DAY ELEVEN ~ Tuesday: 14th April 2009.
Today we went our separate ways. Because of the full day on Monday, the Revolutions group decided to leave Versailles until Wednesday. Some others decided to stay with the itinerary and go to the Sun King’s palace. Still others went to Musee D’Orsay or the Louvre.
The Revolutions group began at the Musee Carnavalet, a museum devoted to French history. Most of the second floor focuses upon the French Revolution. It is a virtual treasure trove of historical memorabilia. The keys to the Bastille can be found there, as can Lafayette’s sword and a document satchel for a member of the National Assembly. The paintings are fabulous. The collection includes such iconic works as David’s Tennis Court Oath and the famous portraits of Robespierre, Danton and Louis XVI. The lesser known ones are also fascinating, especially those celebrating the first anniversary of the storming of the Bastille, the imprisonment of the royal family and the desecration of churches, including the exhumation of former monarchs from St. Denis. Another painting depicted the Jacobins in hell. The collection was not sympathetic to the Jacobin cause. There were plates, clocks and numerous other artefacts commemorating key events. There was a mini bust of Louis XVI, complete with horse hair to mark the occasion of his beheading.
From there, we proceeded to Hotel de Ville and noted the doorway from which Louis, for the last time attempted to assuage the crowds and convince them of his commitment to the Revolution. There was a present day protest of sorts there too; a university group was walking in circles and demanding changes to recent government decisions regarding universities. Gendarmes looked on, with as much indifference as they could muster.
After lunch, we marched to the Conciergerie, which originally served as a residence of the kings of France, then became the seat of the Parlement of Paris and then, during the Revolution, prison and seat of the Revolutionary Tribunal. It was a chilling place. For all suspects and prisoners, the Conciergerie would have been a brutal, abhorrent and menacing venue. The cell in which Marie Antoinette spent her last days before her execution was forbidding and friendless. The site where she had prayed and received her last rites had become a chapel. In another chapel, the condemned Girondins had feasted and comforted one another on the night prior to their executions on 30th October 1793. A small courtyard afforded the prisoners some occasional opportunities for exercise. They could wash their clothes in the small fountain. It was also called the corner of last goodbyes; here condemned prisoners waited for the cart which would carry them to the scaffold.
The Pantheon was our final destination. This structure was conceived as a cathedral to rival St. Peter’s in Rome. In 1791, however, the monument was turned into the national Pantheon to honour Revolutionary luminaries such as Mirabeau, Voltaire, Rousseau and Marat. The history of the Pantheon offers a lucid insight into the impact of the Civil Constitution of the Clergy and the determination of leaders of the Revolution to efface the influence of Christianity. According to Robespierre, the Jacobins and others, this action was necessary because of the manner in which the Church had supported despotism for centuries. Much of the artwork associated with the cult of the Supreme Being was “removed” after Robespierre’s demise and the basilica again became a place of Christian worship. In 1885, Victor Hugo’s funeral saw the Pantheon revert to being a secular monument. Alexander Dumas, Emile Zola, scientists such as the Curies, political figures and resistance fighters are buried in the crypt. In 1851, Leon Foucault installed his pendulum, which dramatically demonstrated the rotation of the earth.
This day offered us a window onto the world of the Revolution. Often it was disturbing, but the view was always intriguing. Our piece de resistance was to dine together at La Procope Restaurant, a Jacobin and Enlightenment haunt which had been operating since 1686. The food was delicious and the company, delightful.
DAY TWELVE ~ Wednesday: 14th April 2009.
Our little group of fourteen toddled off to Versailles via Metro and RER. Without any drama, we joined the queue, which seemed much shorter than the mighty anaconda I recalled from three years ago. Using some advice from a providentially good English speaking attendant and proof of our identity as teachers, we managed to get all the students in for free and the adults in for 10 euros each. We also jumped the queue.
Versailles is magnificent.
The palace corridors seem vast and endless. I remembered my dapper little French guide from three years ago saying that less than 40% of the treasures from Versailles had been recovered; they had been plundered and sold off by “those vile Revolutionaries.” The chambers nonetheless seem crammed with glossy ornate cabinets, glass polished tables and gilded chairs, each the work of a master craftsman. The timepieces, globes, books, and other artefacts were exquisite. The beds were monumental. And the mirrors were everywhere. Appearance at the French Court, it would seem, was everything.
Louis XIV, The Sun King seemed to want all who visited to be awed by his radiance. Versailles is a testament to his ego. There are constant references to Roman art, Roman theology. Louis wanted his wealth and power to rival that of Caesar’s. From that perspective, there is something obscene about Versailles. Beautiful as so many of the murals and paintings are, I found myself being reminded of Shelley’s poem, Ozymandias: “Look upon my works ye mighty and despair.”
There were two places of particular interest for me in the palace. The first was the stunning Hall of Mirrors. Because the hall was being renovated when I last visited, this was my first viewing. The mirrors made the corridor seem infinite. Light, glass and wealth seemed to glitter and walk with you as you floated along the shimmering space. The second was Marie Antoinette’s boudoir. The massive bed of crimson and creams topped with white ostrich feathers was memorable enough, but the doors on either side of her bed recalled the drama of events which pervaded the room. The queen had fled for her life through one of these doors in October 1789 when a revolutionary mob invaded the palace.
The Petit Trianon was like a child’s dolls house at the bottom of the most expansive garden imaginable. Beautiful as the village and its rural landscape was, it was nonetheless a form of prison for the Queen of France. It was also a measure of her childishness. Marie Antionette lived in such a rarefied, fantastic world, and she paid most dearly for it.
Versailles absorbed our day. Despite the mini train ride which had jostled and jolted us from the palace to the Grand Trianon and back, we were leg weary by day’s end.
At 7.30 we gathered for our last meal together. The hostess was effusive. The food and wine were delectable. Best of all, the restaurant was within five minutes walking distance from our hotel.
DAY THIRTEEN to SIXTEEN: 15th to 18th April 2009.
After packing and relishing our last petit dejeuner in the cellar of the Hotel Alesia, Jacqui and I set off for St. Denis while most of the others made their way to the catacombs.
St. Denis was a 20 minute Metro journey away. For centuries, the cathedral had been the final resting place of French monarchs. We were surprised that the building was not more grand or clean. Much of the facia was black with city grime. Be that as it may, St. Denis was an impressive historical site.
Legend has it that St. Denis was beheaded at Monmartre, then miraculously tucked his head under his arm and trotted off to the site of the basilica. Some 1000 years later, Saint Louis of France decided to add legitimacy to his dynasty by attempting to link it to both St. Denis and Charlemagne. He ordered sixteen recumbent statues of his ancestors constructed and established a necropolis for the kings of France in 1263. The tradition continued until the Revolution. Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette were interred at the Chapel of the Atonement after being executed at the Place de la Revolution in 1793. Because St. Denis had become a symbol of the monarchy, from 12th August to 26th October 1792, the monarchs in the cathedral were disinterred and their remains placed in two common pits in vacant land adjacent to the north of the cathedral. While there may well have been a pragmatic motive of using the lead in the coffins for the war effort, the whole exercise, seem motivated by hatred, vengeance and fear rather than anything else. During the remainder of the Revolutionary period, the cathedral was used as a hospital. At one stage Napoleon fancied the notion of being buried at St. Denis and this served to protect the site to some extent at least. Upon the restoration of the monarchy, Louis XVII ordered that St. Denis become the necropolis of French kings and that his brother’s remains and those of his wife, Marie Antoinette be recovered and reburied at the cathedral.
Perhaps the most macabre story, however, relates to Louis XVI’s son, who died at the age of ten on 28th June 1795. There was considerable speculation about the dauphin’s death. The doctor who performed the autopsy, Pelletan, cited tuberculosis as the cause of death was cautious about identifying corpse as that of the dauphin. Nonetheless, Pelletan stole the heart of the boy. The mystery surrounding the dauphin’s identity was only solved in April 2000 when DNA testing on the recovered heart confirmed its genetic link to Marie Antoinette. A memorial to Louis XVII contains a crystal urn in which the shrivelled remains of his heart are on display. It seemed to me to be the crowning indignity for a little boy who had been so badly mistreated.
Internally, much of the basilica was beautiful. The rose window was particularly so, as were many of the recumbent marble tombs. They were also a history lesson. The marble monarchs, their queens and their princes and princesses had open eyes and were facing east, awaiting the dawn of resurrection. At the feet of many of the figures were hounds, which, it was believed would guide them in the darkness of the underworld. Others had lions at their feet. This too had links to the concept of resurrection: it was believed that lion cubs open their eyes and see their world for the first time three days after birth.
While Jacqui and I were exploring the crypt at St. Denis, many of the others were making gristly discoveries of their own in the catacombs where the skulls and the bones of Parisians lined the walls. There was a debriefing with Jo Prestia at La Procope; one last espresso before gathering our luggage from the not so secure room at Hotel Alesia and heading out to Charles De Gaulle airport.
