On Armistice day I think of people like my Grandfather who had fought in the Boer war and volunteered for the first world war, not for the glory or super patriotism but as he told his pregnant wife "I had better go they will call me up soon anyway."

I think of my Grandmother who's last child was born 4 months after her husband was killed. She was left to try and keep her six children together, which she did though as the oldest was still school aged must have been hard going. She died in 1960 having never remarried.

I think of Our cousin who was killed when a shell burst over the camp at Deal where they were waiting to board ships to France in the second world war.

I think of those who came home but were never the same, of old Bernard who had been gassed when the wind changed blowing British gas back on our own trenches. In the winter and on foggy Glasgow nights he was gasping for air and in pain, he lived with the war for every day of the rest of his life.

I think of Archie a Para dropped at Arnhem who spent the rest of the war as a POW. I think of his wife Babs who lived in terror as each flashback turned her into a German guard in his mind.

So many stories, so much pain.

HOW BLOWS THE WIND

How blows the wind? The old man asked.
Though no one knew quite why
How blows the wind? The old man asked.
Then he'd begin to cry

Is it fair and from our backs?
Oh tell me how it blows.
But they were silent when he'd ask
His answer no one knows.

They'd say there isn't any wind today
Come David look outside.
But he had heard it all before
He knew how much they lied.

In the end they didn't answer,
There was nothing they could say.
And still each time he'd ask them
How blows the wind today?

As David's dying in his bed
A tired old priest comes round
He thought he heard him whisper,
And strains to hear the sound.

How blows the wind? The old man asked.
Is it fair and from our backs? Oh tell me how it blows.
He hears the words and understands
At last someone who knows.

Aye lad it's fair and from our backs
Come take a breath with me
Here lies no shadow of a cloud
The air is sweet and free.

Two tired old men, they take a breath
Of air that's sweet and rare
The old priest closes David's eyes
He says a simple prayer.
Then he continues down the ward
He knew for he'd been there.        
Margaret Harkness Thomson Barclay-Laughton
8.05pm 22nd November 1998


There used to be an old man came to visit us when I was a little girl. One night it was very foggy when he walked down the road and he was having a hard time breathing and in pain when he reached us. After mum had got him settled and he had got his breath back I asked him why he couldn't breathe properly.   

He told us he had been gassed during the first world war. He called it 'Mustard Gas' He said he'd been fairly lucky, that you used to see lines of men with their eyes bandaged, their hand on the shoulder of the man in front, like snakes waiting to board the ship for home.