If I should die, think only this of me:
That there’s some corner of a foreign field
That is forever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed:
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England’s, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home
And think, this heart,all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given,
Her signs and sounds; dream happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
Remembrance Day is one of bitter sweet memories. We remember those who never returned, and are grateful for those who returned.
My father-in-law grew up in a quiet town in Southern Ontario. He enlisted and his training as a flight sergeant took place in an equally small town in Saskatchewan. This is where he met and married. He returned from the war to live in Saskatchewan.
My uncle, Bertram Henry Henderson grew up in my home town, Prince Albert, Saskatchewan. He and his two brothers all enlisted in the Regina Rifles. He died in action October 27, 1944. His last letter home was dated October 27, 1944. It was written in the dim light of a candle in a bottle. The letter was in his effects returned to the family.
My older sister and myself with my Uncle shortly before he was shipped overseas.
This document shows the location of his grave in Belgian. It also identifies the family who would be responsible for the maintenance and care of his grave site.
Our Uncle’s grave continues to be looked after by the Belgian Family entrusted in their care more than 70 years ago. Members of that family continue to maintain contact with our family.
My father grew up in a small village in southern England. He fought in the war to end all wars (World War One). When war ended he immigrated to Canada to join his older brothers in Northern Saskatchewan. The only time he mentioned the war was to tell us how he had befriended some Turkish prison of war soldiers and they had taught him to make Turkish coffee.
( poem … The Soldier – Rupert Brooke)