The trip home was arduously long, but the company was excellent and the homecoming was wonderful.
Thank you to Bruce for his able organisation and to the group as a whole. The Western Front Tour was a superb educational experience.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Western Front ~ Villers Bretonneux and beyond
DAY EIGHT ~ Easter Saturday: 11th April 2009.
At the Adelaide Cemetery in Villers Bretonneux, we began our last day on the Western Front. We spoke about the significance of the events here and about how little they are understood in relation to the ANZAC legend of Gallipoli. In 1915, there were in excess of 23,000 Australian casualties in the eight months spent fruitlessly in the Dardenelles; the equivalent number of casualties was inflicted upon Australians in an eight week period on the Western Front. Two quotations were used to emphasise the importance of the young men who had fought and died during the Great War in France. The first came from the opening pages of Les Carlyon’s book, The Great War:
There were so many of them, more than 300,000 and we never really saw them. Not when it mattered to see them anyway. Not when they were doing the things which marked them as different then and now, from the rest of us…. They are still (here) so many of these men. Those who are to be found in the archipelago of cemeteries that stretches from Villers Bretonneux to Passchendaele; and those who are not, lie under the fields of corn and sugar beet.
The second came from former Prime Minister Paul Keating’s speech on the occasion of the re-interment in Canberra of the Unknown Soldier, who was previously buried at the Adelaide Cemetery, which was spread before us in the early morning sunlight:
Out of the war came a lesson which transcended the horror and the tragedy and the inexcusable folly…It was a lesson of ordinary people… the soldiers and the sailors and the nurses – those who taught us to endure hardship, show courage, to be bold as well as resilient, to believe in the ourselves, to stick together…That is surely the spirit of the ANZAC story, the Australian legend which emerged from the war. It is a legend not of sweeping military victories so much as triumphs against the odds, of courage and ingenuity in adversity. It is a legend of free and independent spirits whose discipline derived less from military formalities and customs than from the bonds of mateship and the demands of necessity. (1993)
We spent over an hour in the cemetery, noting the awful details on headstones: their ages (Private F. Smith, Age 17); their relationships to one another (Lieutenant R.G. Henderson, Age 25 Died 9th April 1918; and his brother, Private H.G. Henderson, Age 19, Died 4th April 1918); and messages from loved ones (“Oh for the touch of a vanished hand, for the sound of a voice now still.”). We tried to comprehend something of them and the enormity of their sacrifice, all the while, feeling humble, grateful and an overwhelming sense of sadness.
Our spirits were lifted when we entered the village. The welcome we received at Villers Bretonneux was as friendly as we had been lead to believe. Pictures of kangaroos were everywhere. Scenes from Port Campbell and other Victorian tourist destinations were displayed in the School Assembly Hall, together with the plaque, “N’oublions jamais l’Australie.” “Do not Forget Australia” was prominently displayed in the school yard and over every blackboard in each classroom. Barbara, our hostess, introduced us to Jean-Pierre Tranchard, the Vice-President of the Association whose 60 members maintain the superb private museum at 9 Rue Victoria. The museum contained many photos I had not viewed before. One, sourced from the Australian War Memorial in Canberra, showed a young Australian soldier with a cheeky grin buying chocolate from a French woman. Poignantly, there was an etching of Marysville in its early settlement days. The citizens of Villers-Bretonneux raised more than 10,000 euro for the Victorian bushfire appeal Jean-Pierre said. “You helped us in our hour of need, so we help you”, Barbara explained. Amanda Stefancic presented Barbara with a St. Francis Xavier plaque in gratitude for their contribution to the bushfire appeal and in recognition of Australia’s ongoing connection to this town and its friendly citizens. Barbara was delighted.
The site of the Australian Memorial emphasized the quality of the Australian troops on ANZAC Day 1918. How triumphant they must have felt when they surveyed the surrounding landscape spread before them like a patchwork quilt. When opening the memorial in 1938, the French President, Albert Lebrun described the Somme Valley as being “drenched with the blood of Australian soldiers”, who sought to resist the German invaders:
I have expressed the opinion that there is no spot on the whole of the tortured soil of France which is more associated with Australian history and the triumph of Australian soldiers than Villers Bretonneux.
The memorial certainly was an impressive one, and yes, there were far too many headstones: the three sided wall which wings the 30 metre high tower lists the names of 10, 982 Australians who died in France and who have no known grave. In a twist of bitter irony, this memorial to the “war to end all wars”, wore pock marks from bullets and shrapnel from the next world war, which of course began in 1939 - the year after the memorial’s dedication ceremony.
At Hamel, we visited the more recently established Australian Corps Memorial Park. Simply to stand on the site was again to appreciate the genius of Sir John Monash as a military planner and strategist. Commanding all five Australian Divisions, he used intense, co-ordinated attacks by artillery, planes and tanks to sweep the Germans form Hamel. For the first time, planes were also used to drop supplies to advancing troops. He seemed to possess the imagination and the attention to the welfare of his troops which so many generals before him had lacked in World War One. The battle was a stunning success, particularly in the context of the war of attrition waged between 1914 and 1918. Monash’s troops had achieved their objective. The battle was won in 93 minutes. Private Harry Dalziel from 15th Battalion won a VC here. When he returned and looked out across Hamel in 1956, he said: “The whole place was covered in greenery – wheat, poppies – all kinds of agriculture. It just didn’t seem to be the same place.” We too had difficulty imagining how “tortured” this sun drenched emerald place must have been in 1918.
There were less lunch dramas at Albert than there had been the previous day. Our tour guide in the subterranean Somme 1916 Museum cast a spell over the boys in the group with his knowledge of weaponry. As had been the case with each of the other cemeteries, there was something more to see and to learn. The British trenches alone had stretched for 6000 miles according to one calculation. Captain Neville, whose idea it had been to kick footballs as his company walked towards the German lines on 1st July 1916 had been killed along with nearly all his men. He was buried at Carnoy Cemetery. Two footballs were recovered from No Man’s Land.
From Albert, we made our way to Peronne and the Tincourt New British Cemetery. John and Marsha McCallum-O’Dea were on a pilgrimage to find a relative, W.J. Corkery. Rosie and Stephanie Appleton were seeking L.C. Roth. Both were found. Perhaps, in future tours, all of us should have someone we can seek out; it would help to consolidate the connection between the generation of young man who lie in Flanders fields and the Somme Valley. How fitting it was to end our tour in Peronne, where we had begun five days ago.
The blades of the wind turbines turned slowly on our journey home. So much had come to pass. There was so much to remember.
During The Great War, the troops had used humour to make their experience more tolerable. They had sung such songs as Mademoiselle from Armentieres. We penned our own version at sang it raucously on the bus as we returned to Amiens:
St. Francis Xavier came to France, parlez vous.
St. Francis Xavier came to France, parlez vous.
Came to romp in gay Paris
And in Fromelles met Jean-Marie
Hinky dinky parlez vous.
St. Francis Xavier came to France, parlez vous.
St. Francis Xavier came to France, parlez vous.
We laid a wreath at Menin Gate.
Never can forget a mate.
Hinky dinky parlez vous.
St. Francis Xavier came to France, parlez vous.
St. Francis Xavier came to France, parlez vous.
Fausto came and drove the bus
But couldn’t communicate with us.
Hinky dinky parlez vous.
DAY NINE ~ Easter Sunday: 12th April 2009.
At Fausto’s suggestion, we dashed from Amiens at 8.30 to avoid heavy traffic and the street closures associated with a cycling event. Consequently, our rooms weren’t ready when we arrived in Paris. The morning in Picardy had been misty and we had had showers on our trip south. Steadily, however, the day improved; spring sunshine greeted us and we strode happily along the semi familiar avenues of Paris. We dived into the Metro like locals, our destination Notre Dame.
The queue to enter the magnificent cathedral snaked across the square before the entrance. Those who wished to go to mass were directed to a different line. Soon we were within the shelter of the massive building, edging our way forward with thousands and thousands of others. There were television screens relaying the distant preparation of the Mass. Although in French, the order and intonation of the ceremony was recognisable. If one closed one’s eyes and listened, the cloying perfume of the incense could take one back centuries. The full choir filled the space. The organ reverberated majestically. A single voice danced in the arches, then floated heaven wards.
Blossom adorned the streets of the Ille de la Cite. We strolled along the stalls beside the Siene. Cards, posters and berets were purchased before our rendezvous at the statue of Charlemagne. A performer posed as Tutankhamen briefly in front of Notre Dame. Gendarmes moved him on. Some bought crepes for lunch and were entertained by the antics of the cooks. There was a carnival atmosphere in Paris. This day was for families, children, couples, friends.
The entertainment continued at Monmartre. Buskers danced and sang on the steps leading up to Sacre Coeur. Commissioned to celebrate Paris’ deliverance from total destruction at the hands of the Prussians in 1870, the building lacks the majesty of Notre Dame. The setting is dramatic but the building itself was reminiscent of a frosted wedding cake. The ceremony we glimpsed was more formal and the atmosphere less welcoming than at Notre Dame, where there had been a greeting to visitors at the conclusion of the Mass and the congregation had applauded. Here signs shouted “Silence!”
