The 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month in 1918 was the day Allied countries and Germany signed an armistice bringing the horrible war known as World War I to an end.   Not signed in a palace or other building of grandeur, the armistice was signed inside a railroad car in a French forest.  Although the photographs included here were taken by people unknown to me, I feel the need to honor the images and the people who gave so much, and bring Armistice or Veterans' Day to the fore.  

The New York Times headline that day read "Armistice Signed, End of the War! Berlin seized by revolutionists; New Chancellor Begs for Order; Ousted Kaiser Flees to Holland."  Given our collective attention span these days, that was one heck of a long headline.  But it captured everyone's attention because very few were unaffected by World War I.  Roughly 20 million people were killed, with another mind-boggling number of people injured - some 38,000,000. Most of the world now lives with hardly a thought about Veterans' Day, except that one can buy a mattress or automobile at a discounted rate. We are, sadly, disconnected from the military and what its members do for those of us not involved. Veterans, active service members, and reservists deserve much more than lip service.  The least I can do here is to remember and highlight them, just as newscasters and journalists are doing on BBC America and other networks by wearing the poppy pin on their lapels.  This year is especially symbolic, since Sunday is the 100th anniversary of the end of World War I.

Fred's grandfather, Frederick Rockingham, joined the Army when the United States entered WWI.  Here is a photograph of him in uniform.  He was in France 100 years ago, in the 62nd Artillery, Coast Artillery Corps.  Because everyone in the unit was from the San Francisco Bay area, it was called "The Market Street Artillery."

It occurred to me while writing this that a German man who lived in the apartment below us in Albuquerque when we were first married had served in WWI.  He said that, physically, in addition to the terrible death and destruction of World War I, the worst thing about it was the mud.  It was everywhere, and if an inanimate object can be relentless, the mud was. Oskar had joined the German cavalry, but mechanized war made horses and the cavalry obsolete and he was put in the infantry.  It is hard to know whether horses or vehicles were better in the mud.  As with most who fight in wars, Oskar would come to tears every time he spoke of WWI.  

Below is the Weeping Window by artist Paul Cummins and designer Tom Piper at the Caernarfon Castle in Wales, featuring thousands of metal poppies.  They became the symbol of war dead based on the poem "In Flanders Fields" written in 1915 by Canadian physician-lieutenant John McCrae.  

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row, 
That mark our place, and in the sky, 
The larks, still bravely singing, fly, 
Scarce heard amid the guns below. 

We are the dead; short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, 
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields. 

Take up our quarrel with the foe! 
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high! 
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

The Weeping Window

These gents in the United States Navy, joined after the end of WWI.  The man in the middle is my husband's great uncle Willie.

Since Armistice or Veterans' Day celebrates all veterans, I move now from World War I to World War II.  The photograph below is simply wonderful, and a quintessential wartime photograph.  It features Paul Williston Ayres, a navigator in the Army Air Corps 35th Squadron, 64th Troop Carrier Group on C-47s, with his wife, Shirley Anne Rockingham Ayres,  They were parents of my husband's cousin, Pauli Anne, with whom we recently visited in Santa Fe.  This photograph may have been made in California, since they were married in Sacramento.  After training in Nova Scotia, Paul was stationed in England, and ultimately flew from Lincolnshire to Tunisia, with a mission of transporting paratroopers in north Africa.  He never returned.  Pauli Anne sent us part of one of hundreds of letters she still has from his service time, written to his brother a month before his death.  One death that effected generations, and a major reason for us to learn and abide by the lessons of history.  His ending words express humor, but to me, are heartbreaking.   "Write when you can and I'll do the same.  Until then - watch your drift -  Love, Paul A."

There was also many who were stateside, including my father Alan Dale Douglas, who, after training in Missouri, became an air traffic controller in the Army Air Corps, based in Deming, New Mexico (yes, there was a base there and it also served as a German P. O. W. camp.)  This is one of those classic staged shots.  He did not fly for the first time until the 1970s.  Since he was a local stage actor, he loved cameras and the cameras loved him.  Very photogenic.

Fred's father, Forest E. Black, was also an air traffic controller in the U. S. Navy, based at Alameda Naval Air Station in California during WWII.  Note the two essentials:  his identification button and a comb in his pocket.  Another handsome serviceman.

Which brings us to the Vietnam era.  This shot was taken in 1972 with Fred hanging out the door of an H-2 helicopter somewhere in the South China Sea while serving as crew chief for HC-5 (Helicopter Combat Squadron 5).
 

Thanks to Fred, M. Fred, Ben, Earle, Steve I., Bogie, Anita, David O., Doug E., Debra, Chuck, Dave K., Jim H., JJ, Gene, Larry, Jim W., Randy S., Sam G., Tom R., Wayne, Clyde, Orlando, Robert S., and Terry.  If I have forgotten to include anyone, I apologize but know my appreciation is always with you.

until next Monday,

DB

a passion for the image@