It's been a century since the guns ceased fire at 11 a.m. November 11, 1918. Ragged, hungry, and cold, they left the trench with the hope that we would find peace.
A hundred years later, we have even "better" weapons — but our men and women, and the animals who help them, still face the guns, bombs, and inhumanity.
For those who have faced these dangers and threats, for those who have promised to protect us in times of peace and in times of war, I am immensely grateful. May we strive as hard for peace as we have for war, and may you one day have no call to answer.
The fields in Flanders, Belgium, where the earth was churned by battle and burial of the casualties of war, were covered in poppies. John McCrae wrote this memorable poem after presiding over a friend's funeral.
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.
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.
