CENOTAPHS AND MONUMENTS

LEST WE FORGET TO REMEMBER

My family and I have recently been required to pour over and sort through years of belongings, photos, letters, and memories of loved ones who have passed away. It has been a challenging process, in many ways heart wrenching, often confronting, sometimes joyous. It has been as though we have entered the vaults of our loved one’s lives. Their material lives are a testament of memories with stories, histories, and intimacies to tell. Remembering is a powerful process, it can be liberating and empowering.

SORTING THROUGH THE MEMORIES

During the Easter holidays this year (the time I prefer to label “The Passion week”) my wife and I spent much of our time we would spend in reflection, rest and recreation working through about 35 years of our own archives, files, and ministry notes and resources. This was a space and time-determined imperative. In the process we needed to discern what was necessary to retain and those elements that would need to be processed for shredding (including much confidential material). A monumental experience after successfully filling four wheely-bins of discarded material. Amongst all the archives we also discovered artifacts we have chosen to retain as they are eminent memories. Emotionally charged. Important. Relevant. Impactful.

The Australian Light Horse

MEETING THE LAST LIGHT HORSEMAN

 

Amongst them was an order of service that sparked a precious memory from twenty years ago.I had been invited with my family to the birthday of Albert (Bert) Whitmore (1899 - 2002). I remember being so honoured and proud of my son when he was blessed to shake his hand. Bert was the last surviving Light Horseman and last surviving South Australian World War One veteran. Having joined the service as a 17-year-old Bert joined his fellow comrades in arms shortly after they had captured Beersheba in the historic cavalry charge. Bert rode in the successful third battle for Gaza. Allied victories soon led to the capture of Jerusalem. The rest - they say- is history. Bert described the scenes he had witnessed  as "like riding through the Bible". Israel is an archaeological museum of peoples, and lives and stories and beliefs. In the midst of the war, Bert had been graced to view with his own eyes the good news places he had read of and heard about in Sunday School. Beersheba is the place of cisterns in the desert where “The well of Abraham” can be seen on numerous plaques heralding the narrative to visitors. 

Author Shane Brigg at "Abraham's Well" at Beersheba in Israel

CENOTAPHS, MEMORIALS, AND MONUMENTS

Today monuments and cenotaphs are seen in this place too of the time Bert and his mates rode through.  In Jerusalem there are many cenotaphs, memorial places, plaques, and archaeological sites of significance. The most eminent and debated over is the burial place of the risen Jesus. The word cenotaph is derived from the Greek kenos taphos, meaning "empty tomb." A cenotaph is a monument, sometimes in the form of a tomb, in our modern usage it is often utilized as a place of remembrance to a person or group of persons buried elsewhere. Including our ANZACs.

LEST WE FORGET

Bert Passed away at the age of 102. Soon after the opportunity our community had made to honour him in life we then gathered for his funeral service which took place on the 31st of October 2002. This date was also the 85th anniversary of the Battle of Beersheba. I was honoured to attend this humble man’s graveside State funeral service in the Barmera cemetery. It was a solemn, impactful, appreciation of a servant-hearted man and his comrades who had laid down their lives. The words “Lest we forget” resounded. The phrase simply implores that 'it should not be forgotten'. We say or write 'lest we forget' in commemorations to always remember the service and sacrifice of people who have served in wars, conflicts and peacekeeping operations. A Bugle sounded. Bagpipes played. 

Albert Whitmore. The last Light Horseman

I visited that cemetery several times over the years.

OTHERS NOT FORGOTTEN 

Among the artifacts we found as we cleaned up all those archives was the memorial service handout of a ten year old boy's funeral that I had conducted at that same cemetery a couple of years after Bert Whitmore’s farewell. I was his Chappy and Pastor caring for his family over many years. I have kept that order of service. This was a difficult memory to process. Especially considering that only a little while later I was doing another service for his Dad who had passed away after his battle with cancer. Bagpipes played at their funeral, but there was no bugle. The phrase “Lest we Forget” was not announced for these two friends of mine. But they had both fought a brave fight: one which is the battle of all young people to live their lives, grow, learn, wrestle through the challenges, connect, love and be loved by others and celebrate every heartbeat, the other was to experience the same and to have lived and loved and fought a brave battle for health. Then to have known the peace of God in the last hours as hands were held, prayers were said. I will ever remember them as having fought the good fight of faith. Sometimes this fight may have been faltering for them. Sometimes it was full of glory. Remembering them is important. It helps to anchor my own life and be thankful for the lives I have been honoured to know. It also deepens the appreciation of those whom I have not known and yet who are important to value and appreciate and take time to remember.

HONOUR TO OUR ANZACS 

This ANZAC day we will pause to remember our service people who have laid down their life and living to secure peace in our world. Many have paid the ultimate price of their life in sacrifice. No greater love. Lest we forget.

The phrase 'Lest we forget' is from a line in the1897 Rudyard Kipling poem, “Recessional”:

"God of our fathers, known of old,

Lord of our far-flung battle line,

Beneath whose awful hand we hold

Dominion over palm and pine—

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

Lest we forget—lest we forget!"

 

Remembering is a powerful process.

Shane Brigg Chaplain Remembrance Day Service Prayers

The memories that had been catalysed by our archival cleanout over passion week have culminated in my final thoughts here:

The opportunity to journey with loved ones (like my family and friends), acquaintances and even people less known to us but whose stories have had an impact on our lives (Like Bert Whitmore) is a blessing.

The memories literally grounded in the cemetery in Barmera are not just of deaths, but of lives and loves that have touched my life. And Life goes on.

