This morning I observed the silence on the threshold of a supermarket, trying to quietly restrain my mother who hadn't quite twigged what was going on. When she did she stood stock still, though and lost herself in her memories.
Hers are far more immediate than mine. Her father was in 'the first lot' in Palestine and Flanders and shouted in his sleep for the rest of his life. She endured the Blitz in the East End of London. I feel so lucky that my life has been easy. But I remember too.
I think of the young men of the 3rd Monmouthshire Regiment, who joined up in a patriotic fervour in 1914. February 14th 1915 they arrived in France. On 8th May they joined the assault on Ypres and by the end of the month there were so few left that the regiment was temporarily disbanded. Some were gassed, some were shot, some just disappeared into the mud, 42 were killed by shell fire while on parade in the grounds of a chateau. Another recruiting campaign took place and Abergavenny and the surrounding parishes sent more young men. They too disappeared into the maelstrom that was the Western Front and in August 1917 the regiment was disbanded and the few survivors transferred to other regiments. Of the officers, one survived the war. All his fellows were killed. One Lt Steele died in his first five minutes on the front line when someone said "Watch out for snipers, sir," and he said "Where?" In 1939 it happened all over again. Approximately the same death toll but spread out over the whole conflict rather than one fell swoop. There's no room left on the war memorial. There's a plaque in the Town Hall instead.