Perhaps he was thinking: this is it.

Remembrance Day. In Whitehall the familiar ritual took place, televised on BBC1. All over the country similar, scaled-down ceremonies occurred.

I was reminded of a visit I made earlier in the year to see a local historian working on a Great War project in her village. She had traced the histories of all the names on the village war memorial and written up their biographies. One of the subjects had the same name as myself (“Andrew” – photo above) and so I asked about his story:

“He came from a local farming family and was one of eight children. His mother died shortly after he was born and he was brought up by his uncle. He was very athletic and a great village sportsman, very popular.”



“At the outbreak of war he enlisted in the Yeomanry and did his basic training in England (see above photo). He was then sent to Egypt. On the way there his troopship was torpedoed in the Mediterranean and he spent several hours in an open boat before being rescued.”



“In November 1917 he was shot in the back and moved to a military hospital in Alexandria (see above photo). He died on Friday 28th December. He is buried in the Alexandria War Memorial Cemetary.”

I find the above photograph intriguing and appalling. It seems to be more a photograph of the nurse in the centre rather than the wounded soldier in his bed. Possibly she sent a copy of the photograph back to the soldier’s family. The eyes look at you from the bed, and seem to be asking for help. Perhaps he knew he wasn’t going to recover. Perhaps he was thinking: this is it.



Above: this village war memorial, in the form of a stained glass window, shows St Michael standing guard above the county. Around him First World War bi-planes circle in homage. Below you can see the local landscape, the implication being: this is what we are fighting for.



Above: another memorial at a remote village crossroads. The garden around it was immaculately kept. Someone who was with me at university has done a study of First World War memorials (from a feminist perspective, relating their phallic design to the climate of homoeroticism and the stoked-up sexual hysteria among women encouraged to fear violation from the evil marauding boche).