In Flanders Fields
(First published on December 8, 1915)
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.
~Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)
Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My friend
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On the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918, WWI was formally ended with the German signing of the Armistice. We commemorate this day – formerly called Armistice Day – with services and ceremonies honoring the sacrifices made by many.
And, for two minutes, we are in silent reflection each November 11th.
Adorned to our clothing is the poppy—the symbol we use to show that we remember those who were killed in all the wars and peace keeping operations that Canada has been involved in.
And we are reminded of a poem that was written long ago:
As a Canadian surgeon attached to the 1st Field Artillery Brigade during WW1, Major John McCrae spent seventeen days treating injured men—Canadians, British, Indians, French, and Germans in the Ypres salient (the area around Ypres in Belgium).
One death particularly affected McCrae—that of his young friend and former student, Lieutenant Alexis Helmer of Ottawa…on May 2, 1915 a shell burst had killed him. Lieutenant Helmer was buried later that day in the little cemetery outside McCrae’s dressing station, and McCrae performed the funeral ceremony in the absence of the chaplain.
The next day McCrae vented his anguish by composing a poem.
It only took him twenty minutes to complete it.
In the nearby cemetery McCrae could see the wild poppies that sprang up in the ditches in that part of Europe, and that morning they were being blown by a gentle east wind…so he used the word blow to describe what was happening.
…
When I was a child, I stood in the field.
I saw all the crosses standing row upon row.
I’ll never forget.
Do you know the poem I’m referring to? (I’ll have it in my next Blog post.)
Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My friend
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“So far as I recall Nov. 11th 1918 came and went within the dreary confines of Giessen prisoner-of-war camp, without us having the slightest inkling of what was going on in the ‘free’ world outside… Soon after breakfast we were paraded in groups of around fifty men and marched at a hot pace through the camp to the precincts of one of the most comprehensive delousing stations we had ever come across. Fashioned out of some ancient farm-buildings with high-roofed barns on the fringe of the camp, it was manned by a forbidding horde of untidy German soldiery, garbed in long, off-white short-sleeved gowns, each armed with the oddest collection of ‘toiletry’ gadgets-hair-clippers, scissors, razors (safety and otherwise), scrubbers, hand-brushes, loofahs, sponges, rough-haired towels, huge blocks of evil-smelling ersatz soap, and large canisters of equally evil-smelling ‘disenfectants’.
“Altogether the joint looked like something designed by a demented Heath Robinson, peopled by a gang of mentally disturbed sadists intent on inflicting injury to anything in sight. Furthermore, each ‘torturer’ had a horrible grin on his face. We didn’t like the look of things one bit. But it turned out to be quite a comedy. Suddenly, a giant of a fearsome-looking Prussian guard-type screamed out one word, which we all understood: ‘STRIP’. Then at a signal from the giant, the good-natured torturers descended upon us with something akin to glee—the barbers with their rusty, dull-bladed clippers and shavers first-until, within the swish of a whisker we were reduced to the bald bareness of our birthdays.
“The scene was bizarre in the extreme and not lost on those of us with a sense of the humour. But that was only the beginning. A few shouted words of command from the senior N.C.O.’s and we were ushered shivering with cold, into the main building and shunted through a badly-lit maze of narrow duck-boarded corridors and cubicles where for a full thirty minutes we were drenched alternately with fountains of hot and cold water assaulting us from every angle, steamed with jets of scalding vapours, scraped, soaked, soaped, submerged in cauldrons of slimy oil, again bombarded with torrents of hot water, battered with rough towels, brushed with canvas sacking, finally propelled head-first into a huge bath of soothing water before being disgorged, pink and panting, into a barn-like room-there to be handed back our very own uniforms, now stiff and hot from dry-heat ovens and stinking of ersatz disinfectant which reminded me of the ablutions at Ripon camp on inspection day.
“It may be said that, as we recovered our breath and dressed ourselves in our clean, lice-free uniforms, everybody felt there was a good deal to commend German de-lousing methods. It was the nearest approach to bliss in captivity that we’d ever experienced, and we could but concur when the German orderlies smiled at us and said, ‘Good, Jah?’. We marched back to our billet light of head as well as of foot and empty-bellied, ready to gorge ourselves on our newly-acquired Red Cross parcels.
