Remember

Remember

It's unseasonably warm sun for mid-November, even for south-west
France. There are flags around the memorial &; outside the Hotel de
Ville. Folks are out with their dogs, leashed or free-roaming. A single
market stall is selling oysters, and the boulangerie is doing a good
trade as everyone who is up, out and passing is buying bread. The
traffic is light as there are no HGVs are on the road, this being a
Sunday. Families in cars occasionally pass through. The hub of a
Classic Mini Owners Club stop for croissants - four guys and a
bored-looking girl in two cars and a van, all circa 1970.

It's ten to eleven on Armistice Day, and the only people near the
memorial are five young local boys. The four youngest are about 12 and
have mountain bikes, the fifth is a bit older and has a scooter. No-one
official. No-one old enough to be a veteran. I get a sense that this is
how it will be a few years from now - when there is no one left alive
who actually fought in the World Wars. An old Citroen passes - at least
that was around in the Forties!

Then it begins. I see a small, wizened old man in a beret, with two
medals pinned to the chest of his leather bomber jacket. Soon, other
men join him - some dressed casually, some in suits, and a few in the
navy blue and red striped dress uniform of the gendarmes. When they
move off, I follow at a discrete distance to find a growing gathering
in the sunshine outside the Hotel de Ville.

There is much greeting and kissing and handshaking, and as I watch,
more men and women in uniform arrive - similar except for differing
coloured hat bands &; a variety of epullettes and braids. Two
veterans arrive, carrying heavy embroidered flags on thick wooden
poles, supported in leather strap-on carriers.

Gradually, the group forms itself into a small procession, with the
standard bearers leading, and set off through the narrow streets to the
memorial, already bedecked with three French tricolours. On arrival,
the procession breaks into two groups - the uniforms form two smart
lines to the left of the memorial, whilst everyone else stands before
it.

Wreaths are laid in silence, salutes are offered, and then two local
dignitaries make short speeches on the tragic losses from the two World
Wars, and the need for on-going repect and gratitude for those who gave
their lives.

After a one minute silence, the National Anthem was played on a
refreshingly lo-tech 20-year-old tape recorder. The man who made the
first speech - the local mayor, I believe - thanks those present,
bringing a short, moving ceremony to a close.

I did think of all those millions of valuble lives lost in the
senseless 'guerres' of years gone by and, sadly, of those being lost
this very day in conflicts around the world.

I also thought of my Dad. Last time I saw him, earlier this year, was
some hours after the cancer had finally killed him. The disease had
stripped his face of much of his friendly, jowly flesh, and death had
drained what was left of his colour. He would have been 70 today.