reported the result of elections in Germany with the headline: ‘HERR HITLER’S HOPES DASHED for Ever.’