John was still a child when England joined the “Great War” in early August of 1914. He and his brothers Patrick, my grandfather, and Ned were being raised by their aunt in Dublin after their dad died as their mother had died when they were quite young. Both John and Patrick were conscripted into the British Army- Ireland was still part of the Empire in those days. Ned was not quite old enough and so was spared.
John was shot and died in a field in Northern France. My grandfather was with him. There was a story that their younger brother, Ned, saw John in the yard on the day that he died. His aunt knew her boy was dead.
He was buried there.
His family was sent a large bronze medal and a photo of his gravemarker. A few years ago, I had the original photo copied and restored, and gave copies to my dad and his sisters. His sacrifice is remembered.
In Flanders Fields
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
by John McCrae
(Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae was a soldier, physician and poet)
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