Hello Helen and all ANZAC day is still marked by some communities in the UK, in the village of Harefield, Middlesex local children still lay flowers on the graves of the ANZAC soldiers who are buried in the graveyard of the parish church, these men and one woman (a nursing sister) died in the Hospital established for the treatment of ANZAC troops in the village. I have pasted below a desciption of the funeral of one of these soldiers, that appeared in the Times during WW1, a year after the landings at Gallipoli. Sorry if this is not strictly Banburyshire related but as there are a number of list members from the Antipodes I thought it might be of interest. Regards Colin Harris FOR AN IDEAL THE VILLAGE FUNERAL OF A FALLEN ANZAC (From a Correspondent) Two long lines of blue figures moved with slow tread behind the hearse, showing that free-swinging movement peculiar to the Australian troops. But some were on crutches, and some moved with a cruel limp, yet marching bravely nevertheless - a relic of the first splendid fighting force who had gone forth from Australia and landed a year ago on that rocky peninsula. Behind the row of wounded came the staff of the hospital in khaki and bringing up the rear hurried the village of Harefield - shaky perambulators being whisked along, cyclists, old women bobbing as they went, mill girls in gay hats, and last of all some lumbering farm carts. To which, if either stopped to think, must this spectacle have seemed more strange - to the villagers, these tall heroes of Australia, seemingly at home in their typical English village? Or to these men, this funeral in English surroundings amidst English village people? But the war has brought stranger things to pass than this spectacle. Nothing seems impossible now and even an Australian soldier's death in a quiet English village is accepted as natural. Through the village the cortege moved, headed by a military band; past the Elizabethan almshouses, looking out so cosily to the western sun. It passed on down to the old church, which lies in a hollow between green meadows and tall elm trees now touched with a film of greyish green. Such a glorious April afternoon as it was! The fruit blossom in a neighbouring field smiled in the sunshine after the last heavy shower. There was a feeling of spring warmth - spring loveliness over everything. As the procession moved on through the meadow up to the old church it looked like some cleverly arranged pageant - some historical drama re-acted. The priest, his white surplice blown in the wind, coming forward to receive the coffin borne on the shoulders of four stlwart Australians - his return to the church at the head of the procession; the blending of the khaki figures against the khaki shade of plaster on the church tower; the blue of the wounded and the red and grey of the sisters - all seemed unreal. Then the quiet words in the church, and the moment of anxiety when the coffin was again lifted, a little waveringly out of the dim interior into the laughng sunshine without. Even when the coffin was laid in the earth, and the rifles rang out once - twice - thrice - it was difficult to realize what it all meant. Then the bugle sounded the Last Post. The notes rose clear, hopeful, on the still air. They struck a chord between the scene here in this English country churchyard and the country over the seas. One felt that these notes, dying away on the spring air , would re-echo far off, over there, in Australia. They answered the question why these men standing round with bare heads were here, in this English churchyard, and not in distant Australia. They explained why this young soldier was being laid to rest in the brown soil miles away from the land which had given him birth. These men were here because of an ideal; and for it they had given up their homes, their health, their lives. For these men had heard that England, the country few of them had seen, yet for which all had an instinctive love, was in danger. And so they had come from the other end of the world , and this man was being laid to rest on this fair April afternoon in a quiet English churchyard, in the very soil, and among the very things for which he had died. --- Outgoing mail is certified Virus Free. Checked by AVG anti-virus system (http://www.grisoft.com). Version: 6.0.786 / Virus Database: 532 - Release Date: 29/10/2004

