"GREEN FIELDS OF FRANCE"

A series of essays.....

.....as seen through my eyes!





By: Jacqueline E. Hughes

We are sitting in the cozy hearth room at the Craggy Isle B&B, once again, listening to that beautiful voice with its Irish lilt and deep sadness rolled-up into one extraordinary man by the name of Adrian O'Connor. Adrian is speaking about his beloved father as a tear glistens in the corner of his eye and trails its way over the wrinkles of time, the deep creases of sorrow.....

I blink and am projected back into my own world with its flat screen television and comfortable leather couch. Dan and I have been watching the Public Broadcasting documentary entitled, "1916 Irish Rebellion," narrated by Liam Neeson, a true son of Ballymena, County Antrim in Northern Ireland.

One hundred years ago the "Great War," World War I, the war to end all wars, was in full swing and Irish men of all ages were fighting for their Motherland, Great Britain. At the same time, many Irish men and women remained at home in Ireland to fight the War of Independence to free themselves of British rule. As Irish blood spilled upon the green fields of France, Irish blood was, in turn, covering the cobblestone streets of Dublin. It was Easter, 1916.   




           DECLARATION OF IRISH INDEPENDENCE 
              BEGINNING OF THE EASTER RISING



The shots rang out as the Irish militia, unorganized yet determined, occupied several strategic strongholds within Dublin City, with the Post Office Building on O'Connell Street centralizing the small army within the city proper. Within days, being strongly overrun by British soldiers and watching their own Dublin civilians become collateral damage for the cause, the Irish leaders surrender.

Patrick Pearse, James Connolly, Tom Clarke, Sean MacDermott, and Joseph Plunkett.....  To name but a few of the dedicated Irish Citizen Army leaders who will be remembered for their bravery and were executed by the British as an example of the independence they represented.

As I sat watching this stellar film honoring these brave souls, Adrian's voice continued to blend with my subconscious. During our visit to Ireland in 2006, his Bed & Breakfast in Doolin, County Clare, was our home base for several days. By day, we discovered The Burren, literally hung over the Cliffs of Moher, and navigated the heaving Atlantic Ocean in order to visit the Aran Islands. But, during one glorious afternoon, this was our time with Adrian, a renowned composer and singer who specializes in Traditional Irish music.




               Source: South Dublin Libraries' Digital Archive


Adrian spoke of his dear Father's role in 1916 when many young men were torn between Irish independence and fighting for Great Britain. He dedicated his music to the brave individuals on both fronts.

Adrian's rendition of the classic song, "No Man's Land," written in 1976 by Scottish folk singer-songwriter, Eric Bogle, brings tears to my eyes. Adrian's talking voice seamlessly unites with his singing voice in a most craggy, Irish kind of way and bridges any gaps between the past and the present.

When I miss that splendid voice, as I do right now, I play his CD, "Often I Think About Doolin." Cut number three, "The Green Fields of France," another name for Bogle's iconic song, reflecting on the grave of a young man who died in World War I, has probably become the finest anti war song ever written. And, Adrian certainly does it justice.

Below are the lyrics to "Green Fields Of France." I choose to commemorate the young Irish soldiers, recruited by Britain to fight for the British Empire only to return home to Ireland as lost, unloved and forgotten souls. In this sense, and having lived through the Vietnam conflict, I am reminded of our own men and women, neighbors and friends, who experienced a similar lackluster greeting upon returning home to the United States. As I have often said before, unfortunately, history does repeat itself. Will we ever learn....?


"Green Fields Of France"
By: Eric Bogle

Well, how do you do, Private William McBride,
Do you mind if I sit down here by your graveside?
And rest for awhile in the warm summer sun,
I've been walking all day, and I'm nearly done.
And I see by your gravestone you were only 19
When you joined the glorious fallen in 1916,
Well, I hope you died quick and I hope you died clean
Or, Willie McBride, was it slow and obscene?

Did they Beat the drum slowly, did the play the pipes lowly?
Did the rifles fir o'er you as they lowered you down?
Did the bugles sound The Last Post in chorus?
Did the pipes play the Flowers of the Forest?

And did you leave a wife or a sweetheart behind
In some loyal heart is your memory enshrined?
And, though you died back in 1916,
To that loyal heart are you forever 19?
Or are you a stranger without even a name,
Forever enshrined behind some glass pane,
In an old photograph, torn and tattered and stained,
And fading to yellow in a brown leather frame?

The sun's shining down on these green fields of France;
The warm wind blows gently, and the red poppies dance.
The trenches have vanished long under the plow;
No gas and no barbed wire, no guns firing now.
But here in this graveyard that's still No Man's Land
The countless white crosses in mute witness stand
To man's blind indifference to his fellow man.
And a whole generation who were butchered and damned.

And I can't help but wonder, no Willie McBride,
Do all those who lie here know why they died?
Did you really believe them when they told you "The Cause?"
Did you really believe that this war would end wars?
Well the suffering, the sorrow, the glory, the shame
The killing, the dying, it was all done in vain,
For Willie McBride, it all happened again,
And again, and again, and again, and again.




Copyright © 2016 by Jacqueline E. Hughes
All rights reserved