Dear editor:
It was Nov. 11. This was shortly after the war — the Second World War. I was not yet 10 years old.
“Come along,” said my mother. So we took the train up to Charing Cross Station, from which it was only a short walk across Trafalgar Square and down Whitehall to the cenotaph.
There was hardly any traffic in those days. Very few people had cars and the streets that day were virtually empty. But as we came closer to the cenotaph there were more people, gathered quietly along the pavement.
We were early and waited with the others. They made room for us. Nobody was talking. It was a calm, grey day. It was five to 11 a.m. A bus was trundling along the mall. It pulled over to the curb and stopped.
The driver got out of his cab and the conductor down from the platform at the back. They took their caps off and stood with bowed heads.
From where we stood we could see Big Ben and the Parliament buildings down at the end of the street. A taxicab came along. He stopped too, and parked a little short of the monument, where the road widened. He also came out of his cab, took his cap off and stood to attention.
A hush seemed to descend upon the whole city, as we all waited. And Big Ben chimed 11 times. There was two minutes of perfect silence.
After the two minutes, people looked up. Stirred themselves, tentatively. Life went on.
I would not think that there was a single person in London, and indeed the whole country, who did not have a story of loss to reflect upon. Loss, bravery and sacrifice. And for some, memories of horror and fear.
Each person was to remember loved ones of family; friends; neighbours; far or near. Remembering people who had been killed or maimed by bombs or fire and were no longer with us. And some who had simply disappeared.
When the telegram boy had come down the street on his bicycle the women held their breath until he passed them by. The small children did not understand. For them, things had always been this way.
Let us never forget.
Andrew Henwood
NOTL
