Day 8 – The Big Day

The invitation from the Duke of Kent said we had to be seated by 11:30am. Given Fromelles is only a short distance from Lille, it seemed a little odd that the tour group wanted us to depart the hotel at 8:30am. It proved, however, to be a master-stroke.
Fromelles is a tiny farming community, with barely more than a main street. Co-ordinating the arrival and departure of thousands of people must have presented a logistical nightmare, especially with royal visitors, and distinguished dignitaries on the guest list. I hadn’t felt like breakfast, and had remained in my un-air-conditioned room, donning my best suit, clean shirt and tie, already feeling the beads of sweat moistening my forehead. The forecast was for temperatures above 30C, something almost unheard of in the north of France. I packed my daypack with a change of clothes, cameras and other essentials and headed for the bus. It was strange to see half the folks dressed in their finery, while the rest stayed with their normal tour clobber. Those of us with an official invitation, had reserved seating up with the dignitaries.
We arrived shortly after 9:00am, armed with official ticket, passport and other ID, to enable us to get into the secured area. As it turned out, we surprised the organisers, having arrived before they had even set up the barriers. So we waited in the warming sun, in our finery while the security staff threatened us with expulsion if we didn’t have all the right paperwork. Sometime after 10:00am we were allowed to move to the gates and after documentation was verified, we headed to the great stand in the sky. I hope it looked OK on TV. The structure appeared rather flimsy from the inside, going up the stairs, but held together without issue. We were ushered to our section B seats, and asked to sit down. And it got warmer. Around 11:15am, the dignitaries began arriving, but seemingly did not have to sit down, but we stayed put. And it got warmer. By 12:00pm, we had been standing or sitting in the sun for nearly 3 hours, and the melt had started. We were crammed into seats meant for school children, and the finery wasn’t looking so fine any more.
Eventually, the crowd was asked to be seated. Those with parasols were given instruction to fold. And it got warmer. The ceremony began, and I must say, it was the best-produced, and most moving event I have ever attended. It was done for TV, I know, but it was directed perfectly and with the greatest reverence. But it was as hot as an inferno in the sun. There was a bottle of water under every seat, but we still saw several people being attended by the medical support staff, for heat-stroke. The ceremony went on until about 1:45pm, but seemed timeless. Family members recounted tales of the Diggers and the British troops, and there wasn’t a dry eye in the cemetery. I thought the lump in my throat was going to choke me, as the horror of the battle was portrayed. The key speakers were sincere and respectful, and I was almost sad, when it all came to an end. There was a feeling of being amongst family, as both local residents and imported attendees rubbed shoulders, all there for the same purpose: to show our gratitude for the enormous sacrifice made by this gallant generation.
There were a couple of things that might have been done better. For instance, we were never told there was a Visitor’s Register that we could have signed. By the time I found it, there was a queue so long, the bus would have left without me. In the general admission area, there were souvenirs (t-shirts etc) being sold. Nothing in the secure area, though. Those relatives whose soldier had been identified, were allowed to walk through the cemetery, but those of us without, were left to leave with our thoughts alone.
When the buses were eventually allowed to get close to the town again, those of us with no further business there, were taken back to the hotel, where we showered and changed, and prepared for an afternoon in Lille, at leisure. As I towelled dry, I felt the left side of my face, and realised I had been severely burnt after nearly 5 hours in the bleachers. I’ll survive. I grabbed a few fellow coach-mates, and hunted down the Cafe OZ at 33, Place de Bettignies, where we were led astray, willingly, by ex-pat Andrew Becker, brother of an old friend of mine, Peter. We had a very enjoyable afternoon, reminiscing about the day’s events, and solving the problems of the world. The real world returns tomorrow.