“As we lounged back on our wire mattresses, replete and satisfied, we were not to know that earlier that November day Field Marshal Sir Douglas Haig had sent a message to his victorious armies:
“’Hostilities will cease at 11:00 hours today, November 11th. Troops will stand fast on the line reached at that hour which will be reported by wire to advanced Headquarters.’
“And that as a handful of inebriated gunners had thrown a few spare shells – most of them blanks – into the enemy trenches around eleven o’clock, an eerie silence had descended upon the torn and battle-worn fields of Flanders for the first time in four years.
“The war was over, but we – wallowing in our new-found bliss born simply of a good bath and a good meal – knew nothing of it, which is probably as well since I am quite sure that had we known, we would have torn the place to shreds – lock, stock and machine-gun emplacement – just for the hell of it.”
~Private James Brady
Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My friend
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With Remembrance Day approaching, let’s take a journey back in time to WW1:
“July 3, 1916
Hello Princess [Miss Ada McGuire],
Your last letter and paper received. A paper here is very much appreciated. We are doing well on this front. The 16th have been in the Reserve trenches for quite a while. I was up for the front line 3 times. You can have no idea what it is like. The night seems the worst.
We will be getting a rest in a couple of days. I guess it will be a short one, about five days – Every night we used to get a drink of rum Gee whiz! How we used to look forward to that medicine after being on a working party all night. They have stopped it now for the summer. We do nothing by daylight, just stay in our “dug-outs” Well you will have to wait until I come home for experiences and news in general. These letters are of course censored and I don’t want to say anything that I should not say.
So Willie is trying hard. Tell him to stay where he is. Last night I was out on a working party about a quarter of a mile from the front line. We were covering up a cable. When we were coming back about 1:30 a.m. I was just congratulating myself on returning nice and clean when down I go in the cutest mud hole I ever saw – (but that’s nothing).
We left our kilts behind a few miles. Our dress consists of trousers cut short above the knees, steel helmet (which is a great life saver against shrapnel) that is one item I do not like – “shells” – their noise and the whining through the air. They have no ear for music at all.
But the main thing about this letter is that I am well. Won’t we appreciate a bath – say! Luxuries are at a premium, but we don’t need them here. We get cigarettes and tobacco sent to us from some unknown source so you see we don’t do so badly. Give my love to aunt Tillie and Mother, keep up the good spirits fair maiden, and everything will come to those who wait.
Au revoir Girls,
Edgar. [serving in the 16th battalion of the Canadian Scottish, based somewhere near Flanders]”
Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My friend
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My heart, my thoughts and my prayers go out to Brandon Crisp’s family and friends…and to everyone who was involved in the search for him.
(Brandon was the fifteen-year-old Canadian boy who took off from his home three and a half weeks ago…and disappeared.) There had been no trace of his whereabouts…that is until his abandoned bike, having a flat tire, was found a week later.
Everybody had been filled with hope that the young boy would be found…that he would return home safe and sound and that life would go on as before.
And then two days ago, after 1600 volunteers had been involved in a search for Brandon, deer hunters stumbled upon his body.
(Brandon was only a few hundred yards from where searchers had already looked…and a few kilometers from where he lived.)
He had run away from home when his parents took away his Xbox console because of what they said was his addiction to the online game “Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare.”
The game had become his identity. And according to media reports, his parents now realize that Brandon must have been devastated when it was taken away. Had he committed suicide? Had he died from exposure? Although no foul play is suspected in Brandon’s death, police say they are examining every possibility.
I’m sure his parents’ are feeling numb…are almost paralyzed in a world of unreality…hardly believing they will never see or touch their child again.
This is one of those times when those of us who are parents, will be hugging our children a little closer tonight…and feeling a choking tightness in our throat…while those parents who’ve experienced the death of a child will weep as they revisit memories of those excruciating moments when they learned their child was deceased.
It isn’t fair, is it?
Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My friend
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Last night as I watched my eleven-year-old son going through the fluid moves of the basic techniques in Butokukan karate, a sport he recently adopted (with an “I love it Mom!” enthusiasm), I was pleased to see the class finish (and start) with a short meditation—as far as I could tell, his eyes were closed and he was focused on his breathing and on his inner world.
(To know my son is to understand he generally operates at a hundred miles an hour. So it was wonderful to see him in a moment of quiet reflection.)