Outside, the narrow streets of Monmartre teemed. Shops sold the same T shirts, scarves and trinkets. Crowds elbowed their way good naturedly to ice-creams, cakes and coffee. The lanes beyond the shops and cafes were quieter. I wandered by Le Lapin Agile, and lingered by a vineyard and Renoir’s former lodging.
After carousal rides and another Metro excursion, we made our way to Bateaux Parisiens just as dusk was falling. We floated gently past the labour of centuries, buildings, bridges, walls, statues. Finally, we delighted in the Eiffel tower at night, twinkling in raiment.
DAY TEN ~ Easter Monday: 13th April 2009.
I had been too hot in a shirt yesterday, so I decided to wear my new Villers-Bretonneux Tshirt. Hence, the mists rolled in and the temperature plummeted. We struck north again, with a new driver, bound for Normandy.
Bayeux is a picturesque town. The famous tapestry, commissioned by William the Conqueror’s friend and ally, Bishop Otto of Bayeaux, is indeed a masterpiece. The quality of the craftsmanship and the skill with which the events, the participants and their responses have been rendered is remarkable. For example, Harold’s humiliation when he informs King Edward the Confessor that he has taken an oath of allegiance to William; the figure is shown to be ducking his head in shame. The boat and cavalry sections were vivid and memorable. The way in which the figures positioned under the main frames enhanced the meaning of the tapestry as a whole was fascinating. In the battle scenes, for example, the line which had other stages represented water or earth, came to symbolise rivulets of blood, under which were dead and dismembered bodies. The carnage was dreadful. The death of Harold, coming as it did through an arrow in the eye, was represented as an act of divine retribution for Harold’s failure to honour his oath to William.
The tapestry highlighted a recurring theme on this tour; the violence of war and the inevitable suffering it can inflict, usually on the innocent. The tapestry’s image of the mother and child fleeing their burning house was particularly poignant. “War is hell’” General Sherman of the American Civil War once remarked. Again and again, history provides us with ample evidence of the truth of his observation.Yet time and again, our collective memory of it horrors diminishes allowing personal ambitions, pride or petty jealousies to lead us in to violence.
Bayeaux had not been on our itinerary, yet it was the highlight of the day. We lunched at Arromanches les Bains (magnificently on seafood) then, as scheduled, proceeded to the museum at 2;45. Unlike the museums at the Western Front, this one seemed to be a celebration of war. The 1950s commentary was intent on congratulating the victors. To be fair, the harbour created was a remarkable feat of engineering. One of the main costs of the Allied victory, however, seemed to be the sacrifice of a lovely fishing town to tourism. Everything from badges to bullets could be bought. A souvenir called Churchill’s Boutique captured the mood of the place. Buses roared down laneways designed for horses, carts and pedestrians. The locals seemed to withdraw to the periphery – to fly kites on the strand or to sip cider behind high walls in their gardens. How tranquil this town with its light caramel stone houses with steep slate rooves, attics and shuttered windows might have been without the invasion which began on 6th June 1944.
Given the scale of the invasion (135,000 men landed on the first day) and the proximity of the event, the scores of buses in the car park at Omaha Beach should not have been a surprise. Nor should the size of the cemetery been a shock, yet it was. The sheer number of stark white crosses was staggering. There was an eloquence in the setting - the still pools of water, the pine lined paths, the sea lapping at the base of steep grassy slopes – which was moving. Above all there were the simple white crosses stretching as far as the eye could see.
On the journey back to Paris, the rich velveteen fields of emerald laced with hedgerows and studded with woodlands and farm buildings rolled away from the bus windows. Many of us slept. All were still.
At the Adelaide Cemetery in Villers Bretonneux, we began our last day on the Western Front. We spoke about the significance of the events here and about how little they are understood in relation to the ANZAC legend of Gallipoli. In 1915, there were in excess of 23,000 Australian casualties in the eight months spent fruitlessly in the Dardenelles; the equivalent number of casualties was inflicted upon Australians in an eight week period on the Western Front. Two quotations were used to emphasise the importance of the young men who had fought and died during the Great War in France. The first came from the opening pages of Les Carlyon’s book, The Great War:
There were so many of them, more than 300,000 and we never really saw them. Not when it mattered to see them anyway. Not when they were doing the things which marked them as different then and now, from the rest of us…. They are still (here) so many of these men. Those who are to be found in the archipelago of cemeteries that stretches from Villers Bretonneux to Passchendaele; and those who are not, lie under the fields of corn and sugar beet.
The second came from former Prime Minister Paul Keating’s speech on the occasion of the re-interment in Canberra of the Unknown Soldier, who was previously buried at the Adelaide Cemetery, which was spread before us in the early morning sunlight:
Out of the war came a lesson which transcended the horror and the tragedy and the inexcusable folly…It was a lesson of ordinary people… the soldiers and the sailors and the nurses – those who taught us to endure hardship, show courage, to be bold as well as resilient, to believe in the ourselves, to stick together…That is surely the spirit of the ANZAC story, the Australian legend which emerged from the war. It is a legend not of sweeping military victories so much as triumphs against the odds, of courage and ingenuity in adversity. It is a legend of free and independent spirits whose discipline derived less from military formalities and customs than from the bonds of mateship and the demands of necessity. (1993)
We spent over an hour in the cemetery, noting the awful details on headstones: their ages (Private F. Smith, Age 17); their relationships to one another (Lieutenant R.G. Henderson, Age 25 Died 9th April 1918; and his brother, Private H.G. Henderson, Age 19, Died 4th April 1918); and messages from loved ones (“Oh for the touch of a vanished hand, for the sound of a voice now still.”). We tried to comprehend something of them and the enormity of their sacrifice, all the while, feeling humble, grateful and an overwhelming sense of sadness.
Our spirits were lifted when we entered the village. The welcome we received at Villers Bretonneux was as friendly as we had been lead to believe. Pictures of kangaroos were everywhere. Scenes from Port Campbell and other Victorian tourist destinations were displayed in the School Assembly Hall, together with the plaque, “N’oublions jamais l’Australie.” “Do not Forget Australia” was prominently displayed in the school yard and over every blackboard in each classroom. Barbara, our hostess, introduced us to Jean-Pierre Tranchard, the Vice-President of the Association whose 60 members maintain the superb private museum at 9 Rue Victoria. The museum contained many photos I had not viewed before. One, sourced from the Australian War Memorial in Canberra, showed a young Australian soldier with a cheeky grin buying chocolate from a French woman. Poignantly, there was an etching of Marysville in its early settlement days. The citizens of Villers-Bretonneux raised more than 10,000 euro for the Victorian bushfire appeal Jean-Pierre said. “You helped us in our hour of need, so we help you”, Barbara explained. Amanda Stefancic presented Barbara with a St. Francis Xavier plaque in gratitude for their contribution to the bushfire appeal and in recognition of Australia’s ongoing connection to this town and its friendly citizens. Barbara was delighted.
The site of the Australian Memorial emphasized the quality of the Australian troops on ANZAC Day 1918. How triumphant they must have felt when they surveyed the surrounding landscape spread before them like a patchwork quilt. When opening the memorial in 1938, the French President, Albert Lebrun described the Somme Valley as being “drenched with the blood of Australian soldiers”, who sought to resist the German invaders:
I have expressed the opinion that there is no spot on the whole of the tortured soil of France which is more associated with Australian history and the triumph of Australian soldiers than Villers Bretonneux.
The memorial certainly was an impressive one, and yes, there were far too many headstones: the three sided wall which wings the 30 metre high tower lists the names of 10, 982 Australians who died in France and who have no known grave. In a twist of bitter irony, this memorial to the “war to end all wars”, wore pock marks from bullets and shrapnel from the next world war, which of course began in 1939 - the year after the memorial’s dedication ceremony.
At Hamel, we visited the more recently established Australian Corps Memorial Park. Simply to stand on the site was again to appreciate the genius of Sir John Monash as a military planner and strategist. Commanding all five Australian Divisions, he used intense, co-ordinated attacks by artillery, planes and tanks to sweep the Germans form Hamel. For the first time, planes were also used to drop supplies to advancing troops. He seemed to possess the imagination and the attention to the welfare of his troops which so many generals before him had lacked in World War One. The battle was a stunning success, particularly in the context of the war of attrition waged between 1914 and 1918. Monash’s troops had achieved their objective. The battle was won in 93 minutes. Private Harry Dalziel from 15th Battalion won a VC here. When he returned and looked out across Hamel in 1956, he said: “The whole place was covered in greenery – wheat, poppies – all kinds of agriculture. It just didn’t seem to be the same place.” We too had difficulty imagining how “tortured” this sun drenched emerald place must have been in 1918.
