Stand Before the Deluge

The people of Israel are understandably afraid and seeking justice.

The people of Palestine are understandably afraid and seeking justice.

Fear and injustice have led to decades of violence.

What has that solved?

How will more violence solve the same problem?

Who will pay for this violence?

I can only answer the final question here:

CIVILIANS

It’s the innocent, on either side of the border, who pay the highest price for the actions of the armed.

It’s the goal of Hamas to entice Israel to use overwhelming force, murdering countless Palestinian civilians to stoke hatred of Israel. Israel is walking into that same set-up again, building up its forces in preparation for a massive retaliation for this dastardly Hamas attack on civilians.

At what point can any leader stand-up and say “No more!”

What leader is strong enough to say, “they want us to respond with violence, instead we are going to respond with solutions. We are going to work this problem out, giving some along with finding the solution with which we can all live.“

That is leadership.

Simply responding with ever escalating levels of violence only breeds more violence, more fear, more suffering.

The context of this, and all conflicts, breeds the conflict itself.

Don’t keep feeding that context with more justifications for violence.

Break the cycle of violence.

Break the siege on civilians.

Break free from the history in order to write it yourself.

Be the leader your people need you to be.

Stand up and proclaim “Even though we were attacked, we are going to take the high road, we are going to seek peace, and we are not going to perpetuate this costly, unnecessary, and in-humane cycle of violence.”

That is how to be a leader.

Who’s up for it?

Thanks Mom

Thanks Mom

A sly smile upon her face, my mom leads me into the crowded recruiting station.

How lucky am I?

Just yesterday we were debating this, and today she’s going through with it.

Surrounded by men in smart uniforms, I look around at all the hustle and bustle.

“Why do you want to join the flying corps Grace?” she had asked me yesterday.

“I like the uniforms.”

“Oh, you ought to have a better excuse than that!”

Yet, here we are!

She looks around before tugging the crisp brown uniform of a man hurrying by.

“Where is the women’s flying corps recruiter?” she demands from this clearly rushed cute soldier with polished buttons, a sharp collar, and pressed tunic.

He stops in his tracks, looks at her, then at me, and shrugs his shoulders before blurting out, “I’ve no idea Ma’am, I am lost here myself.”

“Well dear, let’s find out where we’re going together.”

The hurried fresh-faced soldier in smart attire pauses, looks around, then nervously runs off in the original direction he was heading.

Poor chap, going off to war but unable to face a woman.

Turning to mom, I smile and giggle.

She squeezes my hand, “That won’t help dear.”

I resolve my face before turning left where I’m delighted to spot a sign reading WOMEN VOLUNTEERS at the end of the hall.

“This way mom!” I exclaim while dragging her hand behind me as I head toward the sign.

This is it, we’ve found it!

We enter a small, practically empty room where another uniformed man sits behind a desk strewn with a small stack of forms. He looks up from a book as we disturb his peace.

“Which of you is volunteering today?” he says in a kind voice.

“I am,” I call out in reply as his eyes divert from mom toward me, taking their time as they work up my skirt-covered legs.

Like what you see?

“How old are you, Miss?”

“I’m 17, Sir,” I reply, knowing full well that is the minimum age to volunteer with parental consent.

Do you believe me?

His eye-based assessment of me continues, pausing at my chest before rising to my face.

He turns to mom. “Are you this girl’s mother?” he asks.

“Yes, Sir,” she offers back in her most graceful voice.

“Ma’am, can you vouch for this girl’s age?”

“Indeed Sir, she is 17, has been for about one month now.”

He turns away from mom to look me over again. His eyes halt at my face, then my chest again, before finally returning to my face.

I know I’m not large, but I’m mature.

“Alright,” he says with a sigh. “Please fill this out and bring it back to me.”

I look down at the form he hands me. It’s for the Women’s Land Army.

I don’t want to work the land; I want to fly!

“Sir, is there a form for the Women’s Royal Air Force? That is my preference.”

Looking down through his pile, he pulls a form out from the bottom.

“Last one, I’m afraid.”

“I’ll take it!” I blurt out, potentially exposing my over eagerness to volunteer.

Form in hand, he holds it back as his eyes give me another once over, again stopping at my chest.

“When did you say your birthday was?” he asks.

Is he on to me?

A bead of sweat slowly makes it way down my right temple.

“A little less than one month ago, Sir,” I reply, attempting to hide my nerves.

Another moment’s pause, then he hands me the form. “Please fill it out in the hall and hand it back to me.”

Yes! It worked!

Mom pulls me into the hall as I look over the form. She drags me away from the door so that we are against the far wall.

“Grace, the right date will be 1901.”

“Yes, mom, thank you.”

I’m going to get to wear the uniform!

