November 11th

A few years ago, I was in Belgium for just under 3 weeks. Most of my time was spent in Flanders. My father instilled in me a respect for - and fascination with - World Wars I and II so I naturally sought out local memorials to Canada's fallen. It was hard to imagine those idyllic towns, villages and, in the case of Passchendaele (see plaques below), farmers' fields, were the stage for such carnage and utter despair. I found Passchendaele at dusk on a cold, wet, blustery day, which was perfect weather, really. I tried to imagine being knee to thigh deep in mud and shit in the cold and wet, trying to gain a seemingly useless hillock, losing 16,000 comrades in the process (thank you, British high command), and killing thousands of unknown enemy on the other side. Only to lose it again in a blood-soaked pointless tug-of-war. Insane.

I then drove to the nearby Tyne Cot cemetery, under which lay many Canadian and British lads; many of them died unnamed but not forgotten. I had the place to myself. It was getting darker and windier and colder; nevertheless, I stayed for a long while. I climbed atop the cenotaph in the middle of the cemetery to take photos and video - and just stare. Out loud, I both thanked and apologized to the fallen: "Sorry, Lads. But we have still learned fυck all from your sacrifices". (Ok, perhaps we have learned a few things: like how to kill with more precision and even less emotion. Again, we've learned nothing.)

If not for the ultimate sacrifice of all those men and women, I would not have had the luxury to enjoy a trip to Belgium and post the images you see here. In Flanders Fields...

In Flanders Fields

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.

By John McCrae