In Flanders Fields: John McCrae by Peter D Smith

"In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row . . . "

Thus begins what is probably the most famous poem in Canadian literature, and also one of the most famous war poems ever written. Yet whilst it is often quoted, or at least those first couple of lines, little is known about the man himself.

The son of a Scottish immigrant, John McCrae grew up in Toronto, in a military household, his father also being an army man. John joined the cadets at age 14 and served later in the Queen's Own Rifles whilst attending the University of Toronto and later at McGill University in Montreal. It was whilst at McGill, where he had a fellowship in pathology that the South African War, known in Britain as the Boer War, broke out. Realising that artillerymen were needed faster than doctors he resigned his job and was shipped out to South Africa to fight in a new continent. That war soon ended and by 1904 he was back in Canada, teaching medicine at McGill. A highly eligible bachelor with his good looks, charm and wit, as well as a popular teacher, he was a regular dinner guest at all the right houses in Montreal. Inevitably there were hints of romances with highly placed ladies, some of them married, but he remained single all his life.

In 1914 another war broke out in Europe, one that was to be devastating to the world not only during the four long years it lasted, but for decades after — the settlement imposed on defeated Germany fuelled the resentment that inexorably led to the rise of Hitler and a far more devastating war that engulfed virtually the entire world. But that was in the future.

From the assassination of Franz-Ferdinand of Austria-Hungary the conflict grew, soon engulfing almost every nation in Europe. Germany became the leading protaganist, using her military might to try to overrun much of continental Europe. As the war spread men of many nations volunteered to fight to save France from the Germans, though much of the fighting took place in Belgium: the British Expeditionary Force — BEF — had little trouble finding enough men to go to war.

McCrae was now 41 years old so a bit long in the tooth to be fighting, but his surgical skills were desperately needed and he was quickly appointed surgeon to the 1st Brigade, Canadian Field Artillery. Rumour has it that he refused to wear the Red Cross armband of a non-combatant and carried his officer's revolver instead.

By April 1915 he was in the thick of it, as his unit dug down into the trenches to repel German advances. That month the Germans used mustard gas for the first time (though to be honest the British Army was the first to use poison gas, during the Boer War) and the injuries and suffering caused by that and constant machine-gun fire were horrific. Essex Farm was where McCrae's unit was based and you can still visit his field hospital, a concrete bunker built into the side of a canal bank just outside Ypres. To describe it as basic is to bestow upon it a glamour that is not there, even today when the only sounds are of traffic or birdsong.

The trenches can still be visited, just outside Ypres, a busy market town with some wonderful restaurants lining the main square and the Menen Gate, venue for the nightly Last Post ceremony, held every night since 1919, with the exception of the years when the Germans occupied the town during World War II. Many of the town's inhabitants remember the afternoon that the Germans left, chased by the advancing Allied forces in early 1945 — by 6pm the last Germans had fled. At 8pm on the dot that evening, the Last Post ceremony took place again.

Trying to imagine the horror of it takes one's breath away. Young men were brought in screaming, limbs hanging off after being caught in gunfire, or with deep shrapnel wounds. Surgical instruments were rudimentary, hygiene almost non-existent. His daily routine would be to saw off shattered limbs that had no chance of recovery, the patient held down by four strong men — anaesthetic was reserved solely for officers, the ranks had brandy poured down their throats until they passed out — shrapnel was dug out of chests or stomachs and bleeding staunched by whatever pressure it took. The chances of recovery from serious injury were rminiscule. The dead were quickly buried, though not necessarily where they are to be found today in those peaceful but awe-inspiring military cemeteries.

The Germans shipped their dead back home to the fatherland for burial, or at least most of them, for one ossuary near Ypres contains the bones of 24,000 German soldiers. The British government of the time decided that the sight of so many coffins being brought home to the UK would be too unsettling — for that reason they were buried where they fell.

But back to McCrae. Inevitably colleagues and friends fell victim to the horrors of war and he was particularly moved by the death of Lt. Alex Helmer, an artillery officer in his unit who was killed by a shell on May 2nd, 1915. It has been suggested that McCrae wrote "In Flanders Fields" as a tribute to his friend. It was not his first poem — he had been writing some whilst in Montreal before the war began, and it was certainly not his best, though the others are almost forgotten. This one captured the imagination and the essence of the moment, the anger, the frustration, the memory.

At the prompting of another friend he submitted it for publication to The Spectator, an English magazine. They turned it down, but it eventually found its way to the offices of Punch, another London publication, and appeared, unsigned, on December 8th, 1915. A hand-written manuscript of the poem exists, dated that day, though it had been written months before. Immediately it became a success, being quoted popularly by troops in the trenches and by politicians, eager to grasp at any straw to rally the troops and the public back home.

In early 1916 he was transferred to Boulogne along with the field hospital of which he was now Chief of Medical Services, continuing to treat those brought back from the front line. In January 1918 he was told that he was being appointed Consulting Physician to the British Armies in the Field, a prestigious and well-deserved promotion. On the 23rd he went to bed with a high fever. Before the advent of antibiotics, such ailments were always dangerous, and so this one proved. Physically and emotionally worn out by three years of the most terrible war, he died, in pain, from pneumonia and meningitis, on January 28th, 1918.

He is buried in Wimeroux cemetery in France, neat the English Channel. As a sign of his fame, a large memorial stone was erected to commemorate a most remarkable man at the Popperinghe military cemetery in Flanders. Yet his memory lives on more in the imagery of the poppy than from his other work, for it was the pressure from two Canadian women, Moina Michael and Anne Guerin, who lobbied for the poppy to become a symbol of remembrance. In truth it had been used before, for the fields of Flanders and northern France were, and still are today covered in poppies at a certain time of year. But the poppy became the symbol and is now seen on countless memorials and, of course, each November when we remember those who, to paraphrase the words of another poem, gave their today for our tomorrow.

The Poppy Appeal run by the Royal British Legion in Britain (the Earl Haigh Fund in Scotland), and the Royal Canadian Legion in Canada, as well as in many other countries, is a symbol, the symbol, of remembrance the world over. In remembering those who suffered, those who died and those who mourned, we remember also John McCrae.