Remembrance or Obsession Plus Time Drifting Away

 

                                         Sgt Jez Doak RAF?MOD

I often wonder about people who study the Great War.  

On my Twitter feed there are many, apparently normal, men who spend an enormous amount of time visiting war graves to 'pay their respects.'  On occasion I begin to wonder if these men are trapped in a war fantasy.  I quite understand the desire to know more about the two major wars, individual stories and actions, I see the interest there clearly.  However, it appears to me something is not quite right.  Many such men are living near the Great War Battlefields in France and Flanders, just up from their homes lie several war cemeteries, and during good years they often act as guides to the areas of action, relating stories learnt over many years and often from ex-servicemen themselves.  

But I sometimes wonder if they lack something in their lives?

Men require something they can attach themselves to.  Many spend an enormous amount of time reading ancient railway timetables, others visit war graves, still others rebuild ancient cars or motorbikes, some are 'Star Wars' fantasists, some support a local football team, all fine and respectable activities, although those that have wives, and not all do, may find the women have differing opinions to them.  Women, for reasons of their own may not like a house disguised as a railway station, or a football museum.  Some go to far and yell and scream when the engine of the BSA 250 is found in bits on her best tablecover, or yet again the young nephew is being regaled, willingly or not, about the 'Retreat from Mons' for the umpteenth time.  

Women are strange.

Why do men require such obsessions?  

I suppose they could become obsessed with drink or drugs, neither of which do much good in the long term, a gardening obsession could at least feed you and fill the house with attractive flowers, and the accompanying beasties.  Other obsessions could be found which may not please the wife nor be so useful.  

I wonder about men who spend their time 'paying respects' at war graves.  I appreciate remembrance from most people, I wonder about it with such men however.  Some may well have been in the forces, others have no war experience.  

It just makes me wonder if they really comprehend the individuals whom they stand before.  Do they think dead servicemen are greater than men around them today?  If so they clearly do not understand the men involved.  These were ordinary men of their day, just like those around them now, not 'Heroes' for the most part, certainly not the 'Best Generation' as the gutter press would have it, these were just men forced into a Great War, their sons forced into the second war, often without ever knowing their fathers.  Good men, often producing heroic actions, bad men, living off everyone around them and committing war crimes, most men, just responding in a good or bad manner to the situation trapping them.  Some enjoyed war, some hated it, especially those who got hurt, some profited from their time, others lost much.  But do these men standing at their graves really see the real man under the slab?

Just what does drive them to 'pay respects' so often in this way?  We all pay respects at least once a year, what causes this reaction, annually, monthly weekly even daily with such men?  An obsession with war that is in their minds or an understanding of the real thing?  

Also, if they respect the dead like this do they also consider the wounded of recent wars?  Those suffering PTSD and all too often committing suicide months or years after serving?  It is easier to remember the long dead than the suffering living today.

My knackered bodies day was complete as when leaving Tesco I got caught in a downpour.  Forgetting to eat last night turns out not to have been a good idea.  Carrying a bag full of veg (how come it was so heavy?) did not appeal either.  Lockdown has not helped my fitness.  

Standing puffing under a tree, many were doing this while the rain hammered down, I glanced at the back door of the 'Subway' opposite.  I was interested in the year '1902' with initials vaguely seen high up, as people sometimes argue about when this row of shops appeared.  However it took a moment or two before I realised the TV seen opposite that made me wonder again was in fact part of the air control system in the shop.  At least I think it is.  No matter how smart a shop may look from the front it is always worth a look round the rear, an impressive image of a business can be gleamed this way.

 

 

Who is stealing time?  

I arose at 7:22 this morning, slowly as normal, yet within minutes this clock claimed it was 10:22!

This does not make sense to me.

After the Tesco trip I found time to eat sausage rolls and drink tea, next thing it was 4:22!

Who keeps stealing the time?

Now I have time to myself I note it is almost 7pm, what is going on?

Worse than this is the calendar.

The other day it was early March, today is the 25th of May!  

What happened in between?  Who stole the days?

Time is rushing past just to fast for some of us.  When will it stop?

