It seems like quite a lot to ask a one hundred and eleven year old man to carry. Harry Patch's death as the last surviving British World War One serviceman, the last direct link with the horrors of Passchendale, has set off a train of sombre reflection on the essential futility of all wars. As a Victorian, Harry was seemingly being asked to pack a full kitbag of nostalgic connections with a simpler, gentler, sweeter age. As the last Tommy, he was being asked to hump around a universal disquiet with senseless killing. He appeared to carry his burden lightly, describing war as "organised murder" and televised Remembrance Day ceremonies as "show business".
His obituaries have, sensibly, lacked sentimentality. Rather they have chosen to reflect his West Country common sense, the plumber's practicality, the gritty salt of the common man. At 111 his age alone with its three century spanning, prime, Nelsonic and Bilbo Bagginsy overtones, is cause for amazed reflection and deep respect. His quiet dignity in a wheelchair, his rasping vowels lingering on the radio, his uncompromising faith in family and hard work are all that's needed to mark the passing of a remarkable life.
Harry Patch RIP.
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