Remembering

It’s nearing that time of the year where we remember. Armistice Day and Remembrance Sunday are vital days on which we honour our armed forces members who have died in the line of duty. Arguably, the greatest charity of them all, the Royal British Legion, cares for ex service personnel, or veterans as we now seem to call them. It operates where we, as a society, have chosen not to do so. Without the RBL where would so many of those who served our country be today?

As per usual, my own poppy didn’t survive the journey from purchase to home so don’t judge me if you see me poppy-less in the coming days. It means as much to me as it does to you.

My own family military history is virtually non-existent but mercifully they all lived through it. My mother, the young Neeltje Verburg, survived the destruction of Rotterdam at the hands of the Luftwaffe inn 1940, as did her mother and father, Anna and Marinus, and her brother Jacobus. They lost two homes in quick succession, as well as all their possessions and suffered the German tyranny until 1945. As a teenage girl, she looked on, terrified, as the heroic Dutch marines fought a losing battle against the overwhelming numbers enjoyed by the invader. She saw men die. Later, she watched on helplessly as Jews were rounded up and taken to Westerbork transit camp before what for many was their final journey to Nazi concentration camps. Indeed, Marinus was repeatedly questioned about his supposed Jewishness – he wasn’t, but apparently looked Jewish and what sort of name was Verburg? Throughout the war, they existed on scraps. Marinus set traps on their verandah to catch small birds such as sparrows which the family had to eat, raw. There was no glory in war for my mum and her family.

My father, Anthony Johansen, was too young to serve but that didn’t stop him, as a 14 year old, falsifying his age in order to sail on the Liberty ships, crossing the U-boat infested North Atlantic in order to bring vital supplies from American to hungry and desperate Britons. I had many differences with my father, who lived in Canada for most of his life, but nothing can diminish the pride I feel for his heroism, serving his country in the best and only way he could. His father, Alfred Johansen first of Norway and later of Bristol, became an air raid warden. My family did what they could. I can’t ask for more than that. I will always be grateful for what they did, as I will always be grateful for everyone who fought for their country.

Although I often blog about my family and the war, the public Armistice and Remembrance Day ceremonies are not for me. I am of course highly supportive of the importance of remembering the past and that’s what I do, albeit with my own thoughts and reflections. Each to their own. Our armed forces, past and present, represent the very best of us, as do the large army of civilians who did their bit, too. I never met my paternal grandfather, Marinus, who died three years before I was born and no one in the family, with the exception of my father, spoke much about the war. Anthony was blessed with a phenomenal memory and could instantly bring back to life the events of many years ago. Indeed, when he was at the Bristol Cathedral School, a German bomb landed in the courtyard outside his classroom. It could easily have landed on his classroom and killed him and he looked upon every day that followed as being a bonus, right up to his death in 2011.

We have much to be grateful for and I am more than grateful to have grown up during an era without a world war. There have been many conflicts in my lifetime, like the Falklands and Iraq wars, and there were victims. It’s not just the terrible wars from 1914-1918 and 1939-1945. Our armed forces have given their lives and suffered injuries throughout history. The RBL is needed as much today as it always was. And that is why we remember.

We walk in the shadows of greatness and that’s why we should never forget. Which is why Remembrance means so much to me.