What is the history and background of the Poppy Appeal?
There were many World War 1 poets like Wilfred Owen above. However, this one poem by John McCrae started the ball rolling and set the foundation for Poppy Day
John McCrae, May 1915
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.
And so the first idea of a Poppy flower to remember the thousands of dead and injured British and Commonwealth soldiers airmen and sailors was born. Not that John McCrae, knew that it would be used.
John McCrae. He had been asked to conduct the burial service of his fellow Canadian and friend Lieutenant Alexis Helmer who on the morning of Sunday 2 May had walked out of his dugout at Ypres and had been instantly killed by a shell dropping just a few yards from him.
Not much was left of Lieutenant Alexis Helmer, however, what could be found of him would be collected in an empty sandbag then laid out on an Army blanket to be buried that evening.
Near to the 1st Canadian Brigade’s position on the canal bank, there was a small burial ground which had originally been established by the French Army in the autumn of 1914, the previous year, during the First Battle of Ypres. Several months later the Second Battle of Ypres began on 22 April 1915. By early May 1915, the burial ground contained the graves of French and Canadian Army casualties. It became known as Essex Farm British Military Cemetery, after the farm in the vicinity named as Essex Farm on British military maps. It was here that Major John McCrae, a doctor conducted the service of burial for his friend.
No one knows for sure why he chose those words or even why he chose the Poppy flower. He was seen writing sitting on the step of an ambulance as he gazed at his friends grave. There were Poppy flowers in flower around the graves of the fallen soldiers so it’s not hard to imagine that he would be inspired to use the Poppy as part of his poem. We do know he was deeply affected by the loss of his friend.
What we also know is the fact that over the next three years Lieutenant Alexis Helmers grave would be lost he would become one of the thousands of men who would not have the last resting place that is afforded to us all. His name though is on the Memorial Gate at Memin a tribute to the 54,896 soldiers who have no known grave in the battlefields of the Ypres Salient.
John McCrae decided to send his poem to the Spectator magazine who declined to publish it. However, in December 1915 Punch magazine published it with a slight alteration. McCrae had written the word grow Punch changed it to blow, McCrae though continued to use the word grow in many handwritten versions and also in printed versions.
John McCrae himself never made it back to Canada, he died on January 28, 1918, from pneumonia The following day he was buried in the Commonwealth War Graves Commission section of Wimereux Cemetery.
On the night he died, he was taken to a large window overlooking the English Channel so that he could look over the sea to the White Cliffs of Dover.
He told the doctor who was in charge of his case:
“Tell them this,
If ye break faith with us who die, we shall not sleep”.
On the 11th hour on the 11th day of the 11th month 1918, the guns fell silent and the war was over.
The continent of Europe faced immense devastation during the war, with the United Kingdom particularly having a hard time. The nation suffered the loss of a significant portion of its young male population. Over the span of just four years, approximately 700,000 British soldiers lost their lives, many enduring horrific battlefield conditions. In addition to those confirmed dead, countless others were reported missing and never recovered, leaving families without closure.
As the United Kingdom slowly transitioned back to normalcy, an American woman named Miss Moina, inspired by his poem, penned a thoughtful response
“THE VICTORY EMBLEM”
Oh! You who sleep in Flanders’ fields,
Sleep sweet — to arise anew;
We caught the torch you threw,
And holding high we kept
The faith with those who died.
We cherish too, the Poppy red
That grows on fields where valor led,
It seems to signal to the skies
That blood of heroes never dies,
But lends a lustre to the red
Of the flower that blooms above the dead
In Flanders’ fields.
And now the torch and poppy red
Wear in honour of our dead.
Fear not that ye have died for nought:
We’ve learned the lesson that ye taught
In Flanders’ fields.
On November 9th, 1918, just two days before the signing of the Armistice that ended World War I, Miss Michael received a small monetary gift from several overseas War Secretaries of the YMCA. In appreciation, she decided to share two poems with them: one composed by a renowned doctor and another she had written herself. She informed the War Secretaries of her intention to use the gifted money to purchase 25 red poppies, symbolizing remembrance and honouring those who had served in the war.
She bought 25 vibrant red poppies, pinning one proudly on herself. Then, she handed out the remaining poppies to each member of the YMCA’s War Secretaries. This group is thought to be the pioneers in wearing red poppies to honour the memory of those who lost their lives in the war.
Madame Guerin, a visionary from France, developed an innovative and impactful initiative in Europe. She embarked on a global journey to promote the production and sale of artificial poppies. Her goal was to generate funds to assist ex-servicemen and their families who were facing financial difficulties. This idea not only provided much-needed support for veterans but also became a symbol of remembrance and solidarity.
Inspired by Madame Guerin’s vision, the inaugural Poppy Appeal was held in Britain on November 11th, 1921. The poppies were supplied by a French organization dedicated to raising funds for children in regions most devastated by the war’s impact.
Field Marshal Haig, renowned for his leadership as Commander-in-Chief in France, took on a pivotal role as the founding president of the British Legion, which later became the Royal British Legion in 1971. Since its inception, the Legion has passionately dedicated itself to offering vital support and practical aid to all veterans of the armed forces, extending its compassionate reach to their widows and dependents during times of need.
