Thanks Private Norfolk

 Dear Reader,

The 11th of November seems to come round very quickly and as usual my thoughts are with my dear father, Harold Huth, who was a soldier in this terrible war.  He served as a major with The Royal Army Service Corps and was mentioned in Dispatches on three occasions.  I have a letter written in January 1916 congratulating my grandparents, from a Colonel Harrison and his other officers, on their son's distinguished conduct and gallantry.  So today, Remembrance Sunday, I am thinking of you, Dad, and thanking you for the part you played to give us all the freedoms we now enjoy, and am sending you my love.

I have been reading a book about the first WW and am astonished afresh at how many men were killed in this war, and also how many animals were killed too.  Mules and horses, much loved by their riders, died in their millions.  I read that sometimes officers would sit by the heads of their beloved horse until they died, talking to them the while.

I always think, in an nonintellectual way, that wars are so unbelievably stupid. To waste your precious life on a small foot of mud or to bomb buildings and people, for what?  And the devastation afterwards is monumental, emotional and physical.  I despair thinking of Ukraine and seeing the aftermath of Russia's invasion.  Burnt out houses and cars, and what has anyone gained except an enormous amount of sadness and grief.

                                                                                      *

From Gilbert White, November 27th, 1782 in Hampshire

'Fierce frost.  Rime hangs all day on the hanger.  The hares, pressed by hunger, haunt the gardens and devour the pinks, cabbages, parsley, etc.  Cats catch the red-breasts.  Timothy the tortoise sleeps in the fruit-border under the wall, covered with a hen-coop, in which is a good armfull of straw. Here he will lie warm, secure, and dry.  His back is partly covered with mould'.

From John Ruskin, November 30th, 1875 in Surrey

'Herne Hill.  Bitterly cold and dark; the paper chilling my fingers.'

                                                                                     *

Thanks, Private Norfolk

You left singing, with your pals,
marching for good and glory.
You hadn't yet dug a trench,
killed an unknown soldier,
seen dead bodies, smelt their stench,
heard comrades' last sickening cries.

You gave your life with generous heart,
believed the lies
dispatched by loftier ranks.
And so to you, dear Private Norfolk,
I give my salute,
and my deepest thanks

for swapping your mauve rain-skies,
your white-breast beaches, and beckoning sea,
your level fields of ripening corn,
to fight in foreign fields, for us,
for me.

                                                                            *

If you enjoy my blog why not buy my memoir:   Half a Pair of People.  It is out on Amazon under the name Patricia Huth, in the book section.  Lots of reviewers think it is both hilarious and thought provoking.  It would make a good small Christmas present for someone who likes reading.

                                                                             *

With very best wishes, Patricia