There were less lunch dramas at Albert than there had been the previous day. Our tour guide in the subterranean Somme 1916 Museum cast a spell over the boys in the group with his knowledge of weaponry. As had been the case with each of the other cemeteries, there was something more to see and to learn. The British trenches alone had stretched for 6000 miles according to one calculation. Captain Neville, whose idea it had been to kick footballs as his company walked towards the German lines on 1st July 1916 had been killed along with nearly all his men. He was buried at Carnoy Cemetery. Two footballs were recovered from No Man’s Land.
From Albert, we made our way to Peronne and the Tincourt New British Cemetery. John and Marsha McCallum-O’Dea were on a pilgrimage to find a relative, W.J. Corkery. Rosie and Stephanie Appleton were seeking L.C. Roth. Both were found. Perhaps, in future tours, all of us should have someone we can seek out; it would help to consolidate the connection between the generation of young man who lie in Flanders fields and the Somme Valley. How fitting it was to end our tour in Peronne, where we had begun five days ago.
The blades of the wind turbines turned slowly on our journey home. So much had come to pass. There was so much to remember.
During The Great War, the troops had used humour to make their experience more tolerable. They had sung such songs as Mademoiselle from Armentieres. We penned our own version at sang it raucously on the bus as we returned to Amiens:
St. Francis Xavier came to France, parlez vous.
St. Francis Xavier came to France, parlez vous.
Came to romp in gay Paris
And in Fromelles met Jean-Marie
Hinky dinky parlez vous.
St. Francis Xavier came to France, parlez vous.
St. Francis Xavier came to France, parlez vous.
We laid a wreath at Menin Gate.
Never can forget a mate.
Hinky dinky parlez vous.
St. Francis Xavier came to France, parlez vous.
St. Francis Xavier came to France, parlez vous.
Fausto came and drove the bus
But couldn’t communicate with us.
Hinky dinky parlez vous.
DAY NINE ~ Easter Sunday: 12th April 2009.
At Fausto’s suggestion, we dashed from Amiens at 8.30 to avoid heavy traffic and the street closures associated with a cycling event. Consequently, our rooms weren’t ready when we arrived in Paris. The morning in Picardy had been misty and we had had showers on our trip south. Steadily, however, the day improved; spring sunshine greeted us and we strode happily along the semi familiar avenues of Paris. We dived into the Metro like locals, our destination Notre Dame.
The queue to enter the magnificent cathedral snaked across the square before the entrance. Those who wished to go to mass were directed to a different line. Soon we were within the shelter of the massive building, edging our way forward with thousands and thousands of others. There were television screens relaying the distant preparation of the Mass. Although in French, the order and intonation of the ceremony was recognisable. If one closed one’s eyes and listened, the cloying perfume of the incense could take one back centuries. The full choir filled the space. The organ reverberated majestically. A single voice danced in the arches, then floated heaven wards.
Blossom adorned the streets of the Ille de la Cite. We strolled along the stalls beside the Siene. Cards, posters and berets were purchased before our rendezvous at the statue of Charlemagne. A performer posed as Tutankhamen briefly in front of Notre Dame. Gendarmes moved him on. Some bought crepes for lunch and were entertained by the antics of the cooks. There was a carnival atmosphere in Paris. This day was for families, children, couples, friends.
The entertainment continued at Monmartre. Buskers danced and sang on the steps leading up to Sacre Coeur. Commissioned to celebrate Paris’ deliverance from total destruction at the hands of the Prussians in 1870, the building lacks the majesty of Notre Dame. The setting is dramatic but the building itself was reminiscent of a frosted wedding cake. The ceremony we glimpsed was more formal and the atmosphere less welcoming than at Notre Dame, where there had been a greeting to visitors at the conclusion of the Mass and the congregation had applauded. Here signs shouted “Silence!”
Outside, the narrow streets of Monmartre teemed. Shops sold the same T shirts, scarves and trinkets. Crowds elbowed their way good naturedly to ice-creams, cakes and coffee. The lanes beyond the shops and cafes were quieter. I wandered by Le Lapin Agile, and lingered by a vineyard and Renoir’s former lodging.
After carousal rides and another Metro excursion, we made our way to Bateaux Parisiens just as dusk was falling. We floated gently past the labour of centuries, buildings, bridges, walls, statues. Finally, we delighted in the Eiffel tower at night, twinkling in raiment.
DAY TEN ~ Easter Monday: 13th April 2009.
I had been too hot in a shirt yesterday, so I decided to wear my new Villers-Bretonneux Tshirt. Hence, the mists rolled in and the temperature plummeted. We struck north again, with a new driver, bound for Normandy.
Bayeux is a picturesque town. The famous tapestry, commissioned by William the Conqueror’s friend and ally, Bishop Otto of Bayeaux, is indeed a masterpiece. The quality of the craftsmanship and the skill with which the events, the participants and their responses have been rendered is remarkable. For example, Harold’s humiliation when he informs King Edward the Confessor that he has taken an oath of allegiance to William; the figure is shown to be ducking his head in shame. The boat and cavalry sections were vivid and memorable. The way in which the figures positioned under the main frames enhanced the meaning of the tapestry as a whole was fascinating. In the battle scenes, for example, the line which had other stages represented water or earth, came to symbolise rivulets of blood, under which were dead and dismembered bodies. The carnage was dreadful. The death of Harold, coming as it did through an arrow in the eye, was represented as an act of divine retribution for Harold’s failure to honour his oath to William.
The tapestry highlighted a recurring theme on this tour; the violence of war and the inevitable suffering it can inflict, usually on the innocent. The tapestry’s image of the mother and child fleeing their burning house was particularly poignant. “War is hell’” General Sherman of the American Civil War once remarked. Again and again, history provides us with ample evidence of the truth of his observation.Yet time and again, our collective memory of it horrors diminishes allowing personal ambitions, pride or petty jealousies to lead us in to violence.
Bayeaux had not been on our itinerary, yet it was the highlight of the day. We lunched at Arromanches les Bains (magnificently on seafood) then, as scheduled, proceeded to the museum at 2;45. Unlike the museums at the Western Front, this one seemed to be a celebration of war. The 1950s commentary was intent on congratulating the victors. To be fair, the harbour created was a remarkable feat of engineering. One of the main costs of the Allied victory, however, seemed to be the sacrifice of a lovely fishing town to tourism. Everything from badges to bullets could be bought. A souvenir called Churchill’s Boutique captured the mood of the place. Buses roared down laneways designed for horses, carts and pedestrians. The locals seemed to withdraw to the periphery – to fly kites on the strand or to sip cider behind high walls in their gardens. How tranquil this town with its light caramel stone houses with steep slate rooves, attics and shuttered windows might have been without the invasion which began on 6th June 1944.
Given the scale of the invasion (135,000 men landed on the first day) and the proximity of the event, the scores of buses in the car park at Omaha Beach should not have been a surprise. Nor should the size of the cemetery been a shock, yet it was. The sheer number of stark white crosses was staggering. There was an eloquence in the setting - the still pools of water, the pine lined paths, the sea lapping at the base of steep grassy slopes – which was moving. Above all there were the simple white crosses stretching as far as the eye could see.
On the journey back to Paris, the rich velveteen fields of emerald laced with hedgerows and studded with woodlands and farm buildings rolled away from the bus windows. Many of us slept. All were still.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Western Front Tour ~ Pozieres
DAY SEVEN ~ Good Friday: 10th April 2009.
Today was a gleaming spring day. The birds sang and daffodils nodded in the gentle breeze at Thiepval. The massive red brick and concrete monument seemed incongruous and as alien as the notion that this blissfully green and peaceful river valley could have witnessed an event where 72,087 British soldiers could have simply disappeared. For their mothers, for their wives they would always be missing. Then you remember: Thiepval is in the Somme valley. On the battle which began on 1st July 1916, the British suffered 57,400 casualties. Of those 19,240 were killed. It was the darkest day in British military history. Kitchener’s Army of pals had been “two years in the making and ten minutes in the killing.”
Thiepval had changed considerably since my visit with Debbie in 1980. Then, I had not been impressed:
The memorial was a morbid, unemotional structure. Like a massive beast, it crouched amidst acres of immaculate parkland, with the missing within its belly. It was a hideous thing.
The adjacent cemetery was regimented both in terms of the rank order of the fallen and in terms of layout. The headstones at Le Trou Aid Post Cemetery yesterday seemed to be comparatively haphazard, as if they were placed where the bodies fell. At Thiepval, the rows were immaculate. Nonetheless, the parkland has grown since 1980, softening the forbidding impact of the memorial somewhat. The excellent Visitors’ Centre, which opened in 2003, also served to make the monument less austere and remote. The music of Elgar (Enigma Variations) and the warm narration of Christopher Timothy conspired to make the memorial more accessible.
