Much as my grandfather's photos seem to have a self assured bravado about them the war was close and real, and he saw his share of deaths. Reginald Parrott, or "Polly" as he was known, was killed when a German shell caved in the parapet during a counter attack. Here's Polly behind my grandfather in November 1915, and here is his grave four months later.
In 1922 my grandfather returned to the grave at the Kemmel Chateau Cemetery.
My son stands by the grave in 2008.
In 1922 my grandfather was returning to Smyrna with his father and his cousin Louise. He had finished his degree in engineering at Queen's University after the war and was going to the family home in Asia Minor where his father ran an international college.
They took a ship to England and then did a detour to visit my grandfather's battle sites. My great grandfather gave a book to his son inscribed as a reminder of their good trip together.
Looking at the photos one sees something of that gulf between those who fought and those who did not. Great grandfather looks on with an academic interest, Louise, as was her spirit, seems to ham it up. My grandfather stands by land marks which to him represent critical moments in the Battle of Sanctuary Wood.
The culvert is repaired now but what torment of shells might have ripped it apart and shattered the tree? Was this a place of refuge as PPCLI held off the German advance? I don't know.
Louise is lucky she didn't blow them all to bits.
And in these next photos displaying the aftermath of destruction what would be the different thoughts in the minds of these three visitors?
The Lille gate is pitted but quiet. The Cloth Hall in Ypres is in ruins but no shells will fall. And now the barbed wire is being stacked in mountains, no longer laid out to snag cloth and flesh.
The Michelin guide book provides a driving tour for the curious, but there is no tour through the minds of those who were there.
This scene looks like it's of a fresh planting in no-man's-land in 1922. Compare this to the photo my grandfather took of the view across to Fritz's line just a few years before in 1916. And on just such a day as this the German shell blew apart the parapet and "Polly" Parrott died.
My grandfather went on to Smyrna where he first met my grandmother. They survived the destruction and burning of the city by the Turks and ended up in Canada. Her letters are a whole other story, as is the tale of how my great grandfather was spared from a firing squad by the skin of his teeth. Louise married a White Russian emigre/refugee and ended up in the States.
To end here is a photo of my grand parents, backs to the camera, in the market place in Ypres in 1965. I'll make a visit for them all in the next couple of years, and I'll be sure Parrot is not forgotten.
As a last note here's my grandfather again, in the British army in Salonica, 1917, next to a photo of my son in a school movie project in 2012.
They were born 100 years apart.
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