SILENT LEGION.

Waikato Times, Volume 97, Issue 15272, 23 June 1923, Page 8

SILENT LEGION.

THE YPRES PILGRIMAGE. TOUCHING SCENES._ (By Mary Macleod Moore.) Across the narrow sea by which there journeyed towards the battlefields millions of our men there travelled lately another army—the army of the nearest relatives of the men who felt in defence of Ypres, on their way to spend Palm Sunday in' communion with those behind the veil. Patient, grateful, and uncomplaining, these nine hundred poor persons stood for the Silent Legion that did so much to win victory. The wonderful spirit of England which carried us through the darkest days of anguish and suspense looked from their brave faces as they gathered at Victoria Station. There many had said good-bye to soldiers; there they had jayfully met a man on leave; there they had, perhaps, heard a few sentences from an inarticulate pal who had, seen the end. Through their wet eyes shone this spirit as they stood in the beautiful Lijssenthoek Cemetery and heard a lark song in ecstasyabove the cross of sacrifice; as they listened to the hymn which told of One who was “ their Captain in the well-fought fight . . .

in the darkness drear (and God alone knows how drear I) their one true Light”; as the poignant notes or “The Last Post,’’ played by lads as young and gay as their boys were, pierced their faithful hearts; as “The Reveille” prayed them to lift up those hearts, to be strong and of good courage, to be thankful and proud that they had so much to give.

From places as far apart as Llangollen and Glasgow, Exeter and Montrose, Bath and Dargs, Llanfairfechan and Chester, Aberdeen and London and Liverpool they came. Some were very old people who fought fatigue jn the spirit of their sons and grandsons. Young rfien came to see the graves Of fathers and brothers: daughters were looking for “Dad’s” grave—there were soldiers’ children and there were many widows. Even a baby was there, brought by a mother who could not have come otherwise. None had visited the graves before. None could have done so now unless the cost had been paid and the arrangements, so bewildering to the inexperiended, made for them. Surely it was an inspiration that led St. Barnabas Hostels (whose founder and secretary, the Rev. M, Mullineux, M.C., was an army chaplain) to arrange tire Pilgrimage, and to seek the aid of “Toe H." in its marvellously successful sympathetic organising. In tho Dawn. Calais in the cold grey dawn, amid unfamiliar surroundings and in sound of a strange tongue. Calais in the glow of sunrise, with the church bells ringing. Then the long train dragged itself through a clean, fresh land until it stopped at Abeele in the sunshine, and the pilgrims began their journey to the scene of the commemoration service. : Lijssenthoek Military Cemetery, near Poperinghe, shelters the bodies of the , thousands who died in the four casu- , alty clearing stations close by—two British and two Canadian. It is one of the completely finished cemeteries, and none could be more beautiful in , its stately dignity and peace. ; Warm sun and balmy air made a ' June day as one passed under the high arch draped with the Belgian and

British flags. On the great Stone of Remembrance, which bears the words, “Their Name Liveth For Evermore," lay our flag; upon it bunches of fresh (lowers, for to-day the Stone is an Altar. In front were benches for the pilgrims. Beyond marched the rows and rows of shining white headstones, where officer and private lie together in the Democracy” of-Death.- Evdryh where flowers growing from sturdy little plants. Everywhere the grass, as green and as well cared for as any .. of our far-famed English lawns. Eor 3 a to the 1300 gardeners engaged in the r war cemeteries under the Imperial War Graves Commission their work is no common wok. Already great traditions arc growing up. s The Pilgrims. 0 Then as one watched from the high j wall there came the pilgrims. A long t pathetic procession trudged down the I sunny, dusty road, carrying ihe flowers they wished to plade on graves. On either side lay the faint green fields of ’ Spring. Above them a blue sky, . against which the high bare trees cut ’ darkly. And the crude glare of new ( buildings linked the present with the immediate past. . In the cemetery the clergy in theiv J white robes, the choir of All Hallows-by-the-Tower, the young Boy Scouts • ,of the Lord Mayor’s 'Own City of London Troop (and one must say a I word for the cheery helpfulness of these boys, many of them very young), , the striking figures of the Royal Artillery Band, most of the men wearing , war medals, and the R.H.A. trumpet--1 ers, moved to their appointed places. | As the vanguard of pilgrims entered t there fell upon the soft air the first , notes or “For All tho Saints who from , their Labours Rest.” Hardly a face | but was wet with tears as the people streamed in. It seemed as if that orderly advance would never come, to an end. Sometimes a sot) broke ttie quiet, and I saw an elderly father and mother holding toil-worn hands as the tears streamed down Ihcir poor faces. But, at the end of the Communion Service, close to where many soldiers ■ had received the last Communion, llie voices were sweet and steady as they sang “0 Valiant Hearts,” with iis tri- . umphanl statement: These were His servants, in His steps they trod, Following through death the martyred Son of God. Victor lie rose, victorious too shall rise They who have drunk His cup of sacrifice. 1 “The Last Post” sounded from behind the altar by the trumpeters, and the “Reveille,” as all turned towards the - Cross of Sacrifice, ended a memorable ' service. Hopes and Memories. Ypres came next. Brave new Ypres with its face to the future, with its . hopes and its memories. All through . the warm afternoon parties of pilgrims : slipped away to outlying cemeteries, , supplied with exact details, each to l find the grave of the baloved. At last, the dream of years came true. , Perhaps there were many who as they ■ communed in these peaceful places , with one long lost, asked the wistful i question: “Is it well with the child?” 1 ' and received the comforting assurance, :, “It is well." • , Ypres again, as the dying sun i glowed orange red through the broken i western window of the Cloth Hall. The , square was packed with Belgians and : with British pilgrims when the. R.A. i band played. But one heard more : than the band and the voices. One : 1 saw more than people sitting chatting . in cafes or strolling about. One heard

the crash of shells, the roar of guns. One saw the wild Humes painting the shy as the men fought through a hell of suffering. liven the three thousand bright new buildings' (in contrast to the battered ramparts) cannot drive away the wistful gallant ghosts of those who died in defence of Ypres. Ypres in the thick dark of the station square. A mass of people waiting so quietly that one could hardly distinguish the outline of figures. Then softly, very softly, there breathed upon the air' the familiar tune of

“Abide with Me.’’ From end to end of the square voices took up the words and sang. Tired old people stumbled lo 111 elf feet from where they had been resting on the slalion platform. Men pulled off their caps.

There is one last thing to say. The applicants for this pilgrimage numbered 2T>OO. Over 1500 had to be disappointed. ■ These loving souls crave, too, to see their men’s graves in various parts of the war zone, but they never can unless th.e fortunate help. , ’