Stories never told
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
Excerpt from “For the Fallen”, Laurence Binyon
My grandfather Alfred served in both World Wars. He died before I was born, but according to my mother, he never discussed the horrors he was forced to experience during his war years.
And who could blame him? He’d been a young man from New Zealand, shipped halfway across the world to be shot in the muddy fields of Flanders. Laying in agony in the mud as he watched his friends die all around him. Coming home wounded, managing to start a new life, only to be sent away once more for country and commonwealth.
It’s no wonder he didn’t want to talk about it.
But people cope with trauma in different ways. My other grandfather served in the Navy during the Second World War. I have fond memories of the two of us sitting on his couch as he regaled me with stories of the battles he had survived in places with exotic names like like River Plate and Guadalcanal.
My grandfathers had different ways of dealing with war, but they had both survived the experience. And their stories survived with them. Not simply the stories of war, but of all of the experiences that make up a life. Their childhoods, meeting their wives, their children, work and retirement.
Millions of men were not so lucky. And what happened to their stories? Laurence Binyon’s famous poem “For the Fallen” features the famous line We will remember them, but how can we remember people when we never had the opportunity to know them?
“One of the group with tears shining in his eyes said, ‘Can you tell me Sir why good blokes like Capt Roberts, Ben Morris and Bert Goodlands and that fine kid MacCauley should be struck down?’”
– pg.295, The Relief of Tobruk, W.E Murphy
That fine kid MacCauley was my great uncle, Angus Alek. Known as Alek, he was only 23 when he was killed in Libya during the North Africa campaign.
The line in The Relief of Tobruk is one of the few mentions I can find of a life that was cut short far too soon. He was killed before he had the chance to start a family and share his own stories. His generation didn’t leave trails of memories across Instagram and Facebook.
All that remains of Alek are a handful of photos and letters, and a few memories of my grandmother talking about her “cheeky” older brother.
Millions of Alek’s were killed during the wars of the last century. Lives taken in their prime by cruel twists of fate.
We say we will remember them. We want to remember them. But the people who made the ultimate sacrifice are the easiest to forget.
Because their stories were never told.