At Pozieres, both the Australian 2nd Division Memorial (the Windmill) and the Australian 1St Division Memorial (Gibraltar) were moving testaments to the bravery and determination of the Australians, “who fell more thickly on this ridge than any other” (Charles Bean). At Pozieres, at Mouquet Farm and at the Glory Hole sector at La Boisselles, the strategically superior position of the Germans was patently obvious. They would have had a clear view of their attackers, who had no cover as they advanced up a moderate slope. How was it possible that Rawlinson or Haig had not anticipated the catastrophic impact of the machine guns from this vantage point? Had they no appreciation of the terrain? I had thought them culpable thirty years ago. As I stood again on he rim of the massive Lochnager Mine and looked towards Albert, I saw no reason to change my mind.
Like the Thiepval, the spire and golden Madonna of La Basilique Notre Dame de Brebieres in Albert seemed an ever present landmark. Albert had sleepy pockets where little seemed to have changed but there was a new ring road, a more bustling industrial area and a ubiquitous McDonalds. Bravely, we chose to avoid the Golden Arches. At lunch, a number of our party came to grief trying to order ham, cheese and tomato toasted sandwiches without the ham; they received double ham. When they removed the ham and simply ate the toast, the shopkeeper seemed bewildered at first, then contemptuous. At least salmon was on the evening menu at the hotel in Amiens.
We managed to visit Amiens and the Cathedral, built in 1220, The Stations of the Cross was in progress and singing echoed within the soaring roof and vast galleries hypnotically, beautifully. Amidst the music, statues and the stained glass, there were two especially memorable features. Firstly, a plaque to the memory of “the soldiers of the Australian Imperial Force who valiantly participated in the victorious defence of Amiens from March to August 1918 and gave their lives for the cause of justice, liberty and humanity.” Secondly, the Weeping Angel, sculpted by Nicholas Blasset in 1628. Apparently, this statue was a very popular one during The Great War.
Today was a gleaming spring day. The birds sang and daffodils nodded in the gentle breeze at Thiepval. The massive red brick and concrete monument seemed incongruous and as alien as the notion that this blissfully green and peaceful river valley could have witnessed an event where 72,087 British soldiers could have simply disappeared. For their mothers, for their wives they would always be missing. Then you remember: Thiepval is in the Somme valley. On the battle which began on 1st July 1916, the British suffered 57,400 casualties. Of those 19,240 were killed. It was the darkest day in British military history. Kitchener’s Army of pals had been “two years in the making and ten minutes in the killing.”
Thiepval had changed considerably since my visit with Debbie in 1980. Then, I had not been impressed:
The memorial was a morbid, unemotional structure. Like a massive beast, it crouched amidst acres of immaculate parkland, with the missing within its belly. It was a hideous thing.
The adjacent cemetery was regimented both in terms of the rank order of the fallen and in terms of layout. The headstones at Le Trou Aid Post Cemetery yesterday seemed to be comparatively haphazard, as if they were placed where the bodies fell. At Thiepval, the rows were immaculate. Nonetheless, the parkland has grown since 1980, softening the forbidding impact of the memorial somewhat. The excellent Visitors’ Centre, which opened in 2003, also served to make the monument less austere and remote. The music of Elgar (Enigma Variations) and the warm narration of Christopher Timothy conspired to make the memorial more accessible.
At Pozieres, both the Australian 2nd Division Memorial (the Windmill) and the Australian 1St Division Memorial (Gibraltar) were moving testaments to the bravery and determination of the Australians, “who fell more thickly on this ridge than any other” (Charles Bean). At Pozieres, at Mouquet Farm and at the Glory Hole sector at La Boisselles, the strategically superior position of the Germans was patently obvious. They would have had a clear view of their attackers, who had no cover as they advanced up a moderate slope. How was it possible that Rawlinson or Haig had not anticipated the catastrophic impact of the machine guns from this vantage point? Had they no appreciation of the terrain? I had thought them culpable thirty years ago. As I stood again on he rim of the massive Lochnager Mine and looked towards Albert, I saw no reason to change my mind.
Like the Thiepval, the spire and golden Madonna of La Basilique Notre Dame de Brebieres in Albert seemed an ever present landmark. Albert had sleepy pockets where little seemed to have changed but there was a new ring road, a more bustling industrial area and a ubiquitous McDonalds. Bravely, we chose to avoid the Golden Arches. At lunch, a number of our party came to grief trying to order ham, cheese and tomato toasted sandwiches without the ham; they received double ham. When they removed the ham and simply ate the toast, the shopkeeper seemed bewildered at first, then contemptuous. At least salmon was on the evening menu at the hotel in Amiens.
We managed to visit Amiens and the Cathedral, built in 1220, The Stations of the Cross was in progress and singing echoed within the soaring roof and vast galleries hypnotically, beautifully. Amidst the music, statues and the stained glass, there were two especially memorable features. Firstly, a plaque to the memory of “the soldiers of the Australian Imperial Force who valiantly participated in the victorious defence of Amiens from March to August 1918 and gave their lives for the cause of justice, liberty and humanity.” Secondly, the Weeping Angel, sculpted by Nicholas Blasset in 1628. Apparently, this statue was a very popular one during The Great War.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Western Front Tour: Two Museums
DAY SIX ~ Thursday 9th April 2009.
This day was dominated by two very different museum experiences: one at the In Flanders Fields museum in Ypres; and the other at the Mairie (Town Hall) in Fromelles.
In Flanders Fields was quite an experience. The museum set out to engage visitors and to stimulate their interest as effectively and creatively as possible. Upon entry, each visitor is given the name of a person who was involved in the Great War. Visitors are invited to discover what happened to their particular person in the course of their visit. For example, I had Victor Sykes form North London, who joined the Territorials in 1908 “to find himself a useful hobby.” He was mobilised in August 1914 and eventually sent to Neuve- Chapelle in March 1915. Victor was seriously wounded on 22nd/ 23rd September by a shell burst. He suffered facial and head injuries. A piece of shrapnel remained lodged in his skull for the remainder of his life. Because he was 20% disabled, he took no further active part in the war. He did, however, serve in World War II. Victor died in 1976.
Wilfred Owen’s Dulce Et Decorum Est was performed powerfully. Individual gas masks sat on stakes in separate tall glass cylinders. These were filled with light and smoke. Visitors were invited to enter the nightmarish world of the gas attack and then, perhaps, envision the agonising death of the young soldier more vividly.
Similar techniques were used throughout this excellent interactive museum. A bomb blast seemed to shake the building to its foundations at one point. There were quotations, dramatic presentations, and segments of film footage in addition to photographs, letters, posters and other artefacts from the time.
The images displayed were vivid and confronting. The 1917 photograph of two British soldiers washing in a bomb crater at Langemark was particularly disturbing. The bomb crater contained graves. They seem oblivious to just how putrid and horrific their “bathroom” is. Had they been so brutalised, so anaesthetised by the war that they could be so unaware?
The museum also emphasised the hardship of the civilian population. Many of them stayed among the ruins until evacuated during the Hindenburg Offensive of 1918. There was a poster warning them of the dangers of clearing their streets and fields when they returned in 1919: it depicted a young girl being seriously injured when she accidentally detonated an unexploded bomb. The citizens of Ypres finally completed their restoration of the medieval city in 1967. Little wonder The Last Post is played here each evening. There is much to remember.
After lunch, the main group recrossed the river LaLys and returned to Fromelles. With the assistance of the Commonwealth Graves Commission we had managed to contact Jean-Marie Bailleul, Vice President of the Fromelles Museum, which is open on every second Sunday or by appointment only. Generously, he opened the museum for us. It is situated in the attic of the Town Hall and is crammed with memorabilia and weapons and artefacts collected from the battleground. This time, it was the immediacy and reality of the material which was so impressive. The German bunk displayed was real, as were the guns, clubs and shells. A compass was notched by a bullet hole; perhaps it had spared its owner’s life. Incredibly, only three men maintain this superb museum. While it was not as dazzling the first, it was equally, if not more memorable. Monsieur Bailleur was a delightful and dedicated man.
We managed to glimpse the archaeological dig at Pheasants Wood and to visit Le Trou Aid Post Cemetery where Pompey Elliot had had his command post during the battle in 1916. The cemetery was beautiful; willows fringed the stonework separating manicured lawns from a gentle brook. Here men had headstones. At VC Corner, just down the country lane 500 metres or so, the many fallen had two stark crosses.
Ypres gave us a new experience of The Great War. As a base, it had served us well. The comforts afforded to us, the chocolates, the ice-creams, the beers were very much at odds with the hardship and suffering of those who had lived or served here in The Great War.
This day was dominated by two very different museum experiences: one at the In Flanders Fields museum in Ypres; and the other at the Mairie (Town Hall) in Fromelles.
In Flanders Fields was quite an experience. The museum set out to engage visitors and to stimulate their interest as effectively and creatively as possible. Upon entry, each visitor is given the name of a person who was involved in the Great War. Visitors are invited to discover what happened to their particular person in the course of their visit. For example, I had Victor Sykes form North London, who joined the Territorials in 1908 “to find himself a useful hobby.” He was mobilised in August 1914 and eventually sent to Neuve- Chapelle in March 1915. Victor was seriously wounded on 22nd/ 23rd September by a shell burst. He suffered facial and head injuries. A piece of shrapnel remained lodged in his skull for the remainder of his life. Because he was 20% disabled, he took no further active part in the war. He did, however, serve in World War II. Victor died in 1976.