Poppy Factory. Established in 1922, the factory began with five disabled ex-servicemen working in a room above a shop in Bermondsey, South London. Today, The Royal British Legion Poppy Factory Ltd continues this important work in modern facilities located in Richmond, Surrey, employing 50 disabled ex-servicemen year-round. Together, they produce 27 million poppies, 113,000 wreaths, and 800,000 remembrance crosses for the 2010 Appeal.
Haig frequently highlighted the significance of providing employment opportunities for disabled ex-servicemen, considering it equally important as fundraising efforts. His dedication to this cause was evident through his strong personal involvement with the Legion’s Poppy Factory. Founded in 1922, the factory initially operated with just five disabled ex-servicemen working in a modest space above a shop in Bermondsey, South London. Over the years, this initiative has grown significantly. Today, The Royal British Legion Poppy Factory Ltd proudly continues this vital mission in state-of-the-art facilities located in Richmond, Surrey. The factory now employs 50 disabled ex-servicemen throughout the year. Together, they meticulously produce an impressive 27 million poppies, 113,000 wreaths, and 800,000 remembrance crosses for the 2010 Appeal, ensuring that the legacy of remembrance and support for veterans endures.
The first Poppy Appeal in 1921 raided £106,000. By 1978 the Appeal had reached over £3.5 million annually, and in 2017 it raised £44.527 Million.
This all goes to help any serviceman and woman who needs help.
I saw a boy marching, with medals on his chest, He marched alongside Soldiers, marching six abreast, He knew it was Remembrance Day, he walked along with pride And did his best to keep in step with the soldiers by his side.
And when the march was over, the boy looked rather tired; A soldier said. “Whose medals son?” to which the boy replied, “They belong to my Dad, but he didn’t come back. He died out in Afghanistan, upon a Helmand track”
The boy looked rather sad, and a tear came to his eye; But the soldier said, “Don’t worry son, I’ll tell you why,” He said, “Your dad marched with us today, all the blooming way, All us soldiers knew he was here, it’s like that on Remembrance Day.”
The boy looked rather puzzled — he didn’t understand But the soldier went on talking and started to wave his hand, “For this great land we live in, there’s a price we have to pay, To keep our Country free, and fly our flag today
Yes, we all love fun and merriment in this country where we live, But the price was that some soldier his precious life must give; For you to go to school, my son, and worship God at will Somebody had to pay the price, so our soldiers paid the bill.
“Your dad died for us my son, for all things good and true, And I hope you can understand these words I’ve said to you”. The boy looked up at the soldier and after a little while, His face changed expression, and he said with a beautiful smile,
“I know my dad marched here today, this our Remembrance Day, I know he did, I know he did, all the blooming way”
Lest we forget
Marching Men, by Marjorie Pickthall
Under the level winter sky
I saw a thousand Christs go by.
They sang an idle song and free
As they went up to calvary.
Careless of eye and coarse of lip,
They marched in holiest fellowship.
That heaven might heal the world, they gave
Their earth-born dreams to deck the grave.
With souls unpurged and steadfast breath
They supped the sacrament of death.
And for each one, far off, apart,
Seven swords have rent a woman’s heart.
The Soldier, by Rupert Brooke
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there’s some corner of a foreign field
That is forever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England’s, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by the suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
A Dead Boche, by Robert Graves
To you who’d read my songs of War
And only hear of blood and fame,
I’ll say** (you’ve heard it said before)
”War’s Hell!” and if you doubt the same,
Today I found in Mametz Wood
A certain cure for the lust of blood:
Where propped against a shattered trunk,
In a great mess of things unclean,
Sat a dead Boche; he scowled and stunk
With clothes and face a sodden green,
Big-bellied, spectacled, crop-haired,
Dribbling black blood from nose and beard
My Boy Jack, by Rudyard Kipling
“Have you news of my boy Jack?”
Not this tide.
“When d’you think that he’ll come back?”
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.
“Has anyone else had word of him?”
Not this tide.
For what is sunk will hardly swim,
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.
“Oh, dear, what comfort can I find?”
None this tide,
Nor any tide,
Except he did not shame his kind —
Not even with that wind blowing, and that tide.
Then hold your head up all the more,
This tide,
And every tide;
Because he was the son you bore,
And gave to that wind blowing and that tide!
This last one is more modern.
James Love fought in the Falklands and it reminds us all that that while we all sleep and lead normal lives back home soldiers at war endure hardships' hard to imagine.
May ‘82
May ‘82
It rained
and I heard it fall.
Maybe not every drop,
but almost all.
We cut the turf.
And stacked it high.
Two foot thick
and just as wide.
Rain ran down my face
while it filled the hole.
Soaked my clothes.
washed my soul.
No gentle pitter-patter this,
it crashed.
The wind howled and blew.
Bayonets slashed.
And all the while,
Eight thousand miles away,
you cheered, got drunk, and slept,
in a cosy warm bed.
