A cemetery near Ieper

I am publishing this in my blog even though I wrote it 18 years ago (July 2003). It is an account that, unexpectedly, deeply moved me at the time, but it is also a reflection of parts of my own ongoing journey. Publishing it here is in response to a tragedy that occurred a week or so ago, near my home. I have kept the timeline as it was originally written - it was going to get messy to update times and stuff.

“We won’t see him again”, my great grandfather Daniel Ball said, sadly, as though to himself. My aunt, who was only four years old at the time, clearly remembers his words. She was holding her Granddads hand watching the soldiers leave for France. Daniel was speaking about his son William who made the mistake of looking back and waving as he reached the end of the street on his way to fight in 1916. It was bad luck you see, to look back. The other three soldiers with William didn’t look back and returned home a couple of years later. Superstition it may have been, but was fulfilled in this case.

I knew nothing of this until a couple years ago.

Whilst in Northern France on holiday, I came across a leaflet about the Somme battlefields of the First World War. I had heard of the waste of that war but had never looked into it. This leaflet though aroused my curiosity and on returning from France I asked my Dad if he had any stories to tell about it.

“Uncle Bill” he said, and disappeared upstairs, returning with a package from the bottom of some draw. Inside was a page from the Staffordshire Weekly Sentinel of March 2nd, 1918, (the things we keep?) with photographs of “Local men who have answered the call of King and country”. Four of my relatives were pictured, my Dad’s Dad and three of my Dad’s uncles, one of those being “Uncle Bill”.

“He was killed near Wipers,” said my Dad, “in Belgium”. “Wipers” he went on to explain, “was what the British called the town of Ypres” (he pronounced it ‘eeps’). Ypres is the French spelling of the Belgian town of Ieper, a bit complicated I know but stay with it.

Amazingly, for those times, three of those four came home, luckily for my Dad and me as he wasn’t born until 3 years after they had returned from the war.

Anyway, I did a bit of internet research and found that my Great Uncle William Ball was a Gunner in the Royal Garrison Artillery, died from injuries received in action on the 27th October 1917 aged 27, and that he was buried in the Huts Cemetery, Ieper, Belgium.

For the main part that was my interest satisfied. I told my Dad what I had found and suggested that I take him there sometime.

Of course, ‘sometime’ never comes and now it is too late for my Dad, but I returned to Northern France this year and was determined to find the Huts Cemetery.

I had poured over maps of the area, and the War Graves Commission website gave good directions, so finding the place was actually quite easy. However, the spooky bit was that it was almost as if I knew where I was going, as though I knew the area.

Pushing that thought aside I drove up to Huts Cemetery, slowly, gently, reverently.

It was a warm sunny evening, the area was very rural, it was only about a half-mile from the main road, but it felt like we could have been a hundred miles from the nearest town. A farm, just a couple of hundred meters away, looked like it was still in the early 1900’s, not falling down, just behind the times. The landscape all around, like most of that part of Europe, was low lying and gently undulating (it is no wonder they have a great love of cycling). Most, if not all of the fields were hedgeless but cultivated, a crop of corn would abruptly stop, and a patch of sprouts or potatoes would start. This view was punctuated now and then by a short straight line of tall trees or a copse edging one of the many tiny roads that meander through the area.

It was also punctuated by this cemetery. Roughly square and a bit smaller than a football pitch, a five-foot-high red brick wall capped in white Portland stone lined three of the cemetery’s sides. The sight was very distinctive, and yet, strangely, in balance with the farmland surrounding it. The perfect alignment of the uniform white headstones, the dominating white Cross of Sacrifice and the alter-like Stone of Remembrance giving the signature of Commonwealth war cemeteries around the world.

However, the most striking element of all was the quiet. Noticeable as soon as I got out of the car, and more so whilst in the cemetery ground, the sense of peace was extraordinary, both my Wife and daughter had the same thoughts. It was certainly not at all morbid or creepy, mind you there were five hours of daylight remaining.

Uncle Bill’s grave was in column 12, row C, plot 8, such is the accuracy of the war graves commission. As we walked toward it we were struck by the immaculate condition of the grounds, the trimmed grass (done that morning by the look of it, perhaps someone knew we were coming) neatly edged with small neatly pruned shrubs and flowers around every headstone – of which there were nearly 1100 in this cemetery. Uncle Bills grave had not been visited by anyone from my family before, it would have been nice to have had my Dad there with us, but he would have become a little emotional, as he did at those times, however it was not to be so we did it for him instead. The inscription on the headstone had weathered a little although was easily made out.

