Years ago in Eire, the guide on a tour bus, who claimed to be an Irish Catholic married to a Protestant from Germany, said to me, "There is no religious conflict worth the sacrifice of even one human life." She was wise. In a part of the world torn by religious hatred and explosive violence, she was wise. She was also young and hopeful. She hoped that, everywhere, the mark of Cain could be erased forever.
Although religious wars watered Europe with blood for hundreds of years, the greatest spectacles of mass killing have little to do with religious beliefs. My task of setting up military displays in a museum took me on a journey into the brief lives of brave and gallant youths who fought in many of the battles.
The first book I studied again was a family heirloom, the war diary of my father's cousin. Intriguing entries in it told of his friendship with Albert Ball, the leading British air ace of the First World War. They enlisted together and were posted to a bicycle company in Ireland. Impatient to be in France, they applied together for a transfer to the Royal Flying Corps that was then being transformed into the Royal Air Force. My father's cousin was sent to a squadron flying ungainly aircraft engaged in artillery spotting and tactical bombing. He survived.
Captain Albert Ball, V.C., D.S.O., M.C, with 44 victories, died during an attack on the aerodrome of Manfred von Richtofen, the "Red Baron." After forcing down Lothar von Richtofen, Manfred's brother, Ball became disorientated in thick, low clouds and dived into the earth. He was buried behind the German lines with full military honours. The wrenching fact about his death is his age. He was only 20 years old.
My search through the past took me to The Diary of an Unknown Aviator, an account of Americans serving with the RAF under the command of Billy Bishop, Canada's leading war ace. The book wasn't written by an expert, a news correspondent or a high-ranking officer. It was written by a flier who faced death every time he went out on patrol. He recorded details of the performance of the machines he flew and fought against. He recorded the asinine decisions of commanders of high rank. He railed against the policy that sent fliers into battle without parachutes. He told of the wild carousing of young men who feared they might never grow old. Someone else told of his death.
Finally, I read about Roy Brown, the Canadian captain credited with shooting down Manfred von Richofen. The Red Baron crashed in an Australian sector. Brown went to the crash site. He saw the dead man and was sickened by what he saw and what he had done. The Australians buried the German ace with all the military honours due to a dead hero. In that first air war, young men on both sides thought of themselves as Knights of the Skies, heirs to the age of chivalry.
In 1914 and in 1939, young men went willingly in the cauldron of war to defend country, home and loved ones. We honour those who died and those who survived. On Remembrance Day expressions of gratitude and grief are appropriate, but I reject expressions of glory. I wonder how much greater good those who made the final sacrifice would have brought into the world if they had lived out their lives in peace. I think of the woman in Ireland who hoped the killing would end, and I share her hope.
