Veterans Day

On the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month in 1917, World War 1 came to an end.The Armistice agreement had been signed and Europe was at last learning to live in Peace.

Since that fateful day in 1917, there have been many more wars around the world, many more Soldiers and civilians killed in battle or innocent victims of bombing raids, World War Two being the most notable and more recently the war in Iraq.

Every year on the 11th of November at 11am since 1917, The World remembers the Fallen from all from every war till the present day.

People gather together at war memorials all over the world to remember their loved ones who have perished in battle.

These occasions are very somber and at exactly 11am there is one minute of silence in respect for the fallen hero's.

In the famous words of Winston Churchill "Never in the field of human conflict has so much been owed by so many to so few".

Whether you agree with what our soldiers fought for or not, they believed that they were doing what was right for their country and the freedom that their country has.

"They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old.

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning

We will remember them"

Wilfred Owen a Poet Died in The trenches in 1917, his poetry, gives a facinating written account of life in the trenches.

---ANTHEM FOR DOOMED YOUTH---

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?

-Only the monstrous anger of the guns.

Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle

Can patter out their hasty orisons.

No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;

Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,-

The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;

And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?

Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes

Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.

The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;

Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,

And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

Halted against the shade of a last hill

They fed, and eased of pack-loads, were at ease;

And leaning on the nearest chest or knees,

Carelessly slept. But many there stood still

To face the stark, blank sky beyond the ridge,

Knowing their feet had come to the end of the world.

Marvelling they stood, and watched the long grass swirled

By the May breeze, murmurous with wasp and midge;

And though the summer oozed into their veins

Like an injected drug for their bodies' pains,

Sharp on their souls hung the imminent ridge of grass,

Fearfully flashed the sky's mysterious glass.

Hour after hour they ponder the warm field

And the far valley behind, where the buttercups

Had blessed with gold their slow boots coming up;

When even the little brambles would not yield

But clutched and clung to them like sorrowing arms.

They breathe like trees unstirred.

Till like a cold gust thrills the little word

At which each body and its soul begird

And tighten them for battle. No alarms

Of bugles, no high flags, no clamorous haste,-

Only a lift and flare of eyes that faced

The sun, like a friend with whom their love is done.

O larger shone that smile against the sun,-

Mightier than his whose bounty these have spurned.

So, soon they topped the hill, and raced together

Over an open stretch of herb and heather

Exposed. And instantly the whole sky burned

With fury against them; earth set sudden cups

In thousands for their blood; and the green slope

Chasmed and steepened sheer to infinite space.

Of them who running on that last high place

Breasted the surf of bullets, or went up

On the hot blast and fury of hell's upsurge,

Or plunged and fell away past this world's verge,

Some say God caught them even before they fell.

But what say such as from existence' brink

Ventured but drave too swift to sink,

The few who rushed in the body to enter hell,

And there out-fiending all its fiends and flames

With superhuman inhumanities,

Long-famous glories, immemorial shames-

And crawling slowly back, have by degrees

Regained cool peaceful air in wonder-

Why speak not they of comrades that went under

I dreamed kind Jesus fouled the big-gun gears;

And caused a permanent stoppage in all bolts;

And buckled with a smile Mausers and Colts;

And rusted every bayonet with His tears.

And there were no more bombs, of ours or Theirs,

Not even an old flint-lock, not even a pikel.

But God was vexed, and gave all power to Michael;

And when I woke he'd seen to our repairs.