I said, "hello Bill", well, what do you say? Bill replied “…..” no I think I will push that thought aside as well (but he did reply).

We had a few moments of quiet reflection. I am 43 now (61 coming up), healthy, married with a family, and a level of peace, security and a way of life that my Great Uncle Bill probably joined up and died for as a single 27 year old lad in a bitterly fought and some say pointless war 87 years ago (105 now). As a race have we learned? I think not. Our technology is better, we only kill a few hundred now, not the 9 or 10 million of that First World War. But leaders still bicker, power is greedily sought, neighbours are treated with suspicion and threats are thrown at things that don’t suit our way of thinking, or that we don’t understand. Of course as human beings we are all guilty of thinking that our way is the best way, and it is a big man (or woman) that can listen to another’s point and give it its place with equal or greater merit than his (or her) own. And if someone with what we may think are wild ideas, ends up in power somewhere and a threat to our way of life then surely we must make efforts to resist that threat. But War? I suppose ultimately physical resistance is the only option left sometimes, in the playground as well as on the world’s stage. It’s easy for me to say ‘no’ to war, sitting in a peaceful cemetery in Belgium, but in reality there are genuinely bad people out there, people who want to hurt us for what we are – in some way different to them, and we must resist them. Thank goodness people do, but I am just glad I have never been called upon to do the resisting and I hope my family never will be. Or we may have a great nephew sitting with his family in a cemetery somewhere 87 years from now wondering why?

We took some photos, and I noticed then that my son was wearing his Arsenal football shirt, uncanny considering the logo on the shirt is one of a large wheeled gun the like of which Uncle Bill would have operated and exactly like the one on the headstone.

We stayed a while longer looking at the other graves, reading the inscriptions, counting them, checking the alignment – I am an engineer after all, and finally on leaving we came across a small insert in the gate post. Opening the brass door and looking inside we found the register and visitors book for the cemetery. 1094 graves in the register, mostly gunners, from all over the commonwealth – England, Scotland, Wales, Ireland, Canada, Australia, South Africa, India, ..... and just about everyone in their mid twenties. A generation was lost they say, it brings it home when you see the headstones. We added our name to the visitors’ book, only about the 12th or 15th this year, some of the

soldiers family members, some historians, some tourists. With so few visitors in a year you could question why we keep this cemetery in such fine order. But not only must it be done as a recognition of the gratitude we owe these people for our way of life, it is probably one of the 'rightest' things that can be done in the world today to reflect and pause as it may act as a perpetual reminder to look for every other way possible to resolve differences and when it looks impossible look some more before even thinking about picking up a gun. On every Commonwealth War Cemetery Stone of Remembrance are the words “Their name liveth for evermore”. And if in some way their deaths can act as a reminder to us now to ‘look outside of the box’ when faced with disputes and resolve them peacefully, then perhaps their purpose in death is immeasurable.

We needed to find somewhere to sleep for the night, and so had to move on. I wondered before leaving if I would come back another time. “Maybe”, I thought.

As we left I said, “Cheerio Bill”, well, what do you say? Bill was glad we came – find an aside for that thought as well.

It tells you somewhere how many war cemeteries there are in the area around Ieper/Ypres/wipers. The exact number doesn’t matter, but there are hundreds, most street corners and roadsides have directions to them, and remember of course that there are as many German as there are Commonwealth sites, we sometimes forget that. The Somme area further south has many more still.

I am no historian and I’m not sure if anyone actually ‘won’ that conflict, I suppose we did. But from what I could see I think we just ran out of men on both sides and stopped shooting.

Ieper is a fascinating place, the museums, the cemeteries, the chocolate, I would recommend a visit to anyone. Not only are the people very friendly and amiable but they also all speak very good English – and seem to want to.

Just before I sign off, one other thing - the beer - some of the best I have ever tasted, it’s worth a visit just for that.

Well Uncle Bill, you got me to Belgium once, I hope I come back again, but more importantly you have put another piece in the jigsaw, I hope that I can keep building the picture and put more peace in the world.

Your Great Nephew Paul