This may not be the end, but it may be the beginning of the end for the poppy. Covid-19 restrictions have made them more difficult to find. Many of the veterans who sold them are shielding. Places where you would buy them are shut or, like offices, depopulated. Venues are operating differently. You won’t find a poppy box at the bar if the bars are shut. And, if you can find a poppy box – somewhere, anywhere – can you buy one? How many people no longer carry coins? The British Legion says donations could be halved this year, which – frankly – sounds like wishful thinking.
Is the poppy insufficiently Catholic? There are those who argue it is more at home in the Established Church of England.
What will we lose? There are those who feel the poppy is an embarrassing throwback to a time of Edwardian jingoism and “toxic masculinity” on an industrial scale. Even some of those who’ve worn it wonder if, more than a century on from the Armistice, a gentle letting go might be inexorable.
I’m in neither of those camps, for reasons I’ll explain. Though not before I’ve prefaced my words with this qualification; Remembrance isn’t without complications.
I’ve drunk-in war stories over the years. As a reporter at the Yorkshire Post, I remember sitting on a coach in France with a bunch of D-Day veterans. Even those who hadn’t faced the fury of the enemy still had vivid tales to tell. One old boy was part of a detachment of engineers whose job it was to create temporary airstrips in Normandy. He described how an ailing B-24 Liberator had tried to land but was too badly shot-up to do so. The pilot circled the airfield as, one-by-one, the crew bailed out. He jumped to safety too, leaving the plane corkscrewing over the ground crew. It flew so low they ran for cover one way, and then the other, until eventually, its rear wheel clipped the ground and the bomber reared up, engulfed in flame “like a giant fiery cross”.
As those voices have fallen silent, we are sometimes left with re-enactment, not recollections. As a TV reporter at Arnhem, I watched as grateful Dutch locals applauded the ageing warriors who’d fought in Operation Market Garden. They marched across the bridge that had proved to be “a bridge too far”, with their medals clinking. They were followed by men, some younger than me, who were dressed up in period uniforms. They too, for reasons that don’t necessarily survive scrutiny, were also cheered on their way.
It’s sometimes argued – wrongly in my view – that the poppy isn’t inclusive. It’s certainly true that its use does not extend far beyond the Anglosphere.
And it’s sometimes argued – wrongly in my view – that the poppy isn’t inclusive. It’s certainly true that its use does not extend far beyond the Anglosphere. Here’s a final walk down media memory lane, I promise. It was more than 20 years ago and a royal tour to Romania. It was early November and the Press Corps accompanying Prince Charles were, like him, wearing poppies. At one location I’d forgotten my accreditation, but the local policeman assumed I was with the royal party because I was wearing a poppy, which he assumed, was an official badge, even as I assumed that everyone in the world knew what one was.
Is the poppy insufficiently Catholic? There are those who argue it is more at home in the Established Church of England, among the frayed regimental standards and mouldering battle honours. Yet that risks marginalising the sacrifice of Catholic combatants. One of my most cherished prints at home is The Last General Absolution of the Munster Fusiliers at Rue du Bois by Fortunio Matania. It overlooks a shelf of favourite books, including Paul Richie’s neglected classic Fighter Pilot; an account of the Battle of France in 1939, shot through with the author’s understated but imperturbable Catholic faith. Other books too. Tolkien, Sassoon, Madox Ford. Catholic writers whose sense of the world was, in part, shaped by conflict and catholicism.
So, while I have my wits, I will persist in buying a poppy. I prefer the old plastic-and-paper variant, to the new enamel lapel badge. The delicate flimsiness of the former not only means you have to repeat-buy replacements (good for fundraising), but somehow feels right.
And, as the last veterans die off, I will persist in urging my children to wear a poppy too. It remains a reliable symbol, a psychic hitching post, contextualising our own woes. As I said to my eldest daughter, currently quarantining at university, a fortnight forced to stay cooped up in a bedroom is not so very bad. As state compulsion goes, it looks pretty light-touch compared to conscription. Or the firing squad for those who said “no”.
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