It was a cold grey day in the Fins New British cemetery in the Somme Valley as I stood at Hugh Anderson’s grave. His headstone was a simple rectangle with a rounded top, made of pale Portland Stone. Its fine, even grain was engraved with Hugh’s name and rank, a cross, and a regimental emblem. The small flower bed around the headstone was planted with roses and perennials. I put a small bunch of flowers on the neatly cut grass in front of it and wondered how he had felt when the peaceful fields had been a horrendous, muddy battlefield.
I never met Hugh. He was my great-great-uncle and he died during the First World War, ninety-two years ago, on the 24th of October 1918, just a few weeks before the Armistice. He was only twenty three years old, seven years older than I am now. I visited his grave during a short trip to the battlefields of northern France and Belgium with my family last year.
As I stood at Hugh’s grave and looked around at the straight rows of other graves, the headstones neatly lined up like the soldiers they represent, I felt a mixture of pride and sadness. I felt pride because Hugh fought for our country. I felt deep sorrow because his life was cut short. And not just his life; the day before we had visited Tyne Cot Cemetery, which is near the site of the Battle of Passchendaele in Belgium. There are 11,908 graves in Tyne Cot, of which three quarters are unknown. On the wall at the back of the cemetery are the names of another 34,927 soldiers who have no known grave. The sheer number of graves makes it difficult to take in; it’s really hard to think of them as people and not just rows and rows of white headstones. There is even a sort of deceptively peaceful beauty to the war cemeteries that almost makes you forget the tragedy and huge loss of young life that took place.
The Fins New British cemetery where Hugh is buried looked small compared to others I had visited. However when I read the plaque on the gate I was shocked that even such a relatively small cemetery had two thousand soldiers in it. As well as the huge cemeteries there are many smaller cemeteries scattered around the countryside in northern France and Belgium.
As the sun broke through the clouds I realised that every one of these many names belonged to a real person, a son, brother, perhaps husband or father. I had seen so many war graves during that week, but this small slab of stone belonged to someone who was once a part of my family. Suddenly my little bunch of flowers, already dying, seemed inadequate for all the suffering. I was moved and I decided that I wanted to find out more about Hugh, even though everyone who knew him is now dead.
I went to the Mitchell Library to look up war obituaries on the microfiche records of the newspapers. And sure enough, there he was, the only photo that still exists. He had a cheerful face and blond, wavy hair. But that only showed me what he looked like; I still wanted to know what he was like as a person.
I asked my grandmother if she had any more information about him. There were no more photos, but she found his service medals. She had heard that his mother “was never the same” after he died and died herself a few years later. How could this young man who was so loved have disappeared almost without a trace? My grandmother found one more thing; a short letter that he wrote home from the front lines a few weeks before he died.
It wasn’t easy to read the letter; the ink had faded and his writing was scratchy and old-fashioned. There were no great insights about war or danger; he thanked his mother for the socks she had sent him, asked how the family was, complained that he was short of cigarettes. He was just an ordinary young man, and although he must have had hopes and plans like all of us, we can never know what they were. So that’s all there is. Some medals, one short, everyday letter and a handed-down memory that his mother loved him very much.
And that’s what I found tragic; he was just an ordinary person like me, in an extraordinary situation, a war that cut his life short. Most of his life was in front of him; he would probably have worked in the family haulage business for the next forty years like his brothers and then enjoyed some years of retirement. It makes me feel sorry that he missed all the good things in life, like Christmas, birthdays and holidays at the seaside. Perhaps he had a girlfriend who missed him for the rest of her life. Or his life might not have been all that happy, he might have had health problems or hated his job; but he never got the chance to find out and that’s what I felt was so distressing.
Over the next months, as I reflected on his short life, I started to think that although he didn’t get the chance to live out his life and have children of his own, his bloodline goes on through me and my brothers, his brother’s descendants. He was one of nearly ten million soldiers on both sides who died during the First World War, but he was also part of our family and he was a unique human being.
As I thought about his life ending suddenly I started to think that we should all make the most of the precious gift of life while we have it. I decided that whatever I spend my life doing, I would like to live life to the full. I would like to do this in honour of Hugh Anderson and all the other soldiers who fell in combat in the First and Second World Wars. None of us knows how long we have got to live so we should try to live the best lives we can, helping others and trying to make the world a little better, and above all appreciating how lucky we are to be alive.
I would like to visit Hugh’s grave again soon and also return with the next generation of Andersons some day to pay our respects. Next time instead of cut flowers I will bring a heather plant for this Scottish soldier buried so far from home, as a symbol of life going on.
(Written by Alasdair Anderson, 2010)
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