Lest We Forget

Today being Remembrance Sunday, I feel little inclination toward jollity. So instead I will tell you the story that I tell anyone who objects to Remembrance Ceremonies as being militaristic, or in some way condoning war.

One evening toward the end of November, 1944, an elderly, rather battered little freighter was sighted sailing alone past Flamborough Head in Yorkshire, heading North. She was headed to an east coast Scottish port.

The cook on board that ship was not meant to be there. He was supposed to be on leave but had agreed to do the trip because his oppo's little daughter was ill. He understood that; he had a little girl of his own, much the same age. In wartime, you helped one another out.

Night fell. When the sun rose again, the little ship was gone. Nobody ever saw her again. So complete was her disappearance that, even after the war, she was not listed as a war loss; no Nazi submarine , e-boat or aircraft claimed her. Officially, it was a mystery. Unofficially, everyone who knew their business was pretty clear what had happened: if a ship like that struck a drifting mine, there'd be barely a trace of her. A mine like that might be laid by a German naval vessel, or dropped by an aircraft, or (most likely) might actually be a British mine that had broken loose from a minefield in a storm. It didn't much matter. Of the little ship, and the men on board her, nothing remained.

Two of the Cook's brothers were also merchant navy sailors. One of them got the news when he was at Gibraltar on a homebound convoy. He sailed home and went to visit his sister in law. He found the war reduced, in that house, to two points; a young widow whose beloved husband had vanished; and a little girl who could not fathom why her father was gone forever. The whole thing; Munich, Poland, Dunkirk, El Alamein, D-Day...meaningless against this sorrow. The brother never, never forgot that moment. Sixty four years later, his voice still trembled relating that story. And he was a tough man.

The cook was a gentle man; a man who wouldn't hurt a fly. He'd transferred to coastal vessels to be near his family: the voyages were very dangerous but shorter. He'd be home more often. Although the strain of being on coastal convoys had shredded his nerves, he hadn't given up. He hadn't tried to come ashore. He was just a sea cook, but that was what he did. You did your job.

The cook was my uncle. His wife never remarried. His daughter grew up with only the memory of her father. His ship remains lost to this day. His only memorial is his name, carved with the rest of the crew, on the Merchant Navy Memorial at Tower Hill. My Great Grandfather's name is carved on the memorial for the First World War.

You do not always die, in wartime, charging a machine gun or gallantly sacrificing yourself to save civilians. Those are honourable and brave things. They should be commemorated. And to die in combat is an awful end and deserves commemoration. But sometimes you die delivering wheat or timber, or coal or petrol. Sometimes you die just trying to keep normal life going for everyone. Just Doing Your Job. And those sacrifices should be commemorated too.

And, of course, not everyone dies. There are the wounded, in body and in mind. And there are those who pass unscathed, but not unchanged, through the fire. They all deserve to be remembered: We owe them everything.

That is why I wear a poppy. That is why I respect war memorials. And that is why I do not joke this Sunday.