It was always going to be a special season of remembrance.
In a year that marked 100 years since the start of World War 1, 70 since the D-Day landings and the end of official British operations in Afghanistan, war and its sacrifices dominated the national agenda, The amazing poppy display at the Tower of London, which I wrote about here, elevated awareness even more, with millions flocking to London just to see it. Last week I rode up on the train next to a man who hadn't been to the capital in 20 years, but this was enough to draw him up from Somerset.
The icing on the cake, however, was my husband's invitation to march with veterans of his army unit in the official Remembrance Day parade past the Cenotaph, which transformed us both from observers into participants. Him fully and me, of course, in a very minor, proud-hanger-on sort of way.
The atmosphere around London on Sunday was extraordinary. There is a fellowship amongst comrades in arms that is extraordinary, and beyond anything I've experienced in civilian life. They may not know each other, they may be generations apart, but they all share the same commitment to a cause and the same unique experiences. Those of us who are related to them can share just a bit of this. The result on Remembrance Day is like a family reunion … for tens of thousands. Everyone smiles at each other, everyone is kind and considerate, everyone strikes up conversation easily. (This is not London as we know it!)
Upon arrival at Waterloo, a line of taxis decorated with poppies waited to take veterans to their places, free of charge. I accompanied Piers onto the vast parade grounds behind Horse Guards, where organisers were standing with placards naming their various divisions and organisations. Around 5,000 usually march; this year, totals were well over 8,000. I left him and his colleagues to their catching up and wandered about to drink in the atmosphere.Heightened security made a sinister element to this year's events, sadly, due to terrorist threats. Massive concrete barriers turned Whitehall into an exclusion zone; to get onto the street itself you had to wait in a hefty queue and go through airport-style screening. I skipped that and circled the route, watching viewers streaming in. Even the far sides of Parliament Square, where you'd just glimpse a bit of the marchers turning back towards their starting point, were packed five to eight people deep. It seemed a missed opportunity not to put screens up both there and in Trafalgar Square to handle overspill and let people participate communally. I can only speculate that organisers were caught off guard by just how many people came to London.
I settled in for the two-minute silence at the top of Whitehall, just below Trafalgar Square. From there, I had a glimpse of one large television screen set up along the official route, so I caught the official laying of the wreaths by the Queen and the government officials.
The silence itself is a profound experience. To stand in what's normally one of busiest traffic points in London, amongst thousands of people, and have the world go quiet … it seems impossible. And yet it happens. Even cars and busses stop. The absence of sound is so acute, it is almost a noise in itself.
And then one sound broke into my consciousness. A grandfather kissed the top of his grandson's head. And that said it all, really. We gather remember those who have fallen. But more importantly, we gather in hope that the next generation will not be called upon to risk a fall. Between human nature, religious conflict and the global political situation, it's an unlikely hope. But
the fact that we cling to it, despite those realities, validates the sacrifices. A better world is always worth fighting for.
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