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.
Lt.-Col. John McCrae
However busy I might be, along with millions of others, I always stop for a few minutes at the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month in remembrance of those who gave their lives in war.
As I grew up, I knew my Uncle Donald only through the memories of others as he was one of those who died during the Second World War. I imagined him as some great hero who readily gave his life in the service of others; someone who must have faced his death with quiet acceptance as he sat trapped in that plane as it sunk beneath the waves.
Then I read some of the letters he sent home. And suddenly it dawned on me just how much he wanted to live; how scared he must have felt as he realised that he was going to die. And somehow that's made him even more of a hero to me.
