My relationship with Remembrance Sunday and the Poppy Appeal has not always been straightforward. As regards war, this was not something my father, an RAF Bomber Command veteran chose to remember when I was young. His memories started to come out more when he was much older—and then they faded again when he developed dementia. I don’t think he could ever make his mind up whether his young sons should be indulged with stories about bombing Hamburg. When I was in the RAF myself I refused to buy poppies—because the black plastic bit in the middle still bore the inscription ‘Haig Fund.’ I was much imbued with the narrative of callous generals (and inter alia) politicians wasting lives for nothing. I thought at the time if that’s what they want to do with us then they should pick up the tab, not charity. On our base the poppies were sold by the Station Warrant Officer’s wife so my refusal to buy one probably contributed to my not being made up to a Squadron Leader, or maybe even a Group Captain. Other ranks for me!
Now my attitudes have softened, but not to the extent that standing at the ceremony down at Scarborough’s lifeboat station I can take seriously the overwhelming Christian nature of the evocations of God’s mysterious peace loving mercy. How do Iraq veterans feel about that? I doubt that half or even two thirds of the crowd actually believe in God, only a few could recite the words of the Lord’s Prayer. The time has come to have acts of remembrance which reflect reality, rather than endless prayers to the not-so-Almighty. Of course, each to their own.
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