While in Belgium Part 3 (On a German Cemetery)

Their names stare back at you, under debris and rubbish, looked after only by the dandelion weeds and towering oaks. They have no other guardians. No one else comes to see where they lay. Faceless names, but still humans. How could they not be? Men who had their stories cut far too early are buried here, under the expanse in a small plot of land.

Kneel closer on the damp grass to see the names, and brush the surface clear. Your dirtied hand is no concern since exposing their names to the light is of far greater importance than soiled fingers. Read their names just to recognize that they lived, and to some extent, you think perhaps, somewhere among the thousands lays a distant relation. You are a German American after all. You are not so different from them; they who, so many, were torn between their native and adopted countries. Pluck the small daisy from a patch of un-mown lawn and set it on the forgotten, mildewed stone. It is the least you can do for the twenty forgotten men, and you have nothing else to offer.

Whisper to the wind, “What drew you to this fate? What was your story, ended far too early? What could it have been?”

Society often idolizes the “heroes” of the winning side and forgets that not all soldiers share the same views as those that commanded them hence, to throw themselves over the top. Not all soldiers fight for what their opponents believe makes them the heathen. And yet, they will remain twenty faceless names on a placard. And in this secluded place, they will remain twenty-five thousand souls in the sea of a forgotten mass grave.

Is this how we treat the memory of the dead? This is not a demonstration of nobility or graciousness in victory or defeat. It is a travesty that so many should have to die for society to remember their humanity.

While in Belgium Part 2 (A Reflection)

I take a step onto the land, one foot following the other in that ordered cadence learned from infancy. Pause, and plant both feet firmly upon the ancient ground and allow the air to blow upon my feverish face, I wait. I stare. Ages have passed; the earth has changed forms, but ever it remains the same. What would the hills say if they could speak? What of the roots of the trees as they dig deep into the ground, layer after layer of rock and stone, into the depths that hide mysteries deep within their holds? What do they encounter? A piece of earthen jar? A broken bronze shield? A scapula? A skull fragment? Shattered spears and shrapnel? What stories could they tell of fallen men and empires or of the way people lived? Would we believe it if they did tell us those stories or are we too far beyond the reach of the objective observer?

            Long has time passed since then, and long has the ground upon which we stand endured. And yet, not so very long when compared to the spectrum of eternity… what is one life span in the great expanse? The earth moves, changes, adapts. It is ever malleable, but ever prevailing, even against machines of war. Caverns have been ripped into the skin of the earth, but it healed, though rough edges of scars can still be seen under the glorious beauty of a simple landscape covered in green grass and wild flowers. Who could ever know, looking at it now, that such horrors had taken place beneath my feet, the ground where so many lived and died naught one hundred years before?

            Plant feet firmly, imagination takes flight. Close eyes as one deep breath gives way to two and realize that the air no longer smells as pure and fresh as before. Carbonate, lead, dust and dirt, sulfur as if the very fumes of Hell have come up to assail the senses. Cries, moans, blasts of immeasurable size and consequence assault the temporal aspects of the brain, and as my feet regain purchase on the shifting ground, I open my eyes to discover the land is not as green as it had been just a moment before. Fog, created out of the dust, makes it difficult to breathe, let alone see. It suffocates, and the particles latch onto the sides of my lungs causing my breath to come in short, shallow huffs. Green turns grey, black, and varying shades of white as if living in a world without color. And yet, one color remains strikingly clear and unchanged.

            Life liquid pours to the ground, tainting water and collecting in the pools and craters. It practically shouts as it oozes and seeps from a fatal wound until it accumulates into a steady stream, down the young man’s arm and off his fingers. It drip, drip, drip, drops, quickly until his blood runs dry and the steadiness of his life ebbs away. Each drip a shout, each drop a cry. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drop. Until it fades away, slower and slower, until the voice is silenced forever.

            Does his body lie under my feet now? Is it his moans I hear on the wind? Does his family know he died with their picture close to his heart?

            The ground is muddy and barely stable enough to stand upon, let alone walk along, and yet, ghostly figures before my sight creep ever forward, only to fall. Their cries and moans are drowned out by the nameless face and his drip, drip, drop.          

            The third deep breath forces my eyes open, and this time, it is not a body at my feet, but a flower. And one can hardly know, if they stood where I stood, what history has written onto the skin of the earth. There are few these days who can read the scars.

            A tear slips past my defenses and as the images from seconds before burn into my memory, it slips down my cheek. The wind carries faintly, like on the edge of a dream, the sound of dying men en masse, yet it gently kisses my face. First one tear and then another falls, matching the echo of the blood spilling off fingers.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drop.

They splatter the scarred, grieving ground.

While in Belgium, Part 1

It is amazing how Literature can come to life when you stand in the place where the author stood as they wrote and see what they saw as they reflected on their life. While taking a trip to Belgium, my classmates and I saw Flander's Field where John McCrae wrote his war poem:

"In Flander's Field"


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.

  Now, in order to gain perspective, allow me to illustrate. Here is where McCrae would have been sitting, on the top of the bunker like Aid Station he worked at as a Medic:

And here is the field full of what would have been the crosses of the dead he'd be looking at. They are now replaced with headstones, and there are many. Poppies are also used as a symbol of remembrance, and they would have likely have been everywhere. Poppies grow in areas of upturned earth, (like what shells and burying dead would have produced) and I'm told they really like iron enriched soil, (think about all the blood on the ground). Now try reading the poem again... does it feel or mean anything different now?



"In Flander's Field"


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.

~John McCrae, 1915