THE YPRES TIMES
143
Photo] [Imperial War Museum, Crown Copyright
FILE OF MEN PICKING THEIR WAY AROUND SHELL-CRATERS IN NEWLY-WON GROUND ON
THEIR WAY TO THE FRONT LINE
Black despair our portion. The weary days, weeks, months crept on, each succeed
ing day bringing another day like the one before it. Our homes, our loved ones ever
before our mind's eye, praying for the day when we should be liberated, and able to
see them once again.
And then Peace. The glorious Peace the whole world had been waiting for arrived
at last. Wé stood bereft of speech. Could it be true. A new world was opening up
before us. Home. Loved ones. Work. Friends. We should return to them once
again and take up our accustomed place. Our joy unbounded. Release from captivity.
No one can ever understand our feelings as Prisoners in a Foreign land, and to regair»
realise to the full the true meaning of Armistice Day, when all noises are hushed, and
we stand bareheaded at 11 a.m. on each anniversary of this one day of the year, to the
memory of the fallen in the Great War.
Each succeeding year sees the annual parade of ex-servicemen grow less and less.
Their step slower, and more feeble. Their bearing not as erect as of yore. Hair
greying. Father Time overtaking many of them, leaving the survivors to carry on the
tradition of upholding the memory of their fallen comrades.
As I look back to Armistice Day, 1918, my mind goes back to a Salt Mine in
Germany, held as a Prisoner of War. Underfed and overworked.