Remembrance

The powers-that-be decided that as a doctor, he would be better fitted to serve in duties other than in the fighting ranks and so he landed in France as a Medical Officer with the Canadian Army. In 1915 at Ypres during a lull in the fighting, he wrote the following verses.

In January 1918 McCrae was brought into hospital as a stretcher case and he died three days later. He was interred at Wimereux, from where the Cliffs of Dover can be seen on a clear day.

An American lady, Miss Moina Michael had read McCrae's poem and was so moved and impressed that she wrote the following in reply.

On 9th November 1918 Miss Michael was presented with a small sum of money by some of the war secretaries of the YMCA for whom she worked. She announced that she was going to buy twenty-five red poppies and, wearing one herself, she sold the other twenty-four to the secretaries. Thus started what was probably the first poppy collection. The French Secretary, a Madam Guerin, had the very practical idea of making artificial poppies that could be sold in aid of ex-servicemen and their dependents. As a result the first Poppy Day was held in Britain on November 11th, 1921

The war finally came to an end in November 1918 when an armistice was declared so that peace terms could be arranged. At 11am on 11th November the last shot in the war was fired. For many years afterwards Armistice Day was observed on the 11th November. However in Britain today it is known as Remembrance Sunday and is held on the second Sunday in November.

In cities, towns and villages across Britain, as well as across the world, scenes, such as the one shown on the right, take place. Here wreaths of poppies are laid in an Act of Remembrance by various ex-service organisations and active-service units.

One winter's evening eight years ago in the lounge of the Jesmond Royal British Legion club, I was introduced to "David Niven" by "Windsor Davies". "Windsor Davies" was the type of man who knew everyone and in turn was known by everyone: he was the archetypal ex-army officer with a mischievous sense of humour and a view on everything; instantly recognisable with his bushy, military moustache, and whisky glass in hand.

"David Niven" is the opposite of "Windsor Davies": A tall, dapper gentleman with a pencil-thin moustache, always immaculately dressed. He is always polite, I have never heard him say a word of criticism about anyone and expect that I never will. This is not to say that "Mr Niven" doesn't share "Windsor's" sense of humour, just that he has the charm that makes it impossible for anyone to take offence.

"Niven" is that sort of man whom everyone would love to have as a favourite Uncle or Grandfather. As he tells stories of his younger days when he travelled the country, his eyes light up and one can tell that this is a man who loves life and loves people. Rightly so for a man whose love for his-wife-to be was so great that it saved his life a handful of weeks before the outbreak of the Second World War.

I must explain that "David Niven's" real name is Charles Dalgleish, and "Windsor Davies" is better known as Joe McGill, but if these two gentlemen were to walk into your living room you would recognise them as "Niven and Davies" immediately.

I spoke to Charles in the Legion a few days ago and asked if I could interview him for this assignment. He graciously agreed with a nostalgic look in his eye,

I've had a lovely life. I'd be happy to talk to you about it.

Charles was born in a house overlooking the River Tyne in 1914, six weeks after the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand and the beginning of the Great War. The Tyne was a prominent part of his childhood, he would swim in the river with his friends:

The bigger lads would swim over to the Newcastle side and back, and we would watch their clothes for them".

He would also go to the public swimming baths in Newcastle:

They were a rough lot at Gibson Street baths, pinch your clothes as soon as look at you. We'd walk to the quay side from the baths on a Saturday at four o'clock to watch 'The Bemicia' set sail for London and we'd shout "Any pennies?" up at the passengers."

While this was going on, the engineers were building the Tyne Bridge, Charles remembers the cranes dominating the skyline.

He left school at fifteen to start work as an apprentice engineer and fitter at Clark Chapmans and stayed with the company until he retired. Fifty years at the same company! How many people can claim the same loyalty to their company these days?

When Charles turned eighteen he would go around the country to navy vessels with the chargehands, doing time trials, safety checks and such. It was while on these travels in Liverpool that he met Florence, his future wife. He had been given the address of a landlady in Wallasey by an apprentice he worked with and immediately fell in love with her daughter. They married and had two children.

"Model engineering, I've done it all my life, but I can't do it anymore because of the arthritis in my hands."

He showed me a model from a shelf on the wall "Just a little reciprocating engine I made as an apprentice." We went into a back room where magnificent scaled down engines were gathering dust. They were the product of countless hours loving work, incomplete due to the encroaching years. How sad, and yet how stoically Charles accepts this.

He pointed to a shining horseshoe on top of the television, "That was an old rusty pit pony's shoe and I brought it into work and cleaned it up, then I had it chromium plated' and "Do I think it's brought me good luck? Well, I don't suppose it's brought me bad luck, put it that way."

I asked him if he had any regrets about his life.

"Not really, if I have, I've forgotten them, I'm just glad to be alive, put it that way. I had a good time: a better time than most Town lads, what with travelling about the country since I was eighteen, and all the different people I met, I was hardly ever at home. I've been a lucky lad, really."

And the twinkle returns to his eye as parts of his remarkable life rush through his mind. "One last question, Charles, can you tell me about the ship that sank in Liverpool?"

"It was a submarine, the Thetis, sank in Liverpool Bay. It went out and there had been a slight fault with one of the Hydroplanes, it was sticking: the sub was out to try to cure this fault as well as to complete its trials. Someone had left one of the forward torpedo doors open. Lieutenant Woods was going round inspecting these for leakage's when this was discovered. There was an escape apparatus and four crew managed to escape, two at a time: the testing captain, Seaman McGuinness, Lieutenant Woods, and Frank Shaw, the foreman fitter on the ship. He was a big pal of mine, served his time at Cammel Lairds, we had some good laughs together. They got out but nobody else did. I found out not so long ago that all four of them are dead now"

"So being in love probably saved your life, Charles?"

He put on his hat and coat and I dropped him off outside the Legion Club. I watched him walk towards the building, a tall, dapper gentleman, hunched up against the elements. To passers by, just another anonymous stranger going to the club for a pint. To me, the epitome of Englishness. Just like David Niven.