Not only is my son learning stances, blocking, striking, kicking and sets of moves against imaginary opponents, he’s also learning about himself, developing his character, and gaining life skills through the art of self-defense. The benefits are enormous: mental, spiritual and physical discipline, self-confidence, self-control, respect, focus, balance, and strength…all wrapped up within an opportunity for making friends.
And I can already see a difference in his attitude towards life! —Ever enthusiastic, he is also becoming gentler…more thoughtful.
Yes, he’s learning to push beyond his own limitations, discovering what he can truly do, giving himself a goal to strive after, getting a great physical workout, and becoming more at peace with who he is.
I suspect the barriers that he thought were too hard to tackle (and caused him a great deal of frustration) have become a challenge…something that he now believes can be overcome, instead of something to turn his back on.
And I give great thanks to his instructor (the sensei) who is a 5th degree Godan (a high level of mastery in black belt as far as I can tell).
And to my delight, my slim and gentle thirteen-year-old daughter said last night, “Maybe I’ll join karate!”
One of the things sensei David said was, “Stopping violence is always done first by trying to avoid it. The second is to ignore insults and remarks that do us no physical harm. The only time one is required to use karate is when physical harm is intended, and no escape is possible.”
I think I’ll be able to rest more easily knowing my children can defend themselves in this unpredictable world.
Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My friend
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The ability to “breathe with awareness” is a great tool to have on your healing journey—it helps relax your mind and body.
Set aside five minutes at the end of your day, for the practice of breathing.
Begin by repeating the following phrase silently, five times, slowly:
“In every breath, there is life; in every breath, there is peace.”
Then simply watch quietly for the next several minutes, the rising and the falling of your chest, as each breath is welcomed into your body, and each breath is released into the surrounding peace.
As each breath comes and goes, let the mind find its own quiet, and let the body relax just a little.
End the exercise as it was started, saying five times:
“In every breath, there is life; in every breath, there is peace.“
Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My friend
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To get to a different place in life, you have to take a different road.
And the road we choose to travel is different for all of us.
On our journey we each take differing amounts of time along the way for the things we need to do. (We all make different stops along the way…and sometimes we even retrace our steps.)
And each of us may live in different countries—some of us are just learning the language of grief through a recent loss, and others are veterans of death.
And although we all have different ends, I can say, “I believe you can make it through this” because I did—I was once a newbie in a different country struggling to learn the language of grief, and I survived (despite doubt crossing my mind several times)…and so can you!
No, you won’t forget.
And although you will continue to feel pain, it will be different. With time your pain will be more acceptable.
Yes, you’ll stumble around obstacles and fall in potholes or flounder in ditches…sometimes coming upon them without warning. But there’s no way around them…there’s no shortcuts…so allow yourself to go forward…you will get through this.
Just take it slow.
Be good to yourself.
Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My friend
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A little humor can go a long way:
“Stressed” is just “desserts” spelled backwards.
Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My friend
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It’s not a secret…nearly 20 percent of U.S. veterans returning from Iraq and Afghanistan suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder or major depression. And according to one study, only slightly more than half of them sought treatment.
There can be many triggers…like crowded malls:
“You get used to scanning what everybody’s doing. Your brain just starts working so fast and it’s purely instinctual because you want to know what everyone’s intent is around you,” said one army sergeant who served four years of active duty.
“You want to know if anyone has the intent to harm you or the capabilities to harm you.”
Yes, hyper-vigilance is one common symptom of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).
People with PTSD may become more depressed, aggressive (exhibiting violence; fighting; flashes of rage), or emotionally detached and feel helpless and sink towards suicidal thoughts. Plus there are the anxiety attacks (panic attacks) and the trouble with sleeping…and for many perhaps a decline into alcoholism.
If you live with PTSD, you can get lost in endless negatives that can lead you into physical and mental exhaustion.
And this will not just disappear because you wish it to be under control!
Seek out help.
And as you wait for help, live for the day…and give tomorrow another gentle effort.
Be kind to yourself today…be gentle with yourself tomorrow…and the next day…and so on…
And it helps to set boundaries to protect yourself.
Try different techniques of self-healing…learning how to relax your body and mind.
Click here for real stories of people who have experienced combat-related PTSD.
Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My friend
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