大象传媒

This story was submitted to the People鈥檚 War site by Vijiha Bashir, at 大象传媒 Scotland on behalf of Fraser Connery from Renfrewshire and has been added to the site with his permission. The author fully understands the site鈥檚 terms and conditions.

Fraser Connery 鈥� Renfrewshire

For me, the whole Remembrance Sunday/Poppy Day situation was more of a nuisance than anything else. This opinion of mine was tempered back in my days in the local Boys Brigade鈥�

Annually, on a wintry Sunday morning, my day of rest, I would be called up to join a squad of discordant youngsters, allegedly a B.B bugle band, which was an experience far worse than it would seem. The morning started off by leaving the warm security of my bed. I was then forced into negotiating my way through the dark dangerous no man鈥檚 land until I finally encountered the bottom of the stairs where I would engage in combat with my bugle armed only with metal polish and a rag.

Once my bugle was shining and I was dressed in full uniform it was time to go. Due to the lack of buses on a Sunday, I now had to stealthily gain safe passage to the church, avoiding contact with anyone who would recognise me; this would seriously injure my credibility.

On arrival at the church, I had to take my place in the parade. Luckily for me, I had the privilege of looking the fool right at the front, in full view of anyone who cared to look. After the humiliation was finished, temporarily, I had to endure the monotony of a church service where we were the only young people adrift in a vast seemingly endless sea of old age. During this tedium we stood up when we were told and we sat down when we were told and sang when we were told and we prayed when we were told and we donated money when we were told. Finally it was over and after another brief period of loud embarrassment on the bugles, we were allowed to go home, till next year.

Basically, I took it all for granted. The war was so long ago to me. I couldn鈥檛 begin to imagine what it was like for the people who went through it. I took it for granted that I lived in peacetime. I took it for granted that so many people gave their lives so that we may live today.

Recently, I decided to catch a film at the cinema with a few friends. I had a rough idea what the film was about, but nothing precise. The film started the same as most but soon cut to scene with a group of young soldiers in a boat, wearing old fashioned uniforms, looking at each other. Nothing was said. Nothing needed to be said. Some were not much older than I was. There were sounds of gunfire and explosions in the background. The men in the boat prepared to land. Suddenly the large metal door opened like a huge toppling domino. Instantly a shower of bullets poured through the doorway as though the bullets had been waiting outside for their chance to strike. Few survived.

The film was called 鈥淪aving Private Ryan鈥�. It tells the story of a group of young soldiers on D-Day and some time following. There were many more graphic, violent scenes to come before the film finished, such as the one armed man searching through human remains for his recently removed arm or the man lying on the beach with his insides on the outside, calling for his mother. It was horrific. It was shocking. I was in a constant state of shock from start to finish, and after too.

I first noticed that the film had an effect on me when my mum enquired about the film. To my surprise, I found myself speechless. I managed to squeeze out the two words鈥� bloody鈥� and 鈥榮hocking鈥�, which was a fair but brief account of the film. This surprised me almost as much as it did my mum, who thought I was swearing. Normally I would give a review worthy of Barry Norman himself but I was unable. I was still in shocked. 鈥淪aving Private Ryan鈥� was the bloodiest film I had ever seen. Though the scariest thing is that the slaughter shown in the film actually happened, only on a bigger scale! I had never before been affected to the same extent by a film.

Weeks passed and consciously I had forgotten the film. One morning I was sitting registering half asleep, half awake, the usual morning routine, when in walked two sixth year pupils selling poppies. When buying poppies in the pat, I have to confess that I wasn鈥檛 as generous as I might have been, but this time I found myself searching all my pockets for all the loose change I had. I had seen what some people went through in war. They had given so much for us living today; I felt I had to give what I could.

I soon noticed another effect that the film 鈥淪aving Private Ryan鈥� had on me. On day I turned on the television only to see a procession of veterans marching down a street in full uniform. In the past I would rather have turned off the television and watched a blank screen, but this time around I watched carefully. It seemed to me that each face showed a solemnity, which undoubtedly was caused by the war. I now admired them for what they went through to protect our country. Although I certainly did not want to go to war, I wished that in my lifetime I could contribute something as great as they had.

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