"They may all now rest in peace." - Eric A. Murray
My need is to write, as untutored as I am, to write of a man, an ordinary man, who answered a call to bear arms, to fight an aggressor. He answered the call and became a private soldier in the British Army, an enlisted man. This was in the year 1914. A year later on December 23rd, 1915 the Private of the Duke of Cornwall Light Infantry was killed in action.
Now ninety years later his gravesite is visited to fulfill a wish of his sister Henrietta Jeffcott- Murray, my mother and her grandson, my son. The military cemetery is located near the hamlet of Bois-Grenier, a border town between the countries of Belgium and France.
December when we visited this border land of Flanders, we found farmland soil to be of a rich heavy consistency. Today the land grows Sugar Beets, Potatoes, Leeks, Cabbage and what we in the U.S. call “Brussels’ sprouts”. These crops grow well because the soil is rich, it's deep and heavy. The climate is well suited for these vegetables. In December the soil is saturated, along with this the air is damp, cold, and feels raw. The wind chills to the bone. You can only imagine what it was like ninety years ago. The very clothes he had, the boots, sox, underwear. Rations such as bully beef, hard tack (a form of rock hard crackers and corned beef), a ration of rum, a cigarette and the unrelenting wind, cold and raw, were central to the men’s existence. The soldiers lived in trenches, a sort of ditch, hand dug with dirt piled in front to protect you from enemy rifle fire. The enemy was also in trenches, some perhaps only three hundred feet away. Each side kept constant watch and on occasion an attempts was made to capture the other trenches.
All of the farm houses, barns had been destroyed by artillery. The farmland lay pitted with craters, slashed with trenches and barbed wire. The land was rutted by armies as they pushed back and forth time and again. The main transport was horse drawn carts or wagons. The very roads, lanes or dirt tracks were narrow, deeply rutted, and heavy with mud which formed great clumps of dirt on the feet of animals, of men, of wheels, of sleds. Under leaden skies the cold - unrelenting perishing cold, the rain, the wet, soaked clothes, death was found on every side.
The task of getting supplies to the trenches was hazardous. There was no cover from shell or bullet. Material could not just be dropped off, it had to be hand carried into the trenches, stacked, distributed. All the while the enemy could and did take shots, "pot shots". They were successful on this day, as in the past two days and the day after, that is December the 21st, 22nd, 23rd and 24th of 1914. On each day a soldier in the Duke of Cornwall Light Infantry was killed in action and is buried side along side with his comrades.
On the day of Christmas soldiers on both sides called a truce, joined each other in No - Mans - Land, sang carols, swapped gifts of apples, rum, cigarettes and candy, perhaps packages received from home. Staff officers attempted to stop this fraternization with the enemy. The love of Christ, the child born in a manger persisted. Battle torn, weary men, met the enemy and shared a time of common love, then returned to wage war.
I read that Winston Churchill mused, contemplated, thought and wrote "I wonder what would happen if soldiers on both sides decided to call a strike" Which means putting down the tools of death, stop, and demand alternative ways to settle disputes.
William H. Jeffcott, Pvt. Duke of Cornwall Light Infantry. He was killed in Action December 23rd, 1915. He is buried at Y Farm Military Cemetery near Bois Grenier, France. He was the only son of Harriet Parker-Jeffcott, a widow, also brother to Henrietta Mary Jeffcott.
The Great War raged on for three more years, till nations were exhausted, manpower depleted, treasury emptied. Then on 11th day of the 11th month of 1918 an Armistice was signed. Peace finally was reached. This peace lasted 20 years and 10 months. When in September 1939 the same aggressor, Germany, once again invaded her neighbors.
Not until May of 1945 would the aggressor be defeated and an unconditional surrender signed. No armistice, nothing granted but total surrender. So it is that peace has reigned in this part of the world for sixty years.
Man has not changed. Wars upon wars continue. Death, destruction, greed, envy, lust for power all persist. We will never, never, never learn. We hear the words of the Prince of Peace telling the greatest gift is LOVE. We are to love each the other.
The message is clear, it is heard, it just doesn't reach the brain.
