| 12 November 2006 Best and Final There is a phrase in business that signifies when the dickering is over, and the deal on the table is the last one that is coming. “Is that your best and final?” “Yes, it is.” That is what Mother Nature gave us yesterday: the best and final day of a glorious autumn. Leaves of rust and gold, sky so blue it hurt the eyes. T-shirt warm with just a hint of a tickle that made you feel good to be alive. The parking lot at the stadium was jammed. Grills threw smoke to the clouds, and the odor of fired sausage and bratwursts hung in the air. The beer was perfectly cold, and all the scenery was extraordinary. “Youth is wasted on the young,” said a captain of industry. “That is just because you are old,” said another. It was Maryland Terrapins versus the hated Miami Hurricanes. The stadium was jam-packed, and the thrilling last-minute victory may have been as good as it gets, the season's best-and-final. By the time all the vehicles had plowed back across the District to Virginia the weather was starting to change. The clouds rolled in and the shill rain began to fall, knocking the leaves from the trees and ushering in the season of bleakness. I rose to the sound of rain, and of chill wind scrubbing the flanks of Big Pink. I shivered and made the coffee, scrolling through the e-mail I had not reviewed the day before. One of my acerbic pals who is still in the national security business sent me a note comparing Secretary Rumsfeld to General Douglas Haig, the British Commander at the Battle of the Somme in 1916. His diary entries disparage the courage of his own troops for their failure to penetrate the deep and impregnable German defenses. The British suffered 420,000 casualties. The French lost nearly 200,000 and by some estimates the German casualties were in the region of half a million. The Allied forces gained some ground, but no more than twelve kilometers at the point of deepest penetration. It can be fairly argued that the British Empire was dealt a mortal blow in that battle, though it carried on for another thirty-odd years. Haig never left his chateau to visit the wounded, or to see what he asked them to do. I answered my friend back, my mood reflecting the gray outside: "I can only observe that disgraceful as General Haig was, he had a shorter tenure than did the Secretary. The consequences of his actions may be in the same league, though, when it is all told. I do not hate Mr. Rumsfeld, arrogant though he was. He had a job to do, and he attempted to do it with every fiber of his being. The timing of his departure was for a practical reason, and that was the attempt to avoid the confirmation fight under the new Congress. There is a different circle of Hell for General Haig. I was in London several years ago, at this time of the year. There was a happy time when I got overseas frequently. It was too early for anything to be open, and I happened to walk down in Whitehall by the Cenotaph. It was designed by the great architect of the late Empire, Edward Lutyens. I knew his work. I was moved by his heroic new capital at Delhi, a monument to a dying institution, and have heard that his Pretoria is also quite nice. I doubt, passing through this phase of life, that I will ever see it. But I always calibrate my view of London with that still white structure in London, and its bookend on Charter Road in Hong Kong. I do not know if the flags of the Royal Navy, British Army, Royal Air Force and Merchant Marine still adorn that one. Over Lutyen's objection, he was not permitted to mark them in stone. Douglas Haig and his calamitous failure of leadership at the Somme is appropriate to the monument, since the word is derived from the Greek “kenos,” or empty, and “taphos,” or tomb. Since so many were left behind, ground into the mud, or interred in the fields near where they fell, it is only appropriate. The only adornment on the monument, apart from the wreaths on each end, are the words "The Glorious Dead,” chosen by Rudyard Kipling. He lost his son John at Loos in 1915, when the notion of imperial chivalry was dying. The Poet Laureate had helped him to gain an Army commission, so that he might not miss the chance to serve. Kipling never recovered from the loss, and he was not alone. The Brits call their ceremony on the anniversary of the end of the fighting “Remembrance Day.” At the foot of the Cenotaph the day I passed by were red poppies, a bit the worse for wear, and some cellophane-covered memorial cards, which commemorated a regiment of volunteers from the countryside. I crossed the street to look at them. Written in spidery hand on one was this: “We remember you, 14th, 15th and 16th (Service) Battalion, Royal Warwickshire Regiment, the Pals.” There might be fewer cards this year, since those that remember those Warwickshire lads are fading away. I suspect they still arrive with the day that marks the changing of the season, the best of final of the year. Copyright 2006 Vic Socotra |