 

Poor History

One of the many standard media fillers these days is sentimental pictures of troops from the great war.  The DM of course knows its readership and each week, often each day, a similar second world war tale is shown.  This encourages some to remember the days when they 'stood alone' and others to fulfil their 'Waffen SS' fantasies.  The UKIP and Right wingers love these pictures.
The style is always simple, as it appears from the spelling mistakes, unchecked facts, and constant wrong information so are the 'work for free' employees who have been fooled into thinking they are learning journalism.  (This one was stolen from yesterdays 'Daily Express' apparently)  The simple style calls all 'our boys,' 'our boys,' always 'Brave' and certainly 'heroes.'  There then follows in the comments columns the usual drivel from the same UKIP/right wing nutjobs.  Half the comments claim "What would they say if they saw our country now?" The rest, "They fought Germany and Germany rules Europe."   Many with little tact indicate foreigners are living here of the fat of the land that 'our heroes' won.
I get annoyed at this.
Now I know a little about two world wars and I know that many what we see in these comments in the tabloids is the result of half truths and lies spewed out by said papers, all to benefit the owners and the Conservative Party.  By blaming immigrants for twenty years a generation, mostly over fifty, have come to believe their nation has been stolen from them, they are indeed right but not in how they see it.  With their eyes on immigrants and an unhistorical view of history the deluded have been and are being robbed daily.
Many immigrants came here after serving in our forces, fighting our wars, and suffering for the DM reader.  They deserve a place in this nation.  Anyway what right had we to go into their land and steal it?
It is certainly true that many who served in the Great War were heroes, many courageous acts occurred, often from people least likely to do them before they left.  Many also committed horrendous acts of needless aggression and enjoyed the opportunity to kill, maybe the DM reader would appreciate them of course.  He would be less likely to enjoy him living next door.  In the first war over two and a half million men volunteered, a fact that annoys those who claim the war was a 'rich man's war fought by the working classes.'  These like to blame royalty infighting causing war but royalty while making mistakes had nothing to do with making war, nearly all were impotent.  On the ther hand Asquith the somewhat double minded Prime Minister (still better than what we possess today) lost a son in the war, Churchill himself played at soldiers in the trenches for a while, and the general also lost children fighting.  The Great War involved everyone not just the 'lower orders.'

Were the dead of the Great War a futile dead?  No, had they not served, the French would have ost and that Germany, just as cruel as the later one, would have dominated the world.  Should so many have died?  Sadly it takes two to fight and unless one side steps down the other remains.  Politicians are responsible for wars, and there were none able to stop it and many willing to continue it.  
The second war was easier to defend, it could have been avoided by better politicians at home and abroad but in the end it had to be won.  Were these men better heroes?  No these were no different from the earlier generation, it is just that the later war appears less messy, it wasn't.  
Were these men brave?  Brave enough to go 'over the top' or be shot for cowardice?  The bravest were those who for decent reasons refused to fight and insisted on a better world, they suffered for their beliefs, they were the brave ones.  It is easy to follow the crowd it is difficult to stand out and be abused.

I often ask the commentators who suggest todays generation are not like the previous ones 'what regiment did you serve in?' and et no reply.  They have never served, didn't want to serve, and would be no better than today's or any other generation of forced into war.  The bulk of the men were often brave, more often afraid and very glad the war is over.  They did miss the comradeship, missing at home, the excitement, foreign travel, pay, fun and laughter and a few tears also.  They came back changed and indeed still do whether from Northern Ireland, Iraq or any war we know little about.  I am never keen on calling servicemen 'heroes' but they deserve our respect, especially today when they are all volunteers and still face death if called into action.  We ought to thank them and avoid the nonsense in the daily press.

I WENT into a public 'ouse to get a pint o' beer,
The publican 'e up an' sez, " We serve no red-coats here."
The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:
O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' " Tommy, go away " ;
But it's " Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band begins to play
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it's " Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band begins to play.

I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,
But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' " Tommy, wait outside ";
But it's " Special train for Atkins " when the trooper's on the tide
The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,
O it's " Special train for Atkins " when the trooper's on the tide.

Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap.
An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.
Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an` Tommy, 'ow's yer soul? "
But it's " Thin red line of 'eroes " when the drums begin to roll
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it's " Thin red line of 'eroes, " when the drums begin to roll.

We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;
While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an` Tommy, fall be'ind,"
But it's " Please to walk in front, sir," when there's trouble in the wind
There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,
O it's " Please to walk in front, sir," when there's trouble in the wind.

You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all:
We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an` Chuck him out, the brute! "
But it's " Saviour of 'is country " when the guns begin to shoot;
An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
An 'Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool - you bet that Tommy sees!


Rudyard Kipling

Dead Men Tell tales...

 

I have spent much time avoiding the sun, head down over the laptop searching for dead men.  There are plenty around, in fact they are all over the place, we never appear to run out of them.  I am reminded of one wit who, in a creepy tone  reminded his listeners that the dead outnumber the living, what is worse it that their numbers are growing all the time.   When you consider that in the twentieth century, which seems so long ago now, it was customary to identify and bury the war dead we forget that for centuries before this often a less organised system operated.  The winning side may have dug one grave and marked this for their men while being less caring for the opposition.  Each culture followed their own ideas.  Only the other day I read of a grave in Poland of dead Russian solders killed in action and buried reasonably well in the circumstances but with little marking it appears.  In hot countries it was the thing to strip bodies and reuse material and later gather the bones together, many just left them for the dogs of course.

Sometimes I wonder if we treat the war dead in those large cemeteries better than we do the men who survived?  After the war men were sent home with a few pounds as a 'gratuity' and thanks for coming and left to their own devices, today there is some help at 'debriefing' but I winder if it is enough and do men take it?  I doubt our government cares, caring costs too much!

Tomorrow I will leave aside the dead and work on something a bit more cheery.

The end of the Hot Spots in sight.  Up north rain has teemed down and I have enjoyed sending pics such as this to my friends.  Well they were friends before I sent the pics.  Today clouds hung about for a while and normal temps appear.  I might be able to go out properly now!   This is a shame as I was enjoying watching the half naked women  young children playing in the sun, they were so happy running around the park.  

The heat changes the way we look at life.  Our outlook is affected by the climate and geography in which we grow.  Peoples living high up in mountain regions do appear to have a tough outlook on life, Australians in the 'Bush' also develop this and like to show a droll humour to go with it, something lacking maybe in those in the mountains?  What does that make city dwellers raised in comfort and ease?  Those raised in a land where it rains, clouds go gray easily, and cold winds find openings you never knew about have their own individual outlook on life... 

Musings

The Hancock programme last night got me thinking about the changes to society since that was broadcast in 1960.  Fifteen years before these men had been young lads sharing a wild adventure, one that shared real danger both for them as individuals and for the nation as a whole.  The actors themselves knew the reality of both war and reunion parties as all had served somewhere or other. Those trapped in normal work were able to escape this through war service and great numbers attempted an acting career after demob.  Hancock and the others clearly succeeded while others fell by the wayside and returned to real work.
The contrasting attitudes of Hancock and Sid to reunion tells much.  Tony is desperate to see his old chums remembering them as they were fifteen years before, Sid couldn't care less as his mob were self seeking types and he remembered them for that!  How many millions of men watching this programme (and Hancock could get 25 million watching at the time!) identified with one or the other?  How many had similar reunions?  I wonder if reunions became more important as time past? A reunion after fifteen years finds men possibly building a family, a career or deeply involved in survival.  Thirty years on when in their early fifties life is different for many and looking back becomes more important.  Comradeship from dangerous situations revives and family or work pressures may ease up somewhat.  
Many men endured the Great War and enjoyed it!  There was death and hard slogging, mud and bullying NCO's but the comradeship and even fun behind the lines was unlike that found anywhere else after the war.  Those men could find comrades throughout the country, some known others merely men with fellow feeling and similar memories.
Civilians never get that sort of comradeship.
Hancock could not be broadcast today.  Thousands may have served in the army but the vast majority of the nation would not understand the feelings engendered nor the need for old soldiers to reunite.  I doubt they would understand returning empty bottles to get the 'tuppence' on each either!  While Hancock was making a thousand pound a week making these programmes ex-servicemen were lucky to get double figures, and this was at a time when 'we never had it so good!'  TV had become the norm in most houses and only two channels to choose from.  Radio was seven years away from 'pop music' and people on there still spoke 'with a plum in their mouths.'  Only in 1960 did the working man find a bit more money and some even ventured into buying a car!  Crossing the Atlantic was still made by the Cunard line ships and only the very rich boarded the BOAC jetliners such as the 'Comet.' 
I was still at school.
My dad served in the 'Kings Own Scottish Borderers' 2nd Battalion from 1925 - until 1932 protecting the Empire and keeping the natives in China and India compliant.  He never forgot his regiment!  At the outbreak of WW2 he, like all others, awaited conscription which eventually came his way.  He attempted to return to the KOSB's but was refused on the grounds that he was 'too old!'  He would be 33 then!  Instead he was placed in an artillery battery where he spent the war however I think he still saw his regiment as the Kings Own Scottish Borderers, soldiers are like that.

