Friday, November 11, 2011

THE FIRST AND THE LAST AN UNLIKELY REUNION IN FLANDERS’ FIELDS

   
         It says much about America and those who have served her in uniform through generations of time, that our honored war dead lie in at least 24 military cemeteries in foreign lands. Altogether 124,917 American soldiers, sailors and airmen rest in other countries, to which can be added another 80,000 who were never found or were lost at sea in foreign service, including more than 8,000 still “missing” in Korea alone.  30,922 who died in WW I are buried in eight official sites in France, along with 93,245 who lost their lives and ended up there with them in WW II. The military cemetery overlooking Omaha Beach in Normandy is one of the most visited, and beautifully-maintained with 9,387 at rest there. Sadly, the most neglected and nearly-forgotten of our war-dead lie in a cemetery near Manila in the Philippines where more of our uniformed warriors came to rest than anywhere else.  With grave markers obliterated by time, weather and volcanic ash, their number is believed to exceed 17,000.
            In recent years, survivor families have traveled by the millions to visit and research these sacred burial sites and to find a connection with memories that refuse to sleep.  They often find hidden stories.
            One of the most unusual and poignant of stories tied to such places has come to light from historians visiting a small but lovely burial ground near the Belgian town of St. Symphorien close to the village of Mons where fierce fighting between invading German and defending British forces took place in the course of WW I –“The Great War”.  It is proof that FACT often trumps FICTION.
            With the war only days of age, Britain’s first action in August 1914 was about to take place near the town of Mons, and 16-year old Private John Parr, of Finchley, North London, a former golf caddy who had lied about his age in order to join up was about to ride into the history books on a bicycle. He had not yet been given a helmet and may not even have been issued a weapon when he was sent to scout enemy movements on his two-wheeler. In a vast killing ground that would see one million British Empire soldiers dead before the U.S. came to their aid three years later, young Private Parr became the first Allied battlefield statistic. In a makeshift cemetery in the town of St. Symphorien, he would be buried by the Germans who had won the day. (His family would not be officially notified of his death for many months afterward and would learn of the exact circumstances only after the war had ended.)
            When, with more than 10 million dead, the two warring sides finally met to talk about armistice terms four years later, they came to an agreement at 5:00 am on November 11, 1918.  For reasons never completely understood, they determined that the fighting would officially come to an end at 11:00 am – as if there was something magical or symbolic about the “eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month”.
            This matter of six hours would prove to be more than symbolic for Private George Ellison of the Royal Irish Lancers, who had somehow, miraculously survived four years of nearly continuous mortar, cannon and rifle fire, poisonous gas attacks, trench warfare, sickness and death from all sides only to die from a sniper’s bullet 90 minutes before the magic hour of eleven. At age 40, the husband and father of two became the last British soldier to die in “The Great War”.  
            Private Ellison, the last Brit to die in WW I would end up in what happened to be the “next burial site available” in the German cemetery in St. Symphorien, directly opposite the grave of Private John Parr who had been the first.

 Caption for title photo:
An American flag with a French “Thank You” marks a G.I.’s resting place near Omaha Beach, Normandy.

 In the company of 284 German soldiers and 229 fellow Britons, the body of Private John Parr, the first Allied casualty of WW I lies in the cemetery at St. Symphorien a few feet from that of Private George Ellison who survived all but the last 90 minutes of that war.

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

ON FIELDS OF HONOR “HEADING HOME ON REMEMBRANCE DAY”


          
 As another “Veterans Day” rolls around, I find myself with a thousand things I would wish to say but only a few hundred words with which to say them. I think my parents pinned the first red poppy to my Sunday-go-to-meeting shirt at the age of four, and I know now that the white-bearded men riding in open Pierce Arrow touring cars at my first parade were veterans of the American Civil War – President Lincoln’s war.
            This day we observe each year on November 11th we once called Armistice Day, originating as it did to mark the “official end” of World War I –“The Great War”, in 1918.   I have long thought that The U.K. and Canada went one better: they still know it as “Remembrance Day”, because to me that is what it should be all about. They have an old and honored folk song with a line that reads “Called away by a waking dream, brave old soldier running out of steam”. . . “Heading home on Remembrance Day.” I am lucky enough to own a version sung by Roger Whittaker I often replay at times like this.
            I also watch my way through three hours of “Saving Private Ryan” in a corner chair where I can hide my tears – not without realizing it is merely a well-done piece of fiction, but because it serves as a reminder of a loved piece of scripture which tells us “greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for a friend.”
            I believe that the word “remember” is an active verb.  My Heritage Dictionary says it means “to recall to the mind through an act of effort and determination”. I don’t just remember cradling Johhny Allen in my arms on the way to a MASH unit where I saw more love being practiced than anywhere else in my life, but I try to remember what others have experienced on fields of honor in all our nation’s conflicts around the world, and I feel a profound connection with every veteran who similarly raised one arm to the square and pledged to keep a promise, and guaranteed to do so even if it required their life. That pretty much fills my definition of the word honor.
            Thanks to the be-lettered baseball caps many of us grizzled Vets wear nowadays, hardly a week goes by that I don’t stop to share handshakes, words of endearment and even hugs with total strangers who – as an old Civil War expression of respect says – “have seen the elephant”.  I am also enough of a sentimentalist that each June 6th I dress with my father’s WW I “dog tag” around my neck with its engraved letters “Auburn F. Cooper - USMC - May 1917”, and I sometimes proudly lift from a box the separation document which confirms in stilted, official words that he was “wounded on the field of battle while in the presence of the enemy”.
            At the urging of my extended family, I have given in to a long-time urge to don once again the uniform which was for several years my daily attire. Except for very special occasions it just hangs in my closet, but I often find myself opening the door just to look at it, hanging there, staring back at me and reminding me of who I have been and who I still am, heading home on Remembrance Day.

Caption of Title Photo:
Hallowed ground.  The flags of every branch of the service flap in the breeze at  the entrance to a Veterans’ cemetery on a Vermont hilltop where the family names of many I went to school, grew up and served with linger.  Whenever possible, I visit there, filled with a sense of peacefulness, pride and thanksgiving. The beautiful site was donated and the cemetery made a reality by the good people of the grateful community.

 My friend Ed Coles fought his way across Nazi-occupied Europe as a foot soldier in the76th Infantry Division, believing he would never see Brooklyn, U.S.A. again. When he buried his beloved wife in the Veterans’ cemetery, he wished to express his deeply-felt sense of appreciation with the simple words IT’S GOOD TO BE HOME!

 Staff Sergeant Arthur Fish served as a waist gunner in a B-24 Liberator bomber in the 458th Bomb Group of the U.S. 8th Air Force flying out of Horsham St. Faith, England, surviving more than 25 missions to places like Frankfurt, Hanover & Berlin.

Note: Al Cooper, whose weekly column appears in NEIGHBORHOODS, is often asked to speak to school children about his collection of historic U.S. flags and the stories behind them. He can be reached at ascooper@infowest.com