It rained and rained and rained. At 11.00 this morning Lesley and I were huddled under the awning of the pressing shop doorway overlooking our local memorial. The bandsmen and women were running through their scales under the cover of four large market stall type umbrellas awaiting the arrival of the "Combattants Anciens". Periodically the clarinetist would step outside the canopy and pull on a corner to release the weight of the water lying on top. Our mairie was present and would be laying his wreath along with the wreaths of the "Combattants Anciens". The rain dripping down our necks and also being steadily absorbed into the 'Sunday best' berets of the line of men standing in front of me only added to the atmosphere and it was not hard to imagine the millions of men who had slopped about in that northern French and Belgian clay all those years ago. There is a certain continuity that is evident to events such as these in France. I watched a grandfather explaining to his grandson the meaning of why we were all standing around in the cold and wet. At the hour the three local municipal policemen burst into sound signalling the arrival of the Combattants Anciens who then lined up proudly displaying the flags of the regiments they were representing.
After the wreaths were laid a speech was read out by a girl of about 15, she spoke of how the war had not left a village or family untouched. At the conclusion the flag bearers lowered their standards to observe a few moments of silence. The band soon turned its attention to a lively rendition of 'La Marseillaise' which was the signal for everybody to think about dispersing and to begin to wend their way to the Hôtel de Ville where a reception was to be held on the first floor.
The wreaths laid at the foot of the war memorial
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