Measures of time and distance 2: Peace in our time?

A recollection:

Years gone by, as darkness set in, Malcolm and His Lady pulled into a motel, north of the 101 Ventura Freeway in north Los Angeles. Showered and pizza-ed, with a thirst, they ventured into a local bar in Van Nuys. The ambiance, by a long way, was not the most pleasant: needs must when the demon drink drives.

Once inside, Malcolm and His Lady recognised they were in a Vets' bar: the walls were covered with memorabilia. Not just any Vets: Vietnam Vets.

The tight group around the bar itself included a wheelchair. This was just before Gary Sinise made the point in Forrest Gump.

At that time, these were, very much, the forgotten men. The alienation, the hostility and the distrust were palpable. It was not a happy place into which to venture. It was not the most enjoyable drink of Malcolm's life.

Out of that, Malcolm made a re-appraisal and discovered a new sympathy.

A thought:

Malcolm has just heard his daughter, the Pert Young Piece, remark on the death of Harry Patch, the last survivor of Passchendaele. May she comment to her children and grandchildren on the passage of time, and remind them that her great-grandfather is in Doullens Cemetery.

From the mud of Flanders to those new poppy fields in Helmand, the Poor Bloody Infantry did not decide the cause or determine the events.

Along with the families of those killed in Iraq and Afghanistan, whatever our preconceptions and prejudices, we should remember -- and honour -- them. Sphere: Related Content

Measures of time and distance 1

Today celebrated the centenary of Louis Blériot flying across the English Channel. 22 miles in 37 minutes (about the same time as the EuroTunnel rail service takes from Folkestone to Sangatte):



Last month, on the 14th-15th June, it was the 90th anniversary of Captain John Alcock and Lieutenant Arthur Whitten Brown, in a modified Vickers Vimy IV, making it from St John's, Newfoundland, to Clifton, Galway. 1,890 miles in 16 hours 27 minutes: when Steve Fossett and Mark Rebholz re-created it, in July 2005, it took three-quarters of an hour longer. Alcock put down in a bog, however: Fossett chose the 8th at the Ballyconneelly Golf course.



A few days ago, it was forty years on from the climactic moment of the Apollo XI mission. Landing and returning from the surface of the Moon was a round trip of 953,700 statue miles in 8 days, 3 hours, 18 minutes and 35 seconds.



All within sixty years. All within a lifetime.

Somehow that chimes with Malcolm's shock at reading the obituary of the last American to be born a slave. Yes, there is argument; but the name that Malcolm remembers is Charlie Smith (right), imported from West Africa around 1842, sold at New Orleans to a Texan rancher, lived to witness Apollo XVII, died and obituarised in 1979.

And more to come (see next posting). Sphere: Related Content

Remembrance

Malcolm cannot easily discover just how many deaths we should note for Remembrance Day. It is certainly well into seven figures: and that's just Britain.

Facing that staggering number, each of us can only comprehend the tragedies at an individual, personal level.

So Malcolm (who can count family dead and slaughtered, all the way back to Bosworth Field) finds himself reflecting on just two:

• Grandfather Edward (whose forename Malcolm's alter ego inherited) was with the Royal Field Artillery. He was killed by a traffic accident (the majority of deaths on the Western Front were not from bomb or blast); but he is buried among the other 1,334 at Doullens (above, right) in France.
• Cousin Jean, part of a searchlight team, was one of the 26 ATS girls killed when a German bomber took out North Drive, Great Yarmouth, on 11th May 1943.

Sphere: Related Content