On Remembrance Day, I think of my grandfather who, having only been 16 at the time, lied about his age in order to get into the Great War (the first one). It seems like a strange thing to do that but after a trip to England in 1990, I think I might have a better understanding why.
One of my destinations during my 4 month ramble around the UK was Mathon, England where Grandpa came from.
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I looked at the gravestones just outside the church and found it a little bit strange to see a few stones that shared my surname. (Interesting tangent – I found out a while ago that the surname Wall from that area is actually from a group of members of the Scottish Wallace clan who ended up down there when the Scots/Picts invaded down to the area, or so the story goes). There was a small war memorial in the church, and there were a couple of “Wall”s who were slightly older than my grandfather. I’m not absolutely sure, but I’ve suspected that perhaps they were his older brothers and that he had enrolled when they had, lying about his age so that he could go along with his brothers. Unlike his brothers, he made it back home (for which I am grateful).
Keeping this story in mind, I looked around the room Tuesday when we had our Remembrance Day assembly/service at the school. I thought of Grandpa – that he was only as old as many of the boys in the room when he had set off to fight in the war. I thought of what the school and the community would be like with all of them gone away. I thought too of how devastating it must have been for all those families with sons and brothers who never came back. This connection had never come to mind before, but maybe it’s something more real, more personal to think of it now that I have a son of my own. I always think of Grandpa on Remembrance Day, and now I’ll think of those many boys so long ago who didn’t come back.