Wilfred Owen’s Dulce Et Decorum Est was performed powerfully. Individual gas masks sat on stakes in separate tall glass cylinders. These were filled with light and smoke. Visitors were invited to enter the nightmarish world of the gas attack and then, perhaps, envision the agonising death of the young soldier more vividly.
Similar techniques were used throughout this excellent interactive museum. A bomb blast seemed to shake the building to its foundations at one point. There were quotations, dramatic presentations, and segments of film footage in addition to photographs, letters, posters and other artefacts from the time.
The images displayed were vivid and confronting. The 1917 photograph of two British soldiers washing in a bomb crater at Langemark was particularly disturbing. The bomb crater contained graves. They seem oblivious to just how putrid and horrific their “bathroom” is. Had they been so brutalised, so anaesthetised by the war that they could be so unaware?
The museum also emphasised the hardship of the civilian population. Many of them stayed among the ruins until evacuated during the Hindenburg Offensive of 1918. There was a poster warning them of the dangers of clearing their streets and fields when they returned in 1919: it depicted a young girl being seriously injured when she accidentally detonated an unexploded bomb. The citizens of Ypres finally completed their restoration of the medieval city in 1967. Little wonder The Last Post is played here each evening. There is much to remember.
After lunch, the main group recrossed the river LaLys and returned to Fromelles. With the assistance of the Commonwealth Graves Commission we had managed to contact Jean-Marie Bailleul, Vice President of the Fromelles Museum, which is open on every second Sunday or by appointment only. Generously, he opened the museum for us. It is situated in the attic of the Town Hall and is crammed with memorabilia and weapons and artefacts collected from the battleground. This time, it was the immediacy and reality of the material which was so impressive. The German bunk displayed was real, as were the guns, clubs and shells. A compass was notched by a bullet hole; perhaps it had spared its owner’s life. Incredibly, only three men maintain this superb museum. While it was not as dazzling the first, it was equally, if not more memorable. Monsieur Bailleur was a delightful and dedicated man.
We managed to glimpse the archaeological dig at Pheasants Wood and to visit Le Trou Aid Post Cemetery where Pompey Elliot had had his command post during the battle in 1916. The cemetery was beautiful; willows fringed the stonework separating manicured lawns from a gentle brook. Here men had headstones. At VC Corner, just down the country lane 500 metres or so, the many fallen had two stark crosses.
Ypres gave us a new experience of The Great War. As a base, it had served us well. The comforts afforded to us, the chocolates, the ice-creams, the beers were very much at odds with the hardship and suffering of those who had lived or served here in The Great War.
Western Front Tour: Passchendaele
DAY FIVE ~ Wednesday 8th April 2009.
In Paris, sirens; in Ypres, church bells. This is a beautiful town. Like a phoenix, it has risen from the ashes. The town was in ruins at the end of 1918. Over 75,000 building were destroyed in Flanders. There was considerable debate about the reconstruction: should buildings be restored as they were or should modern buildings be erected in their place? Thankfully, the conservationists won. Ypres looks and feels as it must have for centuries prior to the Great War. The Cloth Hall dominates. The streets are cobbled. Restaurants and chocolate vendors vie for custom.
Delightful as Ypres is, the weather was dismal. Perhaps that was as it should have been. Our day began at Tyne Cot, the largest Commonwealth cemetery in the world. There are 1368 graves in the cemetery which contains 11, 953 servicemen. So many of them have no name. So many of them have no country. Again and again, headstones read: “A Soldier of the Great War – Known unto God.” The cemetery was on the site of a barn (Tyne Cottage) which was at the centre of several German pillboxes. One of the largest of these blockhouses became a dressing station after the Australian 2nd Division captured the position on 4th October 1917. The main cross was built over this blockhouse. The remains of another one of the pillboxes squats among the sea of marble headstones. Tyne Cot is a bleak place.
The Visitors’ Centre offers a moving tribute to the men interred at Tyne Cot. There was also an interactive map of the Ypres salient which made the importance of the sector and the significant of the Australian contribution abundantly clear.
This message was reinforced when we visited the Memorial Museum at Passchendaele. Housed in the historic park of Zonnebeke, the museum gives particular focus to the Third Battle of Ypres or Passchendaele. In 1917, more than 400,000 soldiers were sacrificed to Haig’s desperate defence of the Channel ports. The weather conspired with the intensity of the artillery to produce the most atrocious conditions. Men drowned in the mud. Men who were wounded and fell from the duckboards (dubbed “banana-skins” by the troops) were lost. Simply getting wounded men to Casualty Clearing Stations required a Herculean effort. The museum had as its centrepiece a recreation of the dugouts constructed for the battle. Lieutenant Edmund Blunden described the conditions in the dugouts:
For a week I think, I patrolled this dirty but precious underworld, and, I fancied, improved conditions. Not the actual state of the works. It was the business of the tunnellers to pump out the canals of foul water which stank along the passages, the light of electric lamps falling on it doubtfully from the black lattice of flies which hung to the warm bulbs, swarming and droning around the heat of the passer-by. The holes on top I did indeed cause to be filled. But I was of more use in finding out who ought to be in the tunnel, who not, and acting accordingly. The space available became hourly more important.
Passchendaele was hell on earth.
In the afternoon, the group took up Bruce and Sue Topham’s quest to find the grave of Second Lieutenant Frederick Birks for a friend. We found him in Zillebeke, in the Perth (China Wall) cemetery. Fred was a Victoria Cross winner and there was a strong sense of pride and of connection when we located him; it was strangely comforting to be able to understand part of the story of at least one of the beings who lay beneath one of the thousands of cold marble headstones.
At Polygon Wood and the Buttes New British Cemetery, we found more Australians. Given our trip to Fromelles, the 5th Division Memorial held added significance for us. As we strolled through the surrounding area, we looked for scars of the fighting among the budding trees.
We participated in the Menin Gate ceremony at 8.00pm. Brendan Carney and Melina McCallum-O’Dea represented St. Francis Xavier College proudly. They laid a wreath which carried a message from our Principal, Paul Desmond. As the Last Post echoed through the arch, which honours the 54, 896 men (including 6176 Australians) who fell in Flanders Fields, I felt torn between sorrow and pride. I was utterly convinced, however, of the importance of my pilgrimage here.
In Paris, sirens; in Ypres, church bells. This is a beautiful town. Like a phoenix, it has risen from the ashes. The town was in ruins at the end of 1918. Over 75,000 building were destroyed in Flanders. There was considerable debate about the reconstruction: should buildings be restored as they were or should modern buildings be erected in their place? Thankfully, the conservationists won. Ypres looks and feels as it must have for centuries prior to the Great War. The Cloth Hall dominates. The streets are cobbled. Restaurants and chocolate vendors vie for custom.
Delightful as Ypres is, the weather was dismal. Perhaps that was as it should have been. Our day began at Tyne Cot, the largest Commonwealth cemetery in the world. There are 1368 graves in the cemetery which contains 11, 953 servicemen. So many of them have no name. So many of them have no country. Again and again, headstones read: “A Soldier of the Great War – Known unto God.” The cemetery was on the site of a barn (Tyne Cottage) which was at the centre of several German pillboxes. One of the largest of these blockhouses became a dressing station after the Australian 2nd Division captured the position on 4th October 1917. The main cross was built over this blockhouse. The remains of another one of the pillboxes squats among the sea of marble headstones. Tyne Cot is a bleak place.
The Visitors’ Centre offers a moving tribute to the men interred at Tyne Cot. There was also an interactive map of the Ypres salient which made the importance of the sector and the significant of the Australian contribution abundantly clear.
This message was reinforced when we visited the Memorial Museum at Passchendaele. Housed in the historic park of Zonnebeke, the museum gives particular focus to the Third Battle of Ypres or Passchendaele. In 1917, more than 400,000 soldiers were sacrificed to Haig’s desperate defence of the Channel ports. The weather conspired with the intensity of the artillery to produce the most atrocious conditions. Men drowned in the mud. Men who were wounded and fell from the duckboards (dubbed “banana-skins” by the troops) were lost. Simply getting wounded men to Casualty Clearing Stations required a Herculean effort. The museum had as its centrepiece a recreation of the dugouts constructed for the battle. Lieutenant Edmund Blunden described the conditions in the dugouts:
For a week I think, I patrolled this dirty but precious underworld, and, I fancied, improved conditions. Not the actual state of the works. It was the business of the tunnellers to pump out the canals of foul water which stank along the passages, the light of electric lamps falling on it doubtfully from the black lattice of flies which hung to the warm bulbs, swarming and droning around the heat of the passer-by. The holes on top I did indeed cause to be filled. But I was of more use in finding out who ought to be in the tunnel, who not, and acting accordingly. The space available became hourly more important.