LIFE. LOVE. LIFTING JESUS . 

The siblings, wife, family, and friends of those who we had buried at the Barmera cemetery gathered at the beautiful Lake Bonney near this landmark at the culmination of my tenure in this region. It was for a baptism in its waters. As we remembered the saving works of Jesus. No Greater Love has any one than to lay down their life for their friends. And as those who went through the waters, we recognised that this act was more than just a memorial of death. It was a living symbol of Jesus having laid down his life he rose again to give us life. Life abundant. The sister and daughter of that little boy and the dad who had passed away was baptised.

 There was no bugle or bagpipes, but someone played a guitar and we sang.

 "Lord, I lift Your name on high

Lord, I love to sing Your praises
I'm so glad You're in my life
I'm so glad You came to save us

You came from heaven to earth
To show the way
From the earth to the cross
My debt to pay
From the cross to the grave
From the grave to the sky
Lord, I lift Your name on high."

(Written by Rick Founds).

We could have added a stanza we might have borrowed from Kipling (my thoughts):

God of our fathers, known of old, (and known to us)

Lord of our far-flung battle line, (Our lives, our world, our time)

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, (Jesus, you never leave us nor forsake us)

Lest we forget—lest we forget!

Lake Bonney Barmera, South Australia

The Passion week is a time for us to remember. Baptisms are a mark on our lives to memorialise in our own living Jesus death and resurrection. A testimonial of saving love. We do that conscientiously and consequentially of our faith journeys. Jesus life and death and resurrection has redeemed our past and marked and influenced our future. I am grateful.  Remembering is powerful.

The opening of the memorial portal that was stored in all the archival and material elements that my wife and I have kept and reviewed have meant that I have and will conscientiously make  time to remember my family and friends. My loved ones and their lives. To tell and write more of their stories. To bless. To heal. Those who have lived their lives and touched ours in the past and their passing have marked and influenced our future. I am grateful.  Remembering is powerful.

Love is a reminder that the story of our lives is interwoven with those of others. The strongest reminder is the greatest of love. The laying down of lives. Living sacrifices. Faith, Hope and Love, and the greatest of these is love, and no greater love has anyone than they lay down their lives for their friends. (1 Corinthians 13:13, John 15:13).

This ANZAC day I chose to remember. I chose to remember, appreciate, honour those who have served and have laid down their lives in times of war and conflict to secure a future and peace for us. I am truly grateful. 

Bert Whitmore Light Horse Memorial Barmera RSL 

On the 14th August 2022, on Albert Whitmore’s birthday a memorial was unveiled by Tony Pasin MP & Bert`s family at the Barmera RSL. The Plaque reads :

“Erected by the RSL Barmera Sub Branch to celebrate Albert (Bert) Whitmore.

The last surviving WWI Light Horseman”

 The Front Inscription reads :

“L E S T   W E   F O R G E T”.

 

I won’t.  I hope we all remember. Remembering is powerful.

Lest We Forget

    

     They came for us at 1 am. 

    A hot meal and drink were waiting. I ate and drank the food and it sat, like lead in my stomach. When we were finished, everyone dressed in silence and I kept thinking about that meal and wondering if it was my last. What made me lie about my age? My thoughts drifted to home. What was mum doing right now? Did they miss me? I could picture my younger sister collecting eggs, could almost hear the hiss of the fire as dad stoked it ready for breakfast.

    I want to go home.

    I wasn't alone. No one spoke. Orders were given in whispers in case the enemy, only a few miles away, were forewarned about our arrival.

    My hand shook as I stowed my great coat into a pack. I rolled the sleeves of my tunic up to the elbow. I saw the whiteness of Jimmy's arm and realised it was so our own men could identify us in the dawn light.

    The occasional curse was muttered as we made our way down ladders and into boats. The air was so still, with hardly a breath of wind. Most of the space in our small boats was taken up with boxes of ammunition, water and rations. I watched as Jimmy passed shovels and wire cutters to the men in the other boat.

    At 3.30 am we set off. The remaining men stood on deck and took their caps off, circling their arms above their heads in a silent wave. I could feel icy tentacles slide down my spine. I clamped my jaw shut to stop my teeth from chattering. Fear rose and no matter how hard I tried, the silence and pitch black night seemed to taunt me. From the look on Jimmy's face he felt the same.

    I think it took 30-45 minutes for us to reach shore. My feet were numb from being crammed beside a box, and my shirt was damp from mist. The first glow of dawn started to brighten the sky. Rising from behind the hills the sun was the colour of lemons growing on our tree at home.  

    We weren't even off the boats when the first popping noises were heard. Someone yelled for us to get to the trenches. The flashes of rifle fire reminded me of fireworks. I saw Jimmy jump out of the boat, and land in water up to his chest. One minute he was standing there, the next he was floating face down. A pool of blood darkened the water around him.  

    We'd been mates since we were little, Jimmy and me. I couldn't just leave him there. Not like that. I half slid out of the boat and grabbed him by one arm. I tried to drag him onto the beach, but he was too heavy. I felt a sharp pain, like someone had elbowed me in the side and fell over. I could hear screams and gunfire and someone yelling for us to keep going.

    I tried to stand but couldn't. My legs didn't work. I'm cold and tired. So tired. There are dozens of men floating around me. Smithy and Colin…and Jimmy. I can feel the water closing over me. 

    I want to go home. 

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Lee Franklin lives in WA on a property with her hero husband, amazing son and sweet sister-in-law. Oh, and a myriad of animals. She encourages everyone to attend their local dawn service, and show those who fight for our freedom the respect they deserve so much.