Wednesday May 29, 2019
Serre Road Cemetery No. 2
I didn’t expect it to hit so hard.
We are staying Amiens, Picardy, a town by the river Somme. Yes, that Somme, the Somme of the battle a hundred plus years ago. On the third leg of this journey, John and I are exploring the sites of the two world wars.
We drove northwest from Amiens this morning, towards the Canadian National Vimy Memorial. Our friend Google took us off the main highway, thankfully, and along small country roads through potato farms, rapeseed farms, wind farms. The sun was burning the mist off the fields. The green rolled on forever.
By chance, we came upon a military cemetery, a scene of row upon row of white headstones, that familiar image. We almost drove on by, but I shouted, “Stop!” just in time. We parked at the side of the road and walked into the site.
It hit like a punch to the gut. These weren’t stones, these were the remains of 7,127 men scarcely past their boyhood. “Aged 25, Aged 19.” It was as if I’d lost two thousands sons, their names, or, more often, no identification, on the slabs arranged with precision across a manicured garden. I’m not one to break down and cry, but I did today. First with tears, then with great gulping sobs. I stood there alone for quite a while before I realized John was doing the same thing, some rows away.
This was no major stop on the war route. The guide books did not mention it. There were no signposts that we saw. The countryside is pocked with cemeteries like this, some smaller, some larger, some dedicated to Canadians. some to Britons, some to French. There are memorials to the fallen Tunisians of that war, and to the fallen Moroccans.
In this cemetery were English, Scottish, Irish, Australian, New Zealander, Canadian, French, and some German. All I could think of was waste.
I thought about my grandfather. He was posted in this part of the country, working as a baker to feed the troops. He was said to have regretted not going to the front line. And I thought about Flynn, my grandfather’s great great grandson, and how the front line may have meant his nonexistence. And I thought about how all these buried ones might have become great great grandfathers by now, had it not been for this terrible calamity known as the Great War. Instead, their legacy is in rows and rows of white stone markers.
Some of the stones state the name, age, rank, regiment, and nationality of the fallen soldier. Some are missing the personal identifiers, naming only the regiment and nationality. Some name only the nationality. Some don’t name even that. Those were the lost ones, the pieces of bodies picked up on the battlefield. Their names are inscribed on memorials such as Vimy Ridge or Thiepval — so they are not forgotten. But their remains lie unnamed in fields such as this. “Known unto God,” say the stones, and while I cannot subscribe to that belief, I understand the comfort it gives.
It is astonishing to see how well-tended the cemeteries are, even the tiniest, most remote. The grass is like a putting green, and meticulously trimmed and weed-free flower beds front each row of stones. Poppies and roses and purple irises are blooming.
There is no forgetting here. While cities have been rebuilt and the land brought back to production, there are pock-marked places where shells once exploded, and troughs where the trenches once cut through the earth. And cemeteries, dozens of small geometries, interrupt the potatoes, and the rapeseed, and the wind.
Serre Road Cemetery No. 2
I didn’t expect it to hit so hard.
We are staying Amiens, Picardy, a town by the river Somme. Yes, that Somme, the Somme of the battle a hundred plus years ago. On the third leg of this journey, John and I are exploring the sites of the two world wars.
We drove northwest from Amiens this morning, towards the Canadian National Vimy Memorial. Our friend Google took us off the main highway, thankfully, and along small country roads through potato farms, rapeseed farms, wind farms. The sun was burning the mist off the fields. The green rolled on forever.
By chance, we came upon a military cemetery, a scene of row upon row of white headstones, that familiar image. We almost drove on by, but I shouted, “Stop!” just in time. We parked at the side of the road and walked into the site.
It hit like a punch to the gut. These weren’t stones, these were the remains of 7,127 men scarcely past their boyhood. “Aged 25, Aged 19.” It was as if I’d lost two thousands sons, their names, or, more often, no identification, on the slabs arranged with precision across a manicured garden. I’m not one to break down and cry, but I did today. First with tears, then with great gulping sobs. I stood there alone for quite a while before I realized John was doing the same thing, some rows away.
This was no major stop on the war route. The guide books did not mention it. There were no signposts that we saw. The countryside is pocked with cemeteries like this, some smaller, some larger, some dedicated to Canadians. some to Britons, some to French. There are memorials to the fallen Tunisians of that war, and to the fallen Moroccans.
In this cemetery were English, Scottish, Irish, Australian, New Zealander, Canadian, French, and some German. All I could think of was waste.
I thought about my grandfather. He was posted in this part of the country, working as a baker to feed the troops. He was said to have regretted not going to the front line. And I thought about Flynn, my grandfather’s great great grandson, and how the front line may have meant his nonexistence. And I thought about how all these buried ones might have become great great grandfathers by now, had it not been for this terrible calamity known as the Great War. Instead, their legacy is in rows and rows of white stone markers.
Some of the stones state the name, age, rank, regiment, and nationality of the fallen soldier. Some are missing the personal identifiers, naming only the regiment and nationality. Some name only the nationality. Some don’t name even that. Those were the lost ones, the pieces of bodies picked up on the battlefield. Their names are inscribed on memorials such as Vimy Ridge or Thiepval — so they are not forgotten. But their remains lie unnamed in fields such as this. “Known unto God,” say the stones, and while I cannot subscribe to that belief, I understand the comfort it gives.
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| Descendants find the graves of their relatives and leave messages. These would have been in the last few days. |
It is astonishing to see how well-tended the cemeteries are, even the tiniest, most remote. The grass is like a putting green, and meticulously trimmed and weed-free flower beds front each row of stones. Poppies and roses and purple irises are blooming.
There is no forgetting here. While cities have been rebuilt and the land brought back to production, there are pock-marked places where shells once exploded, and troughs where the trenches once cut through the earth. And cemeteries, dozens of small geometries, interrupt the potatoes, and the rapeseed, and the wind.
