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October 11, 2003, Scotsman A TIME TO REMEMBER, AND SAY THANK YOU Gethin Chamberlain IT IS the unexpected tear forming in the corner of the eye, the catch in the throat when it comes to speaking the words "we will remember them" that catches out the unguarded. Amid the serried ranks of uniforms, the royalty and the politicians, the silence is enclosed within the splendour of St Paul's Cathedral. Eyes fixed on the gilded arches above the choir stalls, or focused on the back of the person in the seat in front, two thousand people stand, utterly still. Through many minds flit the images of what they saw in Iraq, of the friends they made there, friends who never came back. They remember the nights when the only certainty was uncertainty, the mortars and the shells and the bullets that flew overhead, and sometimes hit their targets. They remember what it was like to go to fight in a foreign land. For others, it is a time to reflect on fathers, husbands or boyfriends who will not be coming home - Barry Stephen, Alexander Tweedie, James McCue, Jason Smith, Russell Beeston and all the rest. Outside, London goes about its business, but in the cathedral, time stands still. Six months after Saddam Hussein's statue was toppled and, with it, his regime, it is a chance to remember those who fell in the first major war of the 21st century. The Queen is here, eschewing black for a dark blue dress and hat. The Duke of Edinburgh and Princes Charles, Andrew and Edward and the Princess Royal, all are in uniform. Tony Blair is here too, somewhere up towards the front, arriving without ceremony on an occasion rich with ceremony. But for all the tradition and the finery, it is a curiously impersonal affair, no mention of the names of the fallen, no guard of honour, no military pomp despite the rows of seats packed with men and women in the navy and the khaki and the light blue. For much of the service it could be any state occasion, replete with hymns, readings, and the music of Bach, Britten and Elgar. It is only in that silence, after the final notes of the Last Post have died away, that it takes on the air of a tribute to those who gave their lives for Queen and country. Many had wanted this to be a full-blown military affair in celebration of victory, but politicians and churchmen alike resisted those calls. In truth, it was more jaw-jaw than war-war. The hymns were low-key and unfamiliar to many, no rousing anthems to stir the emotions. The prayers spoke of peace and reconciliation. As the Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams, put it in his address, it was a chance to reflect on what had gone and what was to come. It was, he told the congregation, an opportunity for leaders and people alike to renew their promise to restore peace and justice in Iraq. It was, he said, a time for those who spoke up for the war to accept the price of their beliefs. Having made themselves accountable for restoring peace and justice in Iraq, they would be held to account for it. A small figure in the ornate, carved, wooden pulpit high above the nave, he trod what was a difficult and precarious path. "When wars begin," he told the congregation, "it's often said that it's no good raising abstract objections: if you care about justice and security, you have a duty to do all you can to advance or protect them by any legitimate means - to be ready to pay the price of your fine words. "Then, as wars develop and when wars end, it's often said that what happens shows how bright ideals get tarnished as the fight against injustice breeds its own new problems. "Certainly, those of you who watched and waited here, in agonies of anxiety over loved ones serving abroad, will have known something of the conflicting emotions that all this involves - fierce loyalty to those actually putting their lives on the line, pride in their personal commitment, courage and skill, anger at those who seem to undermine them as they face the terrible risks of war; but also pain and bewilderment at the confusions of war itself, the shocking photographs of the innocent dead, the media experts with their daily questioning of how things are being run. "And for some - for many here today - the final and awful reality of a tragedy involving a son or daughter, a spouse, a parent. No amount of talking about ideals makes this easier; you know the cost in a unique way." There was, he said, a need to look again at what took the country to war, and whether lessons had been learned. The congregation listened and appeared to approve. Such ceremonies must always have about them an air of compromise, and there were those relatives whose anger at the loss of their loved ones could never be assuaged. But one father, at least, believed that yesterday's gathering had been worthwhile. Peter Brierley lost his son, Shaun, in a crash in Kuwait. "I would like to tell everybody about what happened today," he said. "Everybody should experience something like this, though not in these circumstances." Hopefully, he said, there were enough prayers being offered to get the peace that was needed around the world. The servicemen, too, seemed satisfied. "I lost a couple of good friends in an early helicopter crash and it was a fitting service for them and for the nation," said Lieutenant-Colonel Ben Curry. "It wasn't a thanksgiving service, but it was important to say 'thank you' to all the services involved. It was an act of remembrance and was very poignant." An hour after it began, it was over. They sang the National Anthem, waited for the Royals and the politicians and the clergymen and all the others who take precedence at such times to file out, and made their way outside. Little groups clustered on the steps of the cathedral, old acquaintances forged in the desert renewed on a chilly London afternoon. Closure, the Americans call it. Maybe that is what happened in St Paul's yesterday. In those long moments of silence, many will have been praying fervently that such might be the case.
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................................................................................................................. Copyright ©2004 Gethin Chamberlain. All rights reserved. |
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