*****

British Women Volunteers

http://www.treasurebunker.com/forums/index.php?showtopic=1788

Grace Hallen’s mother accompanied her to the recruiting station on May 10, 1918 so Grace could join the Women’s Royal Air Force (WRAF). The minimum age for volunteers with parents’ permission was 17. Grace, a mature 15-year-old, was enthusiastic about being around aircraft and loved the uniforms. Since birth certificates were not used for recruiting, and her mother was willing to lie for her, Grace was allowed into the WRAF.

She served through the remainder of the war, alongside over 32,000 other women in the British military air arm of World War I. This force was dissolved in 1920, and reconstituted in 1939 as the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force for World War II. It was renamed the WRAF again in 1949 and fully integrated with the Royal Air Force in 1994.

Discovery

Featuring the amazing Órla Mc Govern.

Discovery

A brisk wind pulls at my great coat, pushing up through the open bottom to chill my panted legs. Residue of last night’s storm cannot deter me from thrashing out near the rocks.

What nerve, to ask for my hand!

I weave my way between the jutting rocks of the shoreline. Soft sand sinks beneath my quick-paced feet.

There is a war on. I cannot marry a man who will soon be sent away.

Dark moss-covered rocks, wet with the ocean mist and crashing waves, feel cool to my hands as I climb up a small slope from the shoreline.

If Braden had not volunteered to go, then maybe. But how can I give my heart to a man who will fight in this mistake of humanity?

Rising atop the mass of broken rocks I look down the shoreline where the fog meets the ground and sea in a single point of outward triangles.

Air, land, and sea stab all at once against my heart. Which direction do I go from here?

A dark object with a twisted limb juts out from behind one of the rocks just visible before the morning mist swallows everything. It floats and bumps, coming above the rock in rhythm with the tidal waves before disappearing behind the rock again as the tide goes out.

What could that be?

Slowly descending the damp rocks, I make my way toward the object. I keep my eyes fixed on the rocks at my feet so as not to slip on the wet moss. A gale blows across the upper rocks, a last gasp of last night’s tumult. Howls and screams of powerful wind rushing past jagged wet rocks remind me of the tales of witches and monsters.

Can’t he stay out of the war? Nothing good can come of it.

Making my way toward the object, I can’t quite make out what it is. As I approach, I start to see what looks like a bloated dark bobbing thing the size of a large seal.

It must be dead since it’s only moving with the current of the waves.

The twisted limb comes into view above the rock. Clenched fingers in the shape of a fist appear at the end of the limb.

It’s a man!

Rushing over, I slip on a small rock, falling to the soft sand so my knees, coat, and hands get covered. I look back at the rock upon which I slipped, but it’s no rock. Tufts of hair stick out from an almost completely buried man’s head.

Two dead men!

Without thinking, my hands quickly start digging around the head, exposing a soft, gentle, still, bloated, and rotting face.

He must have been here for a while.

I keep digging. A whole head comes into view.

Who are these men?

What are they doing here?

A scream tears at my ears.

This war takes men I don’t even know, kills them, and brings them to me!

I pause; bringing my sand-covered hands toward my face. Staring at them, my body collapses under its own weight.

I cannot marry any man in THIS world.

A hand touches my right shoulder. Screaming out, I turn to see Braden standing, in shock, behind me. My arms drape around his broad shoulders as he squeezes me tight against his warm body.

His warm body. God, his warm body feels good. Please keep him warm!

My tears fall on his shoulder as he pulls me away from the bloated cold bodies on the beach. I don’t look back.

*****

HMS Viknor

http://dawlishchronicles.com/the-loss-of-hms-viknor-13th-january-1915/

From late January 1915 through mid-year, bodies began washing up along the shores of Donegal, North Antrim, Raghery (Northern Ireland) and the Scottish Islands. For a long time, they could not be identified. People from coastal towns simply kept finding more bodies every few days until one was discovered who still had ID tags. His name was Private J. Griffin. Research revealed Private Griffin was from the HMS Viknor, an armed merchant cruiser that disappeared January 13, off the coast of Ireland.

No one knows for sure what happened to the Viknor, but it is supposed that after capturing the German spy, Baron H A Wedell, the ship struck a German mine in a storm. All 291 men aboard, including the German spy, disappeared until many of them washed ashore over the ensuing months. Their remains are now scattered in cemeteries across Northern Ireland and Scotland.

Private Griffin, whose ID tags led to the realization of the ship’s loss, is buried with four unidentified companions at Bonamargie Friary, in a small corner of North Antrim Northern Ireland. Bally castle erected a Celtic cross memorial with an anchor, harp, and shamrock on it. The Viknor’s wreck was found by the Irish survey vessel Celtic Explorer in 2006 but the reason for her loss could still not be identified with absolute certainty. A small flag was placed upon the wreck to commemorate the loss of life.