The eleventh hour, on the eleventh day, of the eleventh month.

Since November 1918, the people of Britain have remembered those who gave their lives in war. The blood-red Poppy that grew in the shell-battered fields of Flanders became a symbol of the ultimate sacrifice that is so often the soldier’s lot.

We British are a proud people. We treasure our heroes. We gather each year, on the Sunday closest to November 11^th to remember. Some of us haven’t seen the horrors of war at first hand. Some of us wonder why we keep up the tradition. Some people have taken to wearing white poppies in recent years, preferring to demonstrate their commitment to peace, rather than to war.

My grandfather fought in France in the First World War. My father fought in the jungles of Burma during the Second. My brother Martyn and I served in the Royal Air Force in the 1960s and 70’s. I experienced the tension of patrolling an Aden beach in the dead of night, wondering whether I might be a sniper’s target. Martyn and his crew flew refugees out of Dacca during the Indo-Pakistani War of 1970. Both of us know what it is like to be involved in a conflict where people are killing other people in significant numbers.

War, conflict, terror – all of the things we have cause to fear and to strive to avoid. Yet someone has to be there to ensure the survival of humanity. It is the man (and now the woman) who wears the uniform that assumes the role and dons the mantle. Not for them, the taking to the streets and waving of protest banners. Not for them, the ten minutes of video propaganda and a swift return to their hiding places in the mountains. Not for them the comfort of armchair politics. Soldiers, sailors and airmen have long been the willing servants of their fellow countrymen. People who are genuinely prepared to go out and die if necessary to protect and preserve the freedoms of us all.

Every year, for the past 40 or so years, I have watched the Festival of Remembrance, broadcast on television, from the Royal Albert Hall on the Saturday evening before Remembrance Sunday. It’s one of those all-British occasions, celebrating the service given to the country by generations of military men and women, from the front-line soldiers, airmen and sailors to the supporting troops, the nurses, the auxiliaries and civilian aides.

The Festival has always been an occasion for our forces’ representatives to gather together in one place and be honoured. The display of the different uniforms – the navy blues, the scarlet coats and bearskin hats of the Guardsmen, the gleaming eagles of the RAF provide a field of colour unmatched by most TV presentations.

As each little contingent of troops marches down the steps to form up in the auditorium, they come at different speeds, according to their ages. They form up in front of their Commander-in-Chief, Her Majesty the Queen - men and women of all ranks of the Army, Navy and Air Forces. Veterans of wars past fought are there, as are (in recent years) some of the widows and children of fallen servicemen.

This year, 2001, we have had another significant "eleventh" to remember, namely, the 11^th of September. So, for the first time that I can ever remember, the last people to descend those stairs into the auditorium were not British or Commonwealth citizens.

Two New Yorkers, a police lieutenant and a fire officer in best parade uniform marched down to join the assembled troops. As they did so, the entire audience in the hall rose to its feet to applaud the men. As they reached the foot of the stairs, they were met by two veterans of the 1940 Blitz on London, a fireman and an ambulance driver, now in their 80s. Supporting the grand old men by the arm, the two New Yorkers led the two Londoners to take their place on the auditorium floor.

Nothing could better illustrate the phrase "shoulder to shoulder" than the sight of those four men, who had seen and assisted victims in a city centre some 60 years apart, joining the gathering of the heroes. Tears flowed unabashed down my cheeks as they took their places.

As each Remembrance Sunday comes around, the people gather in tribute to the fallen. We stand in silence. We swallow deeply at the notes of the Last Post, sounded on the bugle. We pray "never again". Sadly, we know that there will be more "agains." The call will come for more of our young people to give their lives in the service of others. It always does. It comes when we least expect it.

There is nothing particularly glorious about war, save for the fact that without it, our freedoms could also die. That is why young Americans flew Spitfires and Hurricanes in the Battle of Britain, though their nation was not yet at war. That is why young Canadians stormed the Normandy beaches to free the people of France, though their own homes were thousands of miles away across the Atlantic. That’s why young Australians and New Zealanders died in the Flanders mud. That is why there is such a thing as "the free world" today. It must remain free. We must face those who would deny us our freedom, and we must defeat them. God bless all those who serve,

Kevin Webster

11^th November 2001