The service at the Cenotaph for Remembrance Day today was all the more poignant for me as I had been researching my family tree this year to discover more about my two great uncles who had given the ultimate sacrifice. The events were deeply moving, particularly the veterans’ walk-by when you witness so many with memories they never forget and how sad it must be for them to see the world as it is today, considering the sacrifice so many of them made. I do not on this day want to mention anything about those hypocrites like Blair who were present as I realise this thread might well descend into that. I agree but I would prefer that on Remembrance Sunday, we instead make it our duty and obligation to honour the heroes and vow never to forget them.
I hope it is okay to share the following: I travelled to Singapore and Thailand this year to visit my Uncle Harry’s grave and discovered his terrible journey from capture in Singapore to building the Death Railway before succumbing to a dreadful death. It was the most humble and moving journey. This is an edited piece I sent for my old school’s current newsletter as it was also my uncle’s old school and he was remembered in their assembly on Friday morning:
As a (School) pupil I grew up with my mum continually telling me they should teach in History what the Japanese did to her Uncle Harry when they captured him during WW2. Like many of her generation she had a resentment of anything Japanese and always argued she would never buy anything they manufactured. When asked about her TV, her car, her 'phone, etc. she would deny they were from Japan but just did not realise the impact they made on our modern culture. Furthermore, she would nag us relentlessly about leaving food on our plates and how much Uncle Harry would have welcomed it. I feel ashamed now that we laughed at her for it.
For when my mother died last year, I began compiling my family tree and focused on my two Great Uncles, both ex-pupils of (School), like all of my mother’s family: Maxwell Robertson, who died in WW1; and his younger brother, Henry. I learned that Max left Govan for Gallipoli in 1915 as a teenage boy and lasted 9 days before he was killed. There was no grave but he is remembered with honour on the Helles Memorial in Turkey. I expect this wee boy from (School), an apprentice in the local shipyard, wouldn’t have been able to point out this foreign land on a map before he left to die there.
In researching his brother, Gunner Henry Robertson of the Royal Artillery, 9th Coast Regiment, I discovered he was captured by the Japanese in Singapore and forced to work on constructing the infamous Burma-Thailand Railway and bridge over the River Kwai, dying a horrible death there in 1943. With the help of The Commonwealth War Graves Commission, I managed to trace his grave to Thailand and for all of my family who never knew of his last resting place – my great grandparents, my gran, my mother – I vowed to be the first to visit it.
And so, in August this year, I travelled with my husband and daughter to Bangkok and took the 3 hour journey to Kanchanaburi Cemetery armed with my (School) cross made especially by (the Head) and the school to officially recognise Uncle Harry’s sacrifice. It turned out to be the most humble and enlightening journey I have ever made.
Despite feeling it was a pity it was ever there at all, the cemetery itself was one of the most peaceful places I have ever had the fortune to visit: the sun shining brightly, the green grass lush under foot, the fragrant scent of exotic flowers, and the rows and rows of royal blue stones standing like sentinels. The misery and sorrow surrounding the needless deaths of those who rest there disappeared in this garden. Underneath the stones were the heroes who lay resting; one my uncle, far from the Govan shores from whence he came. These gravestones all served as a snapshot in history, a visual reminder of not just a war but of sacrifice and waste. I was informed that the bodies were buried standing up under the memorial stones so as to avoid visitors disrespectfully standing on their graves. A nearby visitor exclaimed horror at this idea, but me? I liked the thought of these heroes forever standing proudly to attention. Nevertheless, I cannot give justice to how I felt as I stood over my uncle’s grave: this was a man I had never met yet I was deeply affected by his life, death and suffering. These moments serve to remind us that life must be cherished. I wept for my uncle and our family but I also grieved for the horrific human tragedy of war.
There is a sign in the cemetery buildings with which some of you may be familiar:
‘When you go home, tell them of us and say we gave our tomorrow for your today.’
I travelled to Kanchanaburi to discover how, where and why my uncle died and was afforded all the answers but I truly focused on the latter. It is called democracy and freedom. I believe that is worth fighting for and all generations must be aware of this so they can guard that freedom with all their might.
As I left the cemetery I wished that the area of Elder Park and Fairfields were his resting grounds instead of this sacred place in Thailand but it is comforting that the War Graves Commission has created and maintained this unblemished cemetery in what is still a remote corner of the world. I regret to think how many times my family wished they had been able to visit his grave, but the organisation is honourably preserving the memory and history of these brave men and I am deeply indebted to them.
Thank you Gunner Robertson . . . Thank you Uncle Harry. May you and your friends rest in eternal peace.