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. — from “In Flanders Fields” by John McCrae
Echoing our friend, Dennis's words about the genius of telling the story by way of a seemingly inanimate object that comes to life in our imaginations carrying the story even more poignantly than by a human narrator. We may have heard that particular voice too often for impact
Last night I was re-watching a wonderful PBS program, Mr. Selfridge. In Season 2 boys from the department store sign up to fight the Kaisier. Before they leave the store to register with the recruiter they march 2 by 2 in their aprons, loading dock coveralls, dining hall ties & black jackets & led by a single drummer before they stop to receive the farewells of their friends & staff.
You would have to have the heart of KegSeth not to shed tears then. Those boys - many of whom had never been outside of London - who wanted to see France - had no idea what they were walking into.
At the beginning of the war, Britain's army consisted largely of untrained or poorly trained recruits, and they were thrown into battle using outmoded tactics. On the first day of the Somme, July 1, 1916, they suffered almost 58,000 casualties, of which 29,000 were killed. In one day. Our worst day in all wars was Antietam, September 17, 1862, with some 23,000 casualties and 5500 killed or missing, combining the N&S.
You're spot on. The only way is to walk the cemeteries. Men were often dying in such numbers that grave registration was forced to set up smaller cemeteries to keep up with the carnage. If you drive the western front, you'll be dumbstruck by the number of small cemeteries.
As if we didn't know the madness that any war entails. It made wonder how many dog tags are deeply buried, having their own conversations with 'remains' somewhere near Khe Sanh, or Chu Lai, or along the Ho Chi Minh trail? War truly is, as Bertrand Russel said, 'a collective insanity.' Thanks, Jeff, keep writing about it.
Jeff, this undid me. The dog tag as narrator is brilliant. I spent the essay grieving one ruined face, one name, one grave. Then you widened the lens to 54,000 on the Menin Gate and 130,000 stacked beyond it. I felt the exact thing Paul Slovic spent his career naming: psychic numbing. We can hold one Richard Lancaster. We cannot hold 700,000. Compassion runs on names, not numbers, which may be precisely why the arithmetic of war keeps working on us. You gave the arithmetic a name. And your last line is the nugget for me… “not the cost of freedom, but how limited we are at avoiding the carnage in the first place.” WOW… just wow! Keep writing, my friend.
Thank you, dear friend. The Earth is slowly healing from the destruction. Bomb craters are lined with grass. Towering forests now belie what took place there. But one roadside marker has stayed with me even after seeing it 50 years ago: "Ici Fluery." Here was Fluery, a small French village near Verdun, completely wiped out by shelling. Leveled. Nothing left but craters and small stone markers: the bank, the school, a house, a farm.
Wow, Jeff. So powerful in so many ways, like Dennis, below, describes. I admire your devotion to keeping the memories and stories of these soldiers alive. I hope a lot of people get to read this.
Jeff, this is an incredibly moving and beautifully haunting piece of storytelling. Choosing the metal dog tag as the narrator is a brilliant creative stroke; it gives a deeply personal, tactile voice to a century of silent history buried beneath those Belgian fields. The contrast between the violent, sudden darkness of the trench and the eventual, quiet dignity of the horse-drawn caisson and bagpipes is absolutely breathtaking. You’ve masterfully bridged the gap between a nameless tragedy and a restored identity, honoring not just this one soldier of the Lancashire Fusiliers, but the memory of all who were lost in the Great War. It is a gorgeous, poignant tribute that lingers long after reading, my friend.
Thank you, Dennis. It was one of the most powerful days I've ever experienced, grasping at a single name being struck from the wall of the missing, yet confronted with the idea that many thousands still remain unfound.
Echoing our friend, Dennis's words about the genius of telling the story by way of a seemingly inanimate object that comes to life in our imaginations carrying the story even more poignantly than by a human narrator. We may have heard that particular voice too often for impact
Last night I was re-watching a wonderful PBS program, Mr. Selfridge. In Season 2 boys from the department store sign up to fight the Kaisier. Before they leave the store to register with the recruiter they march 2 by 2 in their aprons, loading dock coveralls, dining hall ties & black jackets & led by a single drummer before they stop to receive the farewells of their friends & staff.