Passchendaele was hell on earth.
In the afternoon, the group took up Bruce and Sue Topham’s quest to find the grave of Second Lieutenant Frederick Birks for a friend. We found him in Zillebeke, in the Perth (China Wall) cemetery. Fred was a Victoria Cross winner and there was a strong sense of pride and of connection when we located him; it was strangely comforting to be able to understand part of the story of at least one of the beings who lay beneath one of the thousands of cold marble headstones.
At Polygon Wood and the Buttes New British Cemetery, we found more Australians. Given our trip to Fromelles, the 5th Division Memorial held added significance for us. As we strolled through the surrounding area, we looked for scars of the fighting among the budding trees.
We participated in the Menin Gate ceremony at 8.00pm. Brendan Carney and Melina McCallum-O’Dea represented St. Francis Xavier College proudly. They laid a wreath which carried a message from our Principal, Paul Desmond. As the Last Post echoed through the arch, which honours the 54, 896 men (including 6176 Australians) who fell in Flanders Fields, I felt torn between sorrow and pride. I was utterly convinced, however, of the importance of my pilgrimage here.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Western Front Tour: Paris and Fromelles
WESTERN FRONT TOUR
St. Francis Xavier College
DAY ONE to TWO: 4th to 5th April 2009.
We gathered, jittery and excited at Tullamarine at the appointed time, 7.00pm. Check in and all else went smoothly enough. Emirates treated us well and we emerged from the pre dawn stratosphere over Dubai at about 5.30am local time. Freeways snaked across a baked orange landscape. Clusters of apartments slumbered without lights. The landing was perfect.
God it felt good to shuffle off the plane. We were engorged with packaged food and videos. The airport coffee was reinvigorating and helped prepare us for the toilet queues. Dubai reeked of opulence. There was a massive water wall, but there were no urinals to be had.
After being hurried onto the plane to Paris, we sat on the runway for over an hour. In front of us, a group of French students, who seemed to be returning from Australia given some of their clothing and accessories, decided to amuse themselves by tossing heated towels at one another. The attendants disapproved but smiled grimly.
They say that women seem to forget the pain of labour; this, they say, helps to explain the conception of the subsequent children. Perhaps the same could be said of travelling. Tourists must have amnesia about the nature of the journey; otherwise, they would stay at home. With the notable exception of Len Cooke, we seemed to sleep in snatches. Brendan Carney was so bored, he resorted to ringing other passengers. Most of us seemed to watch at least five movies. The food trolleys were looked for longingly, as much for the distraction as for the nourishment they brought. When the plane touched down in Paris at 2.37pm, most were glued to vision provided of the tarmac. The French students broke into spontaneous applause, so glad were they to be home.
Our guide, Beatrice, greeted us with Germaine our driver, when we had cleared passport checks and collected our luggage at about 3.45pm. She expressed admiration for our endurance – twenty-five consecutive hours on a flight to get to Paris. Certainly, she would have agreed with the French students’ sentiments about coming home, except she would have questioned their motives for leaving France in the first place.
The tour she offered of Paris in the bus ride from the airport was excellent. While we were in awe of Germaine’s driving skills, Beatrice enthused about everything from Concord and France’s World Cup victory in 1998 to St. Denis, the headless bishop, and the architectural achievements of Napoleon III. There were all too frequent reminders of the suicidal driving techniques of Parisians. A small blue Citroen had parked with its nose touching the Renault in front. Unfortunately a third car had nuzzled up to the Citroen’s rear; parking too seemed fraught.
Soon the cream limestone architecture and the cobbled avenues and boulevards claimed our attention. We threaded the needle through an impossibly narrow archway into the delightful but exclusive Place Vendome. Sycamores and chestnuts seemed ready to bloom. The weather was mild and Parisians basked on lawns and strolled on the Champs Ellyses with ice-creams. Spring was in the air.
After we had found our hotel and our rooms, Beatrice helped us to navigate the Metro to our first restaurant meal. By the second course, eyelids were heavy. The Seine River Cruise was simply out of the question; we would board the bateau another night. We stumbled back to Hotel Jardins de Paris in Rue de Alesia. The stairs were steep, but the beds were horizontal.
DAY THREE ~ Monday 6th April 2009.
By 9.00 am we were breakfasted and ready. The skies were blue. One group dashed off to the Louvre. Another stayed closer to home. A third embarked on a French Revolution tour which began at the Bastille and went on to La Place de la Concorde, the Tuileries, a Chapel to which the bodies of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette had first been buried and the site of the Cordeliers Club.
The Metro was our friend, enabling us to travel swiftly and safely from one site to the next. There were beggars and buskers made the journeys interesting. Most memorably, there was the flamingo guitarist who murdered I Did it My Way. One resourceful soul carried what appeared to be a stuffed cat in an attempt to elicit more donations from travellers.
While the trains were a highly effective means of transport, I began to feel like a small burrowing marsupial by the day’s end; I’d burrow frantically for a time, then pop my head up to draw air and check on my progress. I found it difficult to maintain a sense of direction on the surface. Again, I appreciated the overview the bus had given me yesterday. That said, there was nothing quite like strolling through the gardens and streets Danton, Marat and their friends would have walked in. The stamp of those tumultuous events seems captured in stones, like the shadows of the bomb at Hiroshima.
That night, we ate dinner in a first floor room overlooking one of the narrow cobbled alleyways which in the Eighteenth Century had been major thoroughfares. We did not so much look down upon the road – we would have had to have leant out of the window to do that – as gaze at our neighbours opposite. Their lives would have been less private, less protected than ours.
There was the Metro. There was history. There were heights and, inevitably, there were stairs. Because it was such superlative spring day, crowds swarmed around the pillars of the Eiffel
Tower. The views were spectacular; ample compensation for the queues. The places we had dashed between via the Metro in the morning were spread before us like a carpet in the afternoon. Paris was a shining, vibrant city. The Seine slithered through gleaming buildings. The Hotel d’ Invalides shone gold. Despite the crowds and the ever present threat of pickpockets, the spectacle was dazzling, hypnotic.
The Arc de Triomphe was also crowded. We were in time to glimpse a ceremony at the Eternal Flame involving veterans, current soldiers and primary school children. They sang La Marseilles impressively. We clambered up the spiral staircase to the top and again gazed across Paris. Streets radiated out from Napoleon Bonaparte’s monument like spokes from a wheel. I marvelled at the genius and the determination of another Napoleon, Napoleon III, who with his architect had created the wheel – the sweeping boulevards and broad avenues.
We dined in, of all places a Mexican restaurant. The word “incongruous” was redefined as we ate burritos and sipped Coronas above a street where Danton once strode.
DAY FOUR ~ Tuesday 7th April 2009.
Faust, our new driver met us at 9.00am. We nudged our way through the heavy traffic, past the airport and onto the A1. Spring had vanished. Occasional clusters of gypsy caravans huddled at the roadside. As we travelled northwards, the traffic thinned, but the drizzle increased.
At Compiegne we stepped into the countryside. A path led us to a glade where a replica of the train carriage where the Armistice was housed. The positions of the main signatories, the furniture and even the quills used were lovingly displayed. So too was Hitler’s vengeance. When he conquered France in 1940, he insisted that the terms of his armistice be signed in the same carriage in the same place. He sat exactly where Marshall Foch had negotiated with the so called November criminals who signed the Armistice in 1918. When Hitler knew he was defeated in April 1945, he ordered the carriage burned.
The museum on the site was fascinating and provided a wonderful overview of The Great War. The maps and artefacts were impressive. There was an Australian slouch hat, a gift from a Central Coast Association. The 3D photographs viewed through small wooden rectangular boxes were extraordinary. The simple act of looking through the binocular shaped view finder seemed to draw you into another world. The world was black and white. Horror and destruction were ever present: shattered buildings, harrowed faces, trenches crammed with waiting men and dead bodies.
When we emerged, the skies were suitably leaden and remained so as we continued north to Peronne. One shop displayed an Australian flag beneath which was printed, “We don’t forget Australians.” We snatched a snack before entering the fortifications of the Peronne museum. Again, the displays were sobering and moving. The etchings of Otto Dix stood out among the newspaper headlines, uniforms and rusted shattered memorabilia, which included a number of helmets riven through with shrapnel. Dix was 24 in 1914. He wrote:
The fact is, being young at the time, you just don’t realise how profoundly scarred you are. For at least ten years after the war, I kept getting dreams in which I had to crawl through ruined houses, along passages I could hardly get through. The ruins were always there in my dreams.
His etchings are nightmarish; they scream violence and pathos. They made the black and white footage of young men greeting the news on mobilisation with euphoria all the more disturbing.
The movie screened on the battle of the Somme had a similar effect. It juxtaposed the tranquillity and beauty of the river to the noise, destruction and horror of the battle. One was left with an abhorrence of war.
