In Flanders FieldsIn Flanders fields, the poppies grow
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...
John Alexander McCrae
I love this poem. I love that McCrae was a Canadian soldier. I love that he was inspired to write this poem after his friend and student was killed. I love that he discarded the poem but another officer sent it to London and that it was published in Punch Magazine. I love that he lived to see the success of the poem.
When I looked for the Flanders Field poem to post, I was surprised that the poet and my soldier had a few things in common.
- family military background
- Canadian Army Medics
- first name John; Irish version of John is Shane
- second name is Alexander
- taught/tutored
- loves animals
- both scientific and artistic
Look at him, my little soldier, at three years old. Who knows how many G.I. Joe costumes I made over the years! It should have been no surprise to learn that his application to join the Canadian Forces was accepted. Still, it might have been a little less shocking had we been told he had applied. ;-)
My husband is a history and military buff; his father fought in WWII, his grandfather in WWI. Our home was filled with war stories; two of the children are especially keen on history and the military. The older one was an Army Cadet for years, the younger one joined the Army.
The day he told us that he had been accepted to the Army was the day the news was filled with stories that the Taliban was officially and specifically targeting Canadian troops. It was also the day soldiers killed by friendly fire were being repatriated.
I cried uncontrollably for two weeks.
Eventually I cried less frequently although I still had absolutely no control over it. That bottom lip would start to quiver and the flood gates would open. My son is an adrenaline junky. I had to remember he would be well trained, well supported and well advised. Mostly I wanted him to be safe. And I needed to stop crying.
A few months later Steve Irwin died in a tragic accident. He was only 44 years old. On TV they kept showing a loop of the Crocodile Hunter from Australia saying he would be gladly die in the jaws of his beloved crocs because he loved them and his work with equal passion.
Suddenly I realized that I should and could be happy for my son, happy that he found something for which he felt great passion. Isn’t that what any parent wants for their children, to be happy? Three years later I am a Very Proud Military Mom of a Medic in the Canadian Armed Forces.
