The monument to this French village’s war dead is a plain white stone block with the head of a grizzled old French infantryman chiselled on top. His big capable hands are gripping the block’s edge, as though he is peering intently over the parapet of a trench. On Sunday we assembled around him to honour the 53 local men, from a population of 1,800, who lost their lives in the first world war. Schoolchildren queued at a microphone to sing out their names. A ladies choir sang a plangent song about Verdun. The state bell tolled for 11 minutes. The major made an interminable speech in the rain. Everybody sang the Marseillaise.
Around 300 people turned out (beneath about 100 umbrellas) from a winter population the same size as it was 100 years ago. A regular soldier with a machine gun and a rakish beret patrolled vigilantly, his eyes peeled for Islamist terrorists.
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