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Unknown, but not forgotten.


Remembrance Sunday

On a cold November Sunday morn, an old man sits a while
Looking though old photographs, he can’t help but smile
They’re all there, all the boys, with hair cut short and neat
Uniforms of khaki, strong black boots upon their feet.
They met as strangers but soon became like brothers to the end
Smiling at the camera, there could be no truer friends.
They all took the Queen’s shilling, went off to fight the hun,
Soon learnt the pain of loss once the fighting had begun.
So many never made it home, lost on foreign shores
Many more were injured and would be the same no more.
The old man’s eyes mist with tears as he remembers every face
Each of his fallen brothers and the killing which took place
He proudly dons his beret, his blazer and his tie
For today he will remember the ones who fell and died.
On his chest there is a poppy, a blaze of scarlet on the blue
He steps out into the cold, he has a duty he must do
Once at the cenotaph he stands amongst the ranks
Of those who marched to war and those who manned the tanks,
He bows his head in reverence, as the last post begins to play
And he wonders what will happen at the ending of his days
Will anyone remember? Will anybody care?
About the lads so far from home whose life was ended there?
I wish that I could tell him, that he should fear not
For this soldier and his brothers will NEVER be forgot
We owe a debt of gratitude that we can never pay
And this country WILL remember them, on each Remembrance day.

Maria Cassee



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Remembering all those who fought and survived,  but bore the scars until they died.

The Dad who cried silent tears every Remembrance Day for the brother in arms killed next to him in Egypt  and many others.

The Father in Law reported as missing at sea,  presumed dead,  three times,

 The uncle who would only ever say he fought at Montecassino.

The Mother in law who still mourns her fiancee who was killed on the very last day of WW 2.

The ravages of war that last a lifetime.


There but not there.



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We went and attended the rememberence parade in our village this morning (West Moors, East Dorset), and there was well over 1,000 people in attendance. The local authority close the village throuugh road at 10.30, and the parade started.  All went very well, and even the rain held off til we started walking home. While we had the silence, i was remembering a photo of 3 men, one of which was my Uncle Jack aka John Philip Lawlor, who was killed in Holland in 1944. He was an uncle i never had the privilage to meet. 

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My mother used to tell the story of how her father who had been very badly wounded in the 1st world war was out one day after the war had ended when walking round  a  corner he bumped in to an old friend who promptly dropped down in a dead faint,  he later explained to granddad that he was on his way home having just attended a ceremony for rhe erection of a war Memorial and among the names on it was that of my granddad together with those of both his brothers! In fact both his brothers had been killed and granddad died of his injuries some  15 years later, so it was somewhat prophetic.




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My Mam told me that my Great-grandad, James Feltham, was the most hated man in Holyhead during WW1, given he was the recruiting officer (NCO) for the Welch Fusileers. His eldest son James died aged 19 in early 1917, a sapper with the Royal Engineers, who died when the trench his platoon was digging came under fire.

My Grandad Harry (b.1898) joined the Welch Fusileers, became a sniper and thankfully came home in one piece. He never spoke about the war.  I sometimes wonder what his real thoughts were when he came to see me perform in my school’s performance of ‘Oh! What a lovely war!’. I so loved my Grandad...such a ‘gentle man’.  Very quiet..and very caring.

On a lighter note....Mam said he inevitably won the prizes at shooting contests and fairs.

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