Sidney John Ponting born Stratton near Swindon 1896, died Swindon 1976. And grandfather of Julie. Today is the 100th Anniversary of the Great War, World War 1 and as is oft the case at such events our mind is cast back to relatives. This time however it is cast back to someone I never knew. Sidney Ponting was Julie's maternal grandfather and one of the first things she showed me was his photograph, underneath which was an inscription for a Distinguished Conduct Medal. A medal equivalent to the D.S.O awarded to officers. The D.C.M was awarded to the ranks. He was a good looking chap, looking back out from the frame with youthful vigour. Julie remembers him only as an older man, a man who was a very keen gardener and grew thousands of bedding plants in a proper Victorian greenhouse, possibly where Julie gets her green fingers from.
I'd been wondering how to celebrate the Great War as my only connection to it was my own maternal Grandfather Edward John Dawes who seemed to wander into the war just as it was ending in 1918, as he was only 18 himself. Although I do know he went to France before being wounded.
Julie has just told me that just before her grandfather died he was hallucinating about the trenches. 60 years after the horror of WW1, it's so sad to think his life was forever linked to that time. Was this why he loved the peace and tranquillity of gardening I wonder.
Both men survived the war, but many did not;
They went with songs to the battle, they were young.
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning,
We will remember them.
They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning,
We will remember them.
They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam
For the Fallen
Laurence Binyon, September 1914
No comments:
Post a Comment