Fromelles was so similar to so many other pretty little hamlets dominated by a church spire we drove through in the afternoon. It seemed in conceivable that the buildings had been rubble and the neat freshly furrowed fields had been so torn and devastated.
The Cobber memorial was easily recognisable. The lawn was manicured but studded with some of the remains of the German line – concrete blocks nine to twelve inches thick. Looking to the north, you could see all too clearly the Australians advance. There casualties were appalling. The fact that they took the line seemed not within the prospect of belief.
The sun shone. The trees were just beginning to bud at VC Corner. The war seemed a world away but the marble and the names were stained with our knowledge of what had taken place there and by the images we had brought with us from the museums at Peronne and Compiegne.
St. Francis Xavier College
DAY ONE to TWO: 4th to 5th April 2009.
We gathered, jittery and excited at Tullamarine at the appointed time, 7.00pm. Check in and all else went smoothly enough. Emirates treated us well and we emerged from the pre dawn stratosphere over Dubai at about 5.30am local time. Freeways snaked across a baked orange landscape. Clusters of apartments slumbered without lights. The landing was perfect.
God it felt good to shuffle off the plane. We were engorged with packaged food and videos. The airport coffee was reinvigorating and helped prepare us for the toilet queues. Dubai reeked of opulence. There was a massive water wall, but there were no urinals to be had.
After being hurried onto the plane to Paris, we sat on the runway for over an hour. In front of us, a group of French students, who seemed to be returning from Australia given some of their clothing and accessories, decided to amuse themselves by tossing heated towels at one another. The attendants disapproved but smiled grimly.
They say that women seem to forget the pain of labour; this, they say, helps to explain the conception of the subsequent children. Perhaps the same could be said of travelling. Tourists must have amnesia about the nature of the journey; otherwise, they would stay at home. With the notable exception of Len Cooke, we seemed to sleep in snatches. Brendan Carney was so bored, he resorted to ringing other passengers. Most of us seemed to watch at least five movies. The food trolleys were looked for longingly, as much for the distraction as for the nourishment they brought. When the plane touched down in Paris at 2.37pm, most were glued to vision provided of the tarmac. The French students broke into spontaneous applause, so glad were they to be home.
Our guide, Beatrice, greeted us with Germaine our driver, when we had cleared passport checks and collected our luggage at about 3.45pm. She expressed admiration for our endurance – twenty-five consecutive hours on a flight to get to Paris. Certainly, she would have agreed with the French students’ sentiments about coming home, except she would have questioned their motives for leaving France in the first place.
The tour she offered of Paris in the bus ride from the airport was excellent. While we were in awe of Germaine’s driving skills, Beatrice enthused about everything from Concord and France’s World Cup victory in 1998 to St. Denis, the headless bishop, and the architectural achievements of Napoleon III. There were all too frequent reminders of the suicidal driving techniques of Parisians. A small blue Citroen had parked with its nose touching the Renault in front. Unfortunately a third car had nuzzled up to the Citroen’s rear; parking too seemed fraught.
Soon the cream limestone architecture and the cobbled avenues and boulevards claimed our attention. We threaded the needle through an impossibly narrow archway into the delightful but exclusive Place Vendome. Sycamores and chestnuts seemed ready to bloom. The weather was mild and Parisians basked on lawns and strolled on the Champs Ellyses with ice-creams. Spring was in the air.
After we had found our hotel and our rooms, Beatrice helped us to navigate the Metro to our first restaurant meal. By the second course, eyelids were heavy. The Seine River Cruise was simply out of the question; we would board the bateau another night. We stumbled back to Hotel Jardins de Paris in Rue de Alesia. The stairs were steep, but the beds were horizontal.
DAY THREE ~ Monday 6th April 2009.
By 9.00 am we were breakfasted and ready. The skies were blue. One group dashed off to the Louvre. Another stayed closer to home. A third embarked on a French Revolution tour which began at the Bastille and went on to La Place de la Concorde, the Tuileries, a Chapel to which the bodies of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette had first been buried and the site of the Cordeliers Club.
The Metro was our friend, enabling us to travel swiftly and safely from one site to the next. There were beggars and buskers made the journeys interesting. Most memorably, there was the flamingo guitarist who murdered I Did it My Way. One resourceful soul carried what appeared to be a stuffed cat in an attempt to elicit more donations from travellers.
While the trains were a highly effective means of transport, I began to feel like a small burrowing marsupial by the day’s end; I’d burrow frantically for a time, then pop my head up to draw air and check on my progress. I found it difficult to maintain a sense of direction on the surface. Again, I appreciated the overview the bus had given me yesterday. That said, there was nothing quite like strolling through the gardens and streets Danton, Marat and their friends would have walked in. The stamp of those tumultuous events seems captured in stones, like the shadows of the bomb at Hiroshima.
That night, we ate dinner in a first floor room overlooking one of the narrow cobbled alleyways which in the Eighteenth Century had been major thoroughfares. We did not so much look down upon the road – we would have had to have leant out of the window to do that – as gaze at our neighbours opposite. Their lives would have been less private, less protected than ours.
There was the Metro. There was history. There were heights and, inevitably, there were stairs. Because it was such superlative spring day, crowds swarmed around the pillars of the Eiffel
Tower. The views were spectacular; ample compensation for the queues. The places we had dashed between via the Metro in the morning were spread before us like a carpet in the afternoon. Paris was a shining, vibrant city. The Seine slithered through gleaming buildings. The Hotel d’ Invalides shone gold. Despite the crowds and the ever present threat of pickpockets, the spectacle was dazzling, hypnotic.
The Arc de Triomphe was also crowded. We were in time to glimpse a ceremony at the Eternal Flame involving veterans, current soldiers and primary school children. They sang La Marseilles impressively. We clambered up the spiral staircase to the top and again gazed across Paris. Streets radiated out from Napoleon Bonaparte’s monument like spokes from a wheel. I marvelled at the genius and the determination of another Napoleon, Napoleon III, who with his architect had created the wheel – the sweeping boulevards and broad avenues.
We dined in, of all places a Mexican restaurant. The word “incongruous” was redefined as we ate burritos and sipped Coronas above a street where Danton once strode.
DAY FOUR ~ Tuesday 7th April 2009.
Faust, our new driver met us at 9.00am. We nudged our way through the heavy traffic, past the airport and onto the A1. Spring had vanished. Occasional clusters of gypsy caravans huddled at the roadside. As we travelled northwards, the traffic thinned, but the drizzle increased.
At Compiegne we stepped into the countryside. A path led us to a glade where a replica of the train carriage where the Armistice was housed. The positions of the main signatories, the furniture and even the quills used were lovingly displayed. So too was Hitler’s vengeance. When he conquered France in 1940, he insisted that the terms of his armistice be signed in the same carriage in the same place. He sat exactly where Marshall Foch had negotiated with the so called November criminals who signed the Armistice in 1918. When Hitler knew he was defeated in April 1945, he ordered the carriage burned.
The museum on the site was fascinating and provided a wonderful overview of The Great War. The maps and artefacts were impressive. There was an Australian slouch hat, a gift from a Central Coast Association. The 3D photographs viewed through small wooden rectangular boxes were extraordinary. The simple act of looking through the binocular shaped view finder seemed to draw you into another world. The world was black and white. Horror and destruction were ever present: shattered buildings, harrowed faces, trenches crammed with waiting men and dead bodies.
When we emerged, the skies were suitably leaden and remained so as we continued north to Peronne. One shop displayed an Australian flag beneath which was printed, “We don’t forget Australians.” We snatched a snack before entering the fortifications of the Peronne museum. Again, the displays were sobering and moving. The etchings of Otto Dix stood out among the newspaper headlines, uniforms and rusted shattered memorabilia, which included a number of helmets riven through with shrapnel. Dix was 24 in 1914. He wrote:
The fact is, being young at the time, you just don’t realise how profoundly scarred you are. For at least ten years after the war, I kept getting dreams in which I had to crawl through ruined houses, along passages I could hardly get through. The ruins were always there in my dreams.
His etchings are nightmarish; they scream violence and pathos. They made the black and white footage of young men greeting the news on mobilisation with euphoria all the more disturbing.
The movie screened on the battle of the Somme had a similar effect. It juxtaposed the tranquillity and beauty of the river to the noise, destruction and horror of the battle. One was left with an abhorrence of war.
Fromelles was so similar to so many other pretty little hamlets dominated by a church spire we drove through in the afternoon. It seemed in conceivable that the buildings had been rubble and the neat freshly furrowed fields had been so torn and devastated.
The Cobber memorial was easily recognisable. The lawn was manicured but studded with some of the remains of the German line – concrete blocks nine to twelve inches thick. Looking to the north, you could see all too clearly the Australians advance. There casualties were appalling. The fact that they took the line seemed not within the prospect of belief.
The sun shone. The trees were just beginning to bud at VC Corner. The war seemed a world away but the marble and the names were stained with our knowledge of what had taken place there and by the images we had brought with us from the museums at Peronne and Compiegne.
Friday, April 3, 2009
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