Another John Anderson

How we remember the dead tells us a lot about who we are as a society. Who we remember, tells us even more. 

Today I visited Rosebank Cemetery. It is the closest final resting place to my home and is perhaps best known for the Gretna Rail Disaster memorial. In May 1915, over 200 lives were lost in a multiple train collision. Soldiers, on their way to war met with disaster before even leaving Scotland. Many of the men, who came from the Leith area, were brought back to Edinburgh for mass burial. They were buried three deep and the funeral procession took over four hours. 

The enormity of what happened is hard to get your head around. For every life lost, scores would have mourned the death of a loved one. One account tells of a Scottish gentleman killing survivors at the scene, much like one might put down a badly injured animal. I am uneasy with the thought and angered by the wasted potential of these men sent to their deaths..  

So in glorious sunshine, over one hundred years after the event, I am unsure what I might find. I glance at more recent graves. Grandparents and grandchildren, who died thirty and forty years ago, still have fresh flowers at their graveside. Another stone describes a wife and then decades later, of the wife’s mother's death. Another tombstone tells of a woman who arrived on these shores out of love but who then passed away. These are all humble human stories and I am touched. All these people are still loved and not forgotten.

The memorial itself is well kept and is in good condition. Names are in alphabetical order and tell the casual observer the rank of each of the soldiers listed. I am again sad at the loss, if a little unsure of the need to rank the deceased.  

After a moment's reflection, I turn and walk away but very soon I notice a gravestone that lists a memorial for one John Anderson.  This John Anderson was a Royal Engineer and had made it to war. He had lost his life two months before the train disaster. John Anderson was killed in action at Neuve Chapelle in France.

What struck me at first was the name. I have a great grandfather, called John Anderson, who was in the same regiment and fought in the same war… but survived. If he had not, I would not have been standing reading the grave stone, reflecting on the lives lost. I think of the lives of people who would have existed had there not been a war. You wonder how different the world might now be.

It is possible that both John Andersons knew each other. Or, they might have known of each other.  It is easy to imagine an administrative error, each man standing in each other's boots.

I stood before that grave, knowing that for at least a blink of an eye, I have this privilege of life.  I thought again of how humble we all are in the face of death and how so little of what we worry about really matters. The exception is the love we have for each other.