You would have to have the heart of KegSeth not to shed tears then. Those boys - many of whom had never been outside of London - who wanted to see France - had no idea what they were walking into.
And that's the measure of war.
That's why we need your voice & the stories.
At the beginning of the war, Britain's army consisted largely of untrained or poorly trained recruits, and they were thrown into battle using outmoded tactics. On the first day of the Somme, July 1, 1916, they suffered almost 58,000 casualties, of which 29,000 were killed. In one day. Our worst day in all wars was Antietam, September 17, 1862, with some 23,000 casualties and 5500 killed or missing, combining the N&S.
and all for what?
these statistics are too clean - they cannot convey the depth & breadth of loss
how can we possibly begin to imagine what 29,000 dead - in 1 day - looks like? feels like? smells like? sounds like?
and all for what?
You're spot on. The only way is to walk the cemeteries. Men were often dying in such numbers that grave registration was forced to set up smaller cemeteries to keep up with the carnage. If you drive the western front, you'll be dumbstruck by the number of small cemeteries.
As if we didn't know the madness that any war entails. It made wonder how many dog tags are deeply buried, having their own conversations with 'remains' somewhere near Khe Sanh, or Chu Lai, or along the Ho Chi Minh trail? War truly is, as Bertrand Russel said, 'a collective insanity.' Thanks, Jeff, keep writing about it.
One grave. One row. One cemetery. One war. I can't speak to the Eastern Front, but Western Europe is largely a cemetery.
Very moving, Jeff!
Thanks, Kay.
Jeff, this undid me. The dog tag as narrator is brilliant. I spent the essay grieving one ruined face, one name, one grave. Then you widened the lens to 54,000 on the Menin Gate and 130,000 stacked beyond it. I felt the exact thing Paul Slovic spent his career naming: psychic numbing. We can hold one Richard Lancaster. We cannot hold 700,000. Compassion runs on names, not numbers, which may be precisely why the arithmetic of war keeps working on us. You gave the arithmetic a name. And your last line is the nugget for me… “not the cost of freedom, but how limited we are at avoiding the carnage in the first place.” WOW… just wow! Keep writing, my friend.
Thank you, dear friend. The Earth is slowly healing from the destruction. Bomb craters are lined with grass. Towering forests now belie what took place there. But one roadside marker has stayed with me even after seeing it 50 years ago: "Ici Fluery." Here was Fluery, a small French village near Verdun, completely wiped out by shelling. Leveled. Nothing left but craters and small stone markers: the bank, the school, a house, a farm.
Truly moving and insightful. Your best writing yet.
Thanks, Bro.
Tremendous narrative of the horrors or war.
Thanks for reading, Frank. We're glad you survived your service.
Wow, Jeff. So powerful in so many ways, like Dennis, below, describes. I admire your devotion to keeping the memories and stories of these soldiers alive. I hope a lot of people get to read this.
Thanks for your thoughts, Debbie.
Jeff, this is an incredibly moving and beautifully haunting piece of storytelling. Choosing the metal dog tag as the narrator is a brilliant creative stroke; it gives a deeply personal, tactile voice to a century of silent history buried beneath those Belgian fields. The contrast between the violent, sudden darkness of the trench and the eventual, quiet dignity of the horse-drawn caisson and bagpipes is absolutely breathtaking. You’ve masterfully bridged the gap between a nameless tragedy and a restored identity, honoring not just this one soldier of the Lancashire Fusiliers, but the memory of all who were lost in the Great War. It is a gorgeous, poignant tribute that lingers long after reading, my friend.
Thank you, Dennis. It was one of the most powerful days I've ever experienced, grasping at a single name being struck from the wall of the missing, yet confronted with the idea that many thousands still remain unfound.