Additions will be checked before being published on the website and where possible will be forwarded to the person who submitted the original entries. Your contact details will not be forwarded, but they can send a reply via this messaging system.
please scroll down to send a message
Pte. Harold Moore
British Army 1st Btn. Loyal North Lancashire Regiment
from:29 West Terrace, Billy Row, Crook, County Durham
(d.27th Sep 1916)
Harold Moore was born on 1st December 1897 and was the eldest son of Robert and Margaret Moore and, like his father and grandfather before him, worked in the local pit. His death certificate states that he 'died of wounds' on 27th September 1916, we believe during The Battle of Thiepval Ridge. He is buried in Millencourt Communal Cemetery Extension, 2 km west of Albert, France, and in 1985, his niece, her husband and their son placed a posy of purple flowers on his grave.
The following piece was written after our visit and we had no prior knowledge about the pressed purple pansy found in his pocket book after his death.
Once there was a young man, hot-blooded, eager to grasp life with both hands, but this was when the century was young, and opportunities were not available in a small pit village. Life was circumscribed and dull. His parents expected him to leave school at thirteen, go down the mine, marry some nice Chapel girl and raise a family. He left school and went down the mine. At first it was an adventure: he felt more adult, more the elder brother to his two younger brothers and his baby sister. But soon it was irksome and boring. What was the point of spending his precious youth in cold, dark discomfort, some weeks never seeing daylight, never seeing the purple pansies in the garden of his home? Was this all there was to life? Then the trumpets of war blew across his little world like a celebration, "Kitchener needs you." "Me?" "Yes, You...You...You...!" He signed up. He sailed away. And the pansies waved their heads in approval and farewell. But was the mud of the trenches any better than the darkness of the mine? His world had become smaller still. Only the irregular arrival of the mail brought any lift to his spirits. And one day, in a letter, came a pansy plucked by his baby sister. How he treasured it. He pressed it in his pocket book and kissed it every day. When would he see the purple pansies again? He never did. Some time after the dreaded telegram arrived at his home, a sad little parcel came from France. And in the pocket book they found the pansy.
When the century was old, a little family entered a French war cemetery...
And the child of the child of his baby sister placed purple pansies on his grave.
