The 11th of November was very important to my father, Harry Whitfield Mollins.
First, it was the day in 1895 that he was born–in Melrose, Mass., where his family lived until their return home to Moncton, N.B. when he was completing high school in his teens.
Several years later in 1918, November 11 was the day when an overnight agreement between the leaders of the invasive German forces and Germany’s British, French and allied foes to end “the Great War”—World War One—with an armistice at 11 o’clock that morning.
For Harry Mollins, that officially closed his role as a Canadian army artilleryman, albeit by then suffering from an infection that struck him earlier that year on battle grounds. and forced his retreat to medical care in England.
Following is what he had to say about his birthdays in little pocket diaries from the time of his enlistment in 1915 in Prince Edward Island, throughout training at the Sussex town of Horsham in southern England and during battle in France and Belgium until the early days of 1918, before he was sent back to England as an invalid--on a “Blighty” in front-line jargon--for treatment .
The diary entries about his birthdays begin with a late-November entry in 1915 reviewing his enlistment and early training:
We have been entertained by all the churches in town (Charlottetown) and on one occasion the battery gave a concert in the Prince of Wales Hall. I have sung songs at all these events. We have paraded to church every Sunday and I have had the privilege of singing solos in several of the churches. . . .
Thursday, the eleventh of November, was my twentieth birthday. Received a box from home which contained a chicken and lots of other good things to eat. Several of us started on it at noon and when we got thru the contents were very scarce.
Another birthday gift which I got from home was a gold wrist watch. I was not expecting it and was surprised and delighted to get it. The next day I received a box from Verna and Muriel which contained many useful articles, such as a drinking cup, a steel pocket mirror, flashlight and two Khaki handkerchiefs. This was another delightful surprise.
So my twentieth birthday is one which will long be remembered.
Saturday, November 11, 1916 Weather: Fine
This is my twenty-first birthday. Left Horsham at 9.30 A.M. Arrived in London about eleven. Had dinner & caught the 3 o’clock train for Shornecliffe. Arrived about 6 P.M. Put up at the Fernall Hotel, Folkstone. As it is useless to try and find any of the boys tonight we went to the Pleasure Gardens Theatre & saw a play called "The Whip." Enjoyed it very much.
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In the autumn of 1917, the artillery battery had advanced through Flanders, from the Somme River region of northwestern France into southern Belgium—which he described as “an awful, desolate looking country, all torn up by shell fire.”
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Sunday, November 11, 1917 Weather: Showers
Were relieved this morning at 9 A.M. Was never so thankful for anything in my life. Was wet thru & coated with mud from head to foot. Returned to billets & turned in for a sleep. Stayed in bed all day. We fired 240 rounds during our twenty-four hours duty This is my twenty-second birthday. Spent my last birthday in England and the one before that in Canada. Where shall I spend the next? I hope in Canada. #
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Speaking of Flanders:
During the Second Battle of Ypres, a Canadian artillery officer, Lieutenant Alexis Helmer, was killed on 2 May, 1915, by an exploding shell. He was a friend of the Canadian military doctor Major John McCrae.
John was asked to conduct the burial service because the chaplain was away. It is believed that later that evening John McCrae began the draft for his famous poem,
'IN FLANDERS FIELDS'
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
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Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
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