Lay Me Low

As another Armistice Day rolls round, I'm off on my usual trip to a few local war graves to discover a little more about what fates befell those who went to see the local recruiting sergeant a century ago. In Warstone Lane Cemetery there's a heavy quiet punctuated only by the rain, which suits me: for an occasion that's traditionally marked by silent reflection, there seems to be a hell of a lot of noise erupting around Remembrance Day at the moment. We've got witch-hunts being conducted by idiots to "name and shame" people not wearing poppies (particularly targeting non-British footballers) - an activity which would go down better with the Hitler Youth than with any of the war veterans I've known - and we've got a defence minister whinging that Blackadder has ruined "people's collective appreciation of war". (I wish I was making this up, but sadly, I'm not.)

For me, there's nothing better on the 11th of November than to try and trace the lives of the servicemen whose resting places I come across, and to flick through the war diaries and letters of soldiers and wartime civilians that I've gathered down the years. For the loudmouths trumpeting their crass nationalism and the politicians fussing over what children should be taught, the past is the means to an end. For me, it's a story to be told, and wherever possible I like to hear it from the people who lived it. This is their day, and I'm honoured to spend it with them.

I'll leave you with the words and music of Coope, Boyes & Simpson.


Lay me low, lay me low, lay me low

Where no-one can see me
Where no-one can find me
Where no-one can hurt me

Show me the way, help me to say
All that I need to
All that I needed you gave me
All that I wanted you made me
When I stumbled you saved me

Lay me low

Throw me a line, help me to find
Something to cling to
When the loneliness haunts me
When the bitterness taunts me
When the emptiness eats me.

Lay me low