For whatever reason, World War I produced more "war poets" of note than did any subsequent conflict, including World War II and Vietnam. I have a small collection of books from this period, which includes poems from such well known "war poets" as Siegfried Sassoon, Alan Seeger, Rupert Brook, John McCrae, and one badly tattered volume entitled History and Rhymes of the Lost Battalion by "Buck Private" McCollum, complete with photographs and sketches.

I have searched through these books rather diligently during the past few weeks, looking for a poem that would be appropriate in this time of conflict in Iraq. A great number do a wonderful job of describing life in the trenches and the horrors of battle. Others offer touching thoughts on impending death. Many deal with love, fear, faith, and homesickness.

I had hoped that this search would lead to an obscure treasure; a poem that few people remember anymore, but which is "just right" for today. But I kept coming back to my little 1919 "Fourth Impression" volume of poems by Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae, and specifically to the poem that gave the book its title: In Flanders Fields. This is not just one of the best known poems of World War I, but one of the best known of all of the so-called "war poems." As I said, I had hoped to avoid a "best known" poem. But what can I say? It just seemed right.

McCrae was a Canadian physician. He served as an artillery officer in the Boer War and as a medical officer in World War I. My book of his poems contains 30 verses, but his fame as a poet resulted from the one little verse printed here. It commemorates the deaths of tens of thousands of men who died in Flanders in April 1915 during the infamous battle of Ypres, in which the Germans gained the dubious distinction of being the first nation to use poison gas in warfare.

My little blue book of McCrae's verses contains a great many of his letters, as well as a few from some of his comrades in arms. The following is taken from a letter from Major General E.W.B. Morrison, McCrae's Brigade Commander during the battle of Ypres.

"This poem was literally born of fire and blood during the hottest phase of the second battle of Ypres. My headquarters were in a trench on the top of the bank of the Ypres Canal, and John had his dressing station in a hole dug in the foot of the bank. During periods in the battle men who were shot actually rolled down the bank into his dressing station. Along from us a few hundred yards was the headquarters of a regiment, and many times during the sixteen days of battle, he and I watched them burying their dead whenever there was a lull. Thus the crosses, row on row, grew into a good-sized cemetery. Just as he describes, we often heard in the morning the larks singing high in the air, between the crash of the shell and the reports of the guns in the battery just beside us. I have a letter from him in which he mentions having written the poem to pass away the time between the arrival of batches of wounded, and partly as an experiment with several varieties of poetic metre."

When I was young, little red paper poppies were sold on Veteran's Day in virtually every town in America to raise money for disabled veterans. Everyone proudly wore one. The idea for the red poppy came from this poem. The story goes that fields in Flanders were covered with poppies because the poppy seed will lie dormant in the soil for many years and only bloom when all other plants have been uprooted. Thus, the digging of thousands upon thousands of graves across the Western Front, led to the blooming of thousands upon thousands of poppies.

McCrae died in January 1918. He suffered from a very bad asthmatic condition throughout his life. This was aggravated by poison gas and turned into pneumonia and meningitis. As for this poem's poetic metre, it is a perfect rondeau. (You can look it up.)