The 11th Hour of the 11th Day

The village was definitely going to be rained on this morning but it seemed to make no difference to the crowd who gathered outside the Marie just before 11am. Officials wearing red,white and blue sashes mingled with housewives, children and old soldiers. A little girl came up to me and admired my poppy and then pressed a blue sticker onto my chest which said in French, words to the effect that "Memory is transmissible but hope is given". An elderly relative told her that I was from the United Kingdom which was why I was wearing a poppy, and I felt several curious but kindly eyes on me.

If it had been England, we would have set off for the war memorial just down the road by about 10.45 in order to be in place for the two minute silence at 11am, but this is France, and by the time everyone had kissed everyone else, it was nearly 11.10am, but suddenly with a flurry of flowers and umbrellas, the crowd formed themselves into an orderly line, and we set off down the narrow village street.

The worst of the rain eased off and we stood bare headed at the War Memorial while the Mayor read out the names of soldiers from the village who had lost their lives in various wars, starting first with those lost during the 1914-18 conflict. For what must have been a tiny village in those days, the loss of over ten young men must have been catastrophic, but only one local man had lost his life during the 1939-45 war. It was a poignant moment when the Mayor read out the name of his own close relative who had lost his life in Vietnam, and as the flags dipped, the sound of the Last Post echoed around the Place in front of the ancient church.

A young boy stepped forward and spoke about how the children were still very aware of the sacrifices made, and it was the children who carried the wreath of flowers ahead of the procession. We stood shoulder to shoulder as "La Marseillaise" rang out and the Mayor thanked the British, Commonwealth and American forces who had come to their rescue, and then in true French fashion, everyone was invited back to the Marie for a pre lunch drink.

On my computer, I had watched the Service of Remembrance at the Cenotaph and seen the petals drifting down from the roof of the Albert Hall, and England and France seemed very close. My dear Dad who was in the RAF and my mother who nursed at the Royal Northern throughout the Blitz were very much in my mind, while Jean thought about his grandfather, General Fagalde who had commanded the French troops at Normandy.

Four years ago, I had stood on the after-deck of the QE2 out in the southern Atlantic Ocean and watched a similar ceremony take place, and today they are dropping one million petals onto her decks as she awaits the start of her final journey from Southampton to Dubai. A man stood next to me that day and wept for his shipmates who had all drowned in the freezing waters of the North Atlantic after their ship was torpedoed, and the silence on that great ship is one of my enduring memories.

Thank God for every last man and woman who put on a uniform to defend us from the unthinkable. We shall not forget.