All the while in the Fields, called Flanders, a man I never met, a private, the lowest rank in an army lies buried, for these past ninety years. He was beloved by his mother and sister. They may now all rest in peace.
Thank you Andrew.
Now ninety years later his gravesite is visited to fulfill a wish of his sister Henrietta Jeffcott- Murray, my mother and her grandson, my son. The military cemetery is located near the hamlet of Bois-Grenier, a border town between the countries of Belgium and France.
December when we visited this border land of Flanders, we found farmland soil to be of a rich heavy consistency. Today the land grows Sugar Beets, Potatoes, Leeks, Cabbage and what we in the U.S. call “Brussels’ sprouts”. These crops grow well because the soil is rich, it's deep and heavy. The climate is well suited for these vegetables. In December the soil is saturated, along with this the air is damp, cold, and feels raw. The wind chills to the bone. You can only imagine what it was like ninety years ago. The very clothes he had, the boots, sox, underwear. Rations such as bully beef, hard tack (a form of rock hard crackers and corned beef), a ration of rum, a cigarette and the unrelenting wind, cold and raw, were central to the men’s existence. The soldiers lived in trenches, a sort of ditch, hand dug with dirt piled in front to protect you from enemy rifle fire. The enemy was also in trenches, some perhaps only three hundred feet away. Each side kept constant watch and on occasion an attempts was made to capture the other trenches.
All of the farm houses, barns had been destroyed by artillery. The farmland lay pitted with craters, slashed with trenches and barbed wire. The land was rutted by armies as they pushed back and forth time and again. The main transport was horse drawn carts or wagons. The very roads, lanes or dirt tracks were narrow, deeply rutted, and heavy with mud which formed great clumps of dirt on the feet of animals, of men, of wheels, of sleds. Under leaden skies the cold - unrelenting perishing cold, the rain, the wet, soaked clothes, death was found on every side.
The task of getting supplies to the trenches was hazardous. There was no cover from shell or bullet. Material could not just be dropped off, it had to be hand carried into the trenches, stacked, distributed. All the while the enemy could and did take shots, "pot shots". They were successful on this day, as in the past two days and the day after, that is December the 21st, 22nd, 23rd and 24th of 1914. On each day a soldier in the Duke of Cornwall Light Infantry was killed in action and is buried side along side with his comrades.
On the day of Christmas soldiers on both sides called a truce, joined each other in No - Mans - Land, sang carols, swapped gifts of apples, rum, cigarettes and candy, perhaps packages received from home. Staff officers attempted to stop this fraternization with the enemy. The love of Christ, the child born in a manger persisted. Battle torn, weary men, met the enemy and shared a time of common love, then returned to wage war.
I read that Winston Churchill mused, contemplated, thought and wrote "I wonder what would happen if soldiers on both sides decided to call a strike" Which means putting down the tools of death, stop, and demand alternative ways to settle disputes.
William H. Jeffcott, Pvt. Duke of Cornwall Light Infantry. He was killed in Action December 23rd, 1915. He is buried at Y Farm Military Cemetery near Bois Grenier, France. He was the only son of Harriet Parker-Jeffcott, a widow, also brother to Henrietta Mary Jeffcott.
The Great War raged on for three more years, till nations were exhausted, manpower depleted, treasury emptied. Then on 11th day of the 11th month of 1918 an Armistice was signed. Peace finally was reached. This peace lasted 20 years and 10 months. When in September 1939 the same aggressor, Germany, once again invaded her neighbors.
Not until May of 1945 would the aggressor be defeated and an unconditional surrender signed. No armistice, nothing granted but total surrender. So it is that peace has reigned in this part of the world for sixty years.
Man has not changed. Wars upon wars continue. Death, destruction, greed, envy, lust for power all persist. We will never, never, never learn. We hear the words of the Prince of Peace telling the greatest gift is LOVE. We are to love each the other.
The message is clear, it is heard, it just doesn't reach the brain.
All the while in the Fields, called Flanders, a man I never met, a private, the lowest rank in an army lies buried, for these past ninety years. He was beloved by his mother and sister. They may now all rest in peace.
Thank you Andrew.
posted by Andrew Murray at 3:02 PM
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