John McClure had an extensive military background. At the age of 14, he joined the Highland Cadet Corp and at 17, enlisted in the Militia field battery commanded by his father. He had been stationed in South Africa during the South African War. He had left South Africa a year later, disillusioned and shocked by the crude equipment and poor treatment of the sick, maimed and dying soldiers.
In 1904, John resigned from the 1st Brigade of Artillery, having been promoted to the rank of Captain and then Major.
In 1914, John was appointed brigade-