Colin Thank you for sharing that !! There is Village in the Cotswolds ? ( near a wartime Aerodrome ) in the Graveyard are buried many NZ Air men both from the RNZAF and the RAF, I know there each Anzac Day a Memorial Service is held in the nearby Church. No need to apologise for being off topic. Remembrance of men and woman who died in defence of all our lives is International and I hoped I had conveyed this in my original message to the List. Lest we Forget Helen New Zealand -----Original Message----- From: Colin Harris [mailto:colin.harris4@btinternet.com] Sent: Monday, 1 November 2004 10:10 a.m. To: ENG-BANBURY-AREA-L@rootsweb.com Subject: RE: [BAN] Remembrances - on website Hello Helen and all ANZAC day is still marked by some communities in the UK, in the village of Harefield, Middlesex local children still lay flowers on the graves of the ANZAC soldiers who are buried in the graveyard of the parish church, these men and one woman (a nursing sister) died in the Hospital established for the treatment of ANZAC troops in the village. I have pasted below a desciption of the funeral of one of these soldiers, that appeared in the Times during WW1, a year after the landings at Gallipoli. Sorry if this is not strictly Banburyshire related but as there are a number of list members from the Antipodes I thought it might be of interest. Regards Colin Harris FOR AN IDEAL THE VILLAGE FUNERAL OF A FALLEN ANZAC (From a Correspondent) Two long lines of blue figures moved with slow tread behind the hearse, showing that free-swinging movement peculiar to the Australian troops. But some were on crutches, and some moved with a cruel limp, yet marching bravely nevertheless - a relic of the first splendid fighting force who had gone forth from Australia and landed a year ago on that rocky peninsula. Behind the row of wounded came the staff of the hospital in khaki and bringing up the rear hurried the village of Harefield - shaky perambulators being whisked along, cyclists, old women bobbing as they went, mill girls in gay hats, and last of all some lumbering farm carts. To which, if either stopped to think, must this spectacle have seemed more strange - to the villagers, these tall heroes of Australia, seemingly at home in their typical English village? Or to these men, this funeral in English surroundings amidst English village people? But the war has brought stranger things to pass than this spectacle. Nothing seems impossible now and even an Australian soldier's death in a quiet English village is accepted as natural. Through the village the cortege moved, headed by a military band; past the Elizabethan almshouses, looking out so cosily to the western sun. It passed on down to the old church, which lies in a hollow between green meadows and tall elm trees now touched with a film of greyish green. Such a glorious April afternoon as it was! The fruit blossom in a neighbouring field smiled in the sunshine after the last heavy shower. There was a feeling of spring warmth - spring loveliness over everything. As the procession moved on through the meadow up to the old church it looked like some cleverly arranged pageant - some historical drama re-acted. The priest, his white surplice blown in the wind, coming forward to receive the coffin borne on the shoulders of four stlwart Australians - his return to the church at the head of the procession; the blending of the khaki figures against the khaki shade of plaster on the church tower; the blue of the wounded and the red and grey of the sisters - all seemed unreal. Then the quiet words in the church, and the moment of anxiety when the coffin was again lifted, a little waveringly out of the dim interior into the laughng sunshine without. Even when the coffin was laid in the earth, and the rifles rang out once - twice - thrice - it was difficult to realize what it all meant. Then the bugle sounded the Last Post. The notes rose clear, hopeful, on the still air. They struck a chord between the scene here in this English country churchyard and the country over the seas. One felt that these notes, dying away on the spring air , would re-echo far off, over there, in Australia. They answered the question why these men standing round with bare heads were here, in this English churchyard, and not in distant Australia. They explained why this young soldier was being laid to rest in the brown soil miles away from the land which had given him birth. These men were here because of an ideal; and for it they had given up their homes, their health, their lives. For these men had heard that England, the country few of them had seen, yet for which all had an instinctive love, was in danger. And so they had come from the other end of the world , and this man was being laid to rest on this fair April afternoon in a quiet English churchyard, in the very soil, and among the very things for which he had died. --- Outgoing mail is certified Virus Free. Checked by AVG anti-virus system (http://www.grisoft.com). Version: 6.0.786 / Virus Database: 532 - Release Date: 29/10/2004 ============================== View and search Historical Newspapers. 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