A Mixed Bag

With the arrival of temporary sunshine I took the opportunity to visit the cemetery and upgrade the fotos on the war memorials.  The newly cut grass gave off a sweet fragrance as I walked across the wide expanse looking for my friends who have lain here so long.  I had permission to do this from the various bodies concerned.  I am happy that I managed to find most but not so happy that the one perfect picture of a colourful robin sitting atop a stone was missed! Typical!
My knees now ache as the exercise, which I need, is much harder than when I was a boy.  It appears almost impossible to get rid of the aches from the muscles after exercise, no wonder folks don't do it. Anyway I walked there and back and stuffed my face afterwards with fattening stuff.  This may have been the wrong option.
  
Nothing else happened.  The election fills the papers, interrupted only by gunmen in various places, and with no football till the weekend I have had to fill the spare time reading Tacitus.  His history may not be quite as we would write today but gives an interesting insight into Rome in the first century.  A while back I looked at the emperors for the first 300 years and only about seven or eight actually died normally in their beds, the rest died by poison, sword or pillows over the head.  The Emperor had amazing powers and few considered changing his role into a more democratic one, it appeared he could kill anyone just because he said so.  This certainly was Caligula and Nero's way and the rest made use of their position to remove troublemakers.  Hmmm maybe this is worth returning to, if I am emperor of course.   
Life in Roman times were very rough.  It is difficult to understand how such life could be endured yet we see similar around us much of the time.  ISIS appear keen on a similar style, without the pretend civilisation and empire, and occasionally it rears its head elsewhere, North Korea perhaps. A strong ruler could dictate a decent society, better than ours perhaps but in the end he dies and who knows what kind of man will take over.  In the end a free society means people have to be free to choose, that as the Ashers bakery in Northern Ireland and the Evangelical Preacher in the south coast have discovered does not exist.  They have both been browbeaten for party gain and by the courts at that!  
We need to use our freedom such as it is as it may not last much longer.  Who knows what mess lies ahead and the after effect of the next election will be structurally changing for this nation.  Other events will soon occur to make us worry.  Life is never what we wish it to be.  I would be perfectly happy with a small cottage with a sea view spending my days watching the sun go down as I feed the birdies and with constant sunshine on tap.  I am easily pleased.


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The 70th.

It may well be that you have had your fill of D-Day commemorations.   I had the TV on since early morn watching  the BBC's coverage of the events in France.  There can be no doubt that this British led operation was a historic event.  Had it failed, and it could have cost 40,000 lives, not 9000, it would have taken another few years before a second attempt could be made.  By that time Stalin may well have been in Paris!  General Bernard Montgomery, given little prominence today, was the man responsible for the operation.  This was the last great operation of the British during the war.  A second plan, at Arnhem, might well have shortened the war but that failed!  However this one worked, a beachhead was established, Canadian, British, American troops all took the beaches in front of them, in spite of some determined resistance in areas, and the difficulties many endured.  Also arriving were smaller contingents of Dutch, Polish and other nations who were determined to defeat an evil empire. How strange I always find it that people will spend money to watch Hollywood pap in which an evil force is defeated yet will not read about real situations in which a really evil force is opposed.  Fantasy horror is better than reality.  
My father was not involved in this event, although he crossed the Rhine some time later but only after waiting two days while the armour went over! However on our local memorial we find Flight Sergeant Dennis J Sims of 234 Squadron did not return while on low flying duties over the enemy coast.  Gunner Kenneth Puttick fighting alongside No 6 Commando is recorded as dying on the 7th. He is buried at Ranville Cemetery, Ranville being the first village liberated after 'Pegasus Bridge' was held. Nearby lies Private Arthur Graham attached to the 7th Paras.  His date of death is given as the tenth and he like many others died in the intense fighting that followed D-Day.  Few realise that more people were killed during the last year of the war than in the four previous years.
Watching the dignitaries gathering, some with military experience, some who endured the war, I appreciated the need for formality and organisation, not least of all security, but found the clean, smart people, cheery and happy all around somewhat at variance with the clips of war film shown.  The young men running up the beach had thoughts very different from those of us watching from the comfort of home.  We often sentimentalise such men rather than treat them as human beings.  We always refer to them as 'brave,' 'heroes,' and identify them as different from ourselves.  To some extent this is true, however they are men, not all were 'heroes,' few were 'brave,' all were under military orders, some would not be people we would want living next door.  Without this invasion however the world would not be rid of Hitler and his crazy gang.  The Nazi hordes enslaved their own people and such slavery can be found worldwide today in many nations.  Sadly all too often we do not see it!
Those men interviewed on TV today looked happy.  Many were happy to be there as such a gathering cannot occur again, the organisation behind it ceases to exist as the aged soldiers fade away.  Ordinary men from everyday homes did extraordinary things and freed the world of a tyranny.  We cannot forget this, and our prosperity today has a great deal to do with their action in the air, on the sea and on land that day 70 years ago.   

OK Everybody, Back to Work!

Right, that's it, holidays are over, the kids are back to school tomorrow, you return to work, unless you are in Australasia where you are already sitting on a bus heading for the destination longing to be back enjoying the high life. Others will emote that depression later in the next 24 hours.  I also look to struggling out in the morning as being Tuesday I will be attending the folks at the museum.  Now the school hols are over we will not have a thousand bairns wandering around leaving glitter all over the floor, drawing rude pictures on the old school blackboard, nor putting sticky fingers on glass cases.  We will have adults doing that instead!  Of course soon after lunch I will be back home full of ideas to forget in the following days, and probably asleep and dreaming of delights unknown for a wee while.

You are I am aware sick to the teeth of my preoccupation with dead soldiers, so let me shake your molars once again.  Having succeeded in finding Private French, the last man in that cemetery, I today soldiered on in my quest to find the last Great War grave in the main cemetery.  For the umpteenth time I wandered around the dew covered grass, in what was becoming a very warm sun, searching diligently for a man who would not acknowledge my calls. Then today, while wandering fruitlessly in a corner I found him, right under my nose! Several other men are buried nearby and somehow Sergeant Smoothy had hid himself.  Still I found him now and all the local men buried here are identified at last.  

A sad tale indeed lay in front of me.  I suspect Smoothy had been a regular soldier at the outbreak of war and fought his way through some of the bitterest fighting at Ypres, Loos and probably the Somme also.  His Division was demobilised early in 1919 and on a 'first in first out' basis he returned home to his wife and almost two year old son.  However within a few months he developed an appendix problem and died in hospital leaving his widow with the son to look after.  A year later this poor lass suffered again as her three year old only child died and joined her husband in the grave.  The effect must have been traumatic but she herself lived on until 1963 when at 80 years she rejoined her husband at last. Love is a strange thing, she never remarried, possibly because of love, possibly because she was in her thirties also, possibly because the trauma did not allow her to.  How very sad.

Also quite sad is the name on the foot of the fallen crucifix to the side of our man.  I had a quick look but the name is not found on Google.  This couple lived their lives and passed on leaving so little trace even Google cannot find their name anywhere! 

Interesting Scotia Happenings

gCaptain

'Gardyloo,' as you well know, was the exclamation shouted from old Edinburgh tenements when someone wished to empty their 'pisspot' into the gutter that ran down the middle of the narrow close.  Such a load offered from several floors above, some buildings reaching ten stories, was not the most pleasant part of Edinburgh past.  Walking through it on the way ho,e from the tavern would not have been a barrel of laughs either I suspect.  Hygiene was not much improved anywhere in what is laughingly referred to as the 'United Kingdom' until the middle of the nineteenth century.  Then Ministers of Health were to be found in most cities and sewerage, slum clearance, clean water and soap brought much needed improvements.  Edinburgh, not surprisingly, produced some of the best and most inventive doctors in the world!  They had a lot to go on, as it were.  

During the twentieth century, which some of you may be old enough to remember, Scotland's capital still had problems with sewage.  By this time pipes ran way out into the Firth of Forth depositing unwanted material into the waters where it would be passed on into the north Sea. This is the same same North Sea where our Haddock came from and they kindly recycled the stuff back to us through the many 'chippies.'  I recall the early 70's when Edinburgh streets were in upheaval as a new sewage works arrived down Portobello way at Seafield.  Normally this seaside 'resort,' I use that word sparingly, contained the youthful Hibernian players and their fans idling the day's away while bigger clubs participated in European competition, however during this decade the contents of the sewage pipes had failed to reach the Haddock in the North Sea and instead arrived unwelcome on Porty beach.  Some folks still swam!  Leith people eh?  The council swiftly moved into action, once a backhander had arrived, allegedly, thousands of tons of new, clean sand was deposited, the new sewage works opened  and people removed the clothes pegs from their noses.

This was not without mishap of course.   While working in the infirmary one chap (English of course) arrived in the ward, both hands tied to a rack keeping his arms in the air.  Behind him came a nurse carrying a small bowl containing several of his fingers, or bits of his fingers.  He then had Professor James sew them back on again.  I spent the next two weeks looking after him, doing all those things you wish you could do yourself, until he was considered fit enough to return home.  I wonder how his hands are now?   Possibly the shaving cuts have healed also?  He was a warning that when fixing a large industrial fan, make sure it will not swing round swiftly when your hands are inside!

The fitters work at the Seafield plant may have been good, at least up till someone switched the fan on, but Edinburgh still had an excess of waste to deal with, this is where the 'Bovril Boats' come in!  'Bovril' itself as you know was an invention of an Edinburgh Butcher, John Lawson Johnson.  He later moved to Canada (because Edinburgh was too warm?) where his 'beef glaze' was developed into 'Bovril' as we know it today.  This he sold to Napoleon's army and made his name and his money!  However the substance also gave its name to the 'sludge boats.'  To remove the contents of the sewers boats collected from sewage farms as much as they could contain and sailed into recognised areas at sea and dumped the lot for the tides to disperse. From 1978, while I existed on a pittance in a hole in a wall in Notting Hill the M.V. Gardyloo operating from Leith Docks, took up to half a million metric  tonnes of 'sludge' from the people of Edinburgh, and headed of to St Abbs Head or the 'Bell Rock' to release its contents there.  For twenty years this interesting operation continued.  However while the dumping ground was carefully chosen, and the ship 'ponged' a wee bit the interesting thing was the passengers!  At no charge twelve passengers were entertained on the short trip and were given breakfast, coffee and biscuits, lunch and even their tea while they inspect the sea life on the islands in the Forth, especially the Bass Rock I suspect.  In between using binoculars on nesting seabirds or examining the wheelhouse the ship would dump its load on unsuspecting Cod.  Their opinion has not been recorded.  A very good day out this seems to me and I wish I had known of its existence at the time.  I would have been aboard at a shot!  Sadly EU regulations forbade such dumping in 1998 and these boats curtailed their employment and were passed on to others for less exciting work. The 'Gardyloo' now transports 'fresh water' for Azerbaijan!  The Seafield Water Treatment Works, a nice way to say 'sewage,' continues the work, although much attention is required concerning the 'odour' that local citizens may notice from time to time.  Some £50 million may have to be spent to deal with that.  The boat was cheaper!

BBC

From 1950 until 1953 the United Nations fought its first war, this took place in Korea.  The 'Cold War' had begun and used third world countries as battlefields.  Our fifty years of peace were fifty years of war for Africa, South East Asia and Central and South America, among others.  Fifty to a hundred million died, still, we were doing OK so that's alright then.  The Japanese had dominated Korea for around a hundred years and when removed in 1945 a political decision meant the nation was divided between the Soviets to the north and the USA to the south.  The two nations began to develop along different lines and in June 1950 the Communist North invaded the South making the UN rush into action - eventually.  An army comprising twenty nations, with almost 90% being American, arrived under 'Mad Boy' MacArthur.  The United Kingdom, still devastated after the defeat of Hitler, sent a large number of troops to this war, much against public opinion!  Two major wars in fifty years, a depression and now with rationing still ongoing few cared about a nation they had never heard off.   However a force built from the Commonwealth was sent.  The British Commonwealth Forces Korea (BCFK) comprised Australian, New Zealand, Indian, Canadian and British  forces and numbered 100,000 men and this was always led by an Australian. For the most part however these men have been forgotten!  The British units involved are named here.  

Allowing for the lack of news at the time, TV was in its beginning after the war and the Radio and newspapers appeared to play down the war itself.  Indeed one returning soldier stepped of a train in Edinburgh's Waverly Station where a friend greeted him.  When asked where he had been he replied "Korea," and his friend had no idea what he was talking about!  The war was so badly reported because no-one wished to know.  The Britain of the early fifties was rebuilding after the war, houses were in desperately short supply, wages were low, the ravages of war and the building of families and a new life took precedence.  The men who served, and suffered greatly, were forgotten.  As indeed were those in Britain's other small wars, the 'End of Empire' wars.  

Now however this new enlarged memorial has been opened to remember those Scots who served before they all pass away.  Situated in  West Lothian, of a Korean design, surrounded by Scots and Korean trees to represent the dead, the hills also suggest Korea to those who were there.  Many died there, many were traumatised, as any 19 year old on National Service would be!  Forgotten on their return, ignored at the time, these men endured for their country as did those from the other conflicts since that time.  It is good that something is done to remember their actions. 

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Hero's

Cynic that I am I was sent pondering this afternoon about our 'Hero's,' or at least our use of the term, for our soldier boys. There are myriad US websites, blogs, and what have you, all dedicated to their 'Hero' soldiers, 'Fighting the good fight.' Whether they, or indeed the men fighting, actually understand why they were sent to Iraq to search for a man situated deep in the Pakistan hills is doubtful. However the desire to support the loved one in a dangerous situation is to be lauded.

I am a little bit concerned we are falling into this trap also in the UK. A short while ago the media was full of politicians and generals informing us that we need to 'support the troops.' What they really meant was we need to 'support the war,' but this did not fool many. For why? Well there was no animosity towards the 'troops,' in any way shape or form. Even the Guardian and other left leading papers, mags and blogs, did not attack the troops. In fact they gave the safety of the troops as one reason to bring them home from an unnecessary conflict. The 'Hero's' were not being attacked, the war was!

We however are in danger of adopting the schmaltzy Yank manner of dealing with this. Soldiers, indeed policemen who die when washed away in storms, are not 'Hero's' in a slushy sense. They are, brave, dedicated, and never rewarded adequately certainly, but not comic book 'hero's,' and ought not to be used in this fashion. This attitude feeds the platitudes of politicians and Hack newsmen, along with some of the relatives, but as a nation we do not respond so well to the schmaltz.
Anyway, thinking of the conversation with a sergeant in 3 Para where we mentioned this poem which sums up much of the truth about folks approach to soldiers. It says it all as human nature never changes!

TOMMY

I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer,
The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here."
The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:
  O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go away";
  But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play,
  The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
  O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play.

I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,
But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!
  For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside";
  But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide,
  The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,
  O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide.

Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;
An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.
  Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?"
  But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll,
  The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
  O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll.

We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;
  While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, fall be'ind",
  But it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind,
  There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,
  O it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind.

You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all:
We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.
  For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!"
  But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot;
  An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
  An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool -- you bet that Tommy sees!

Rudyard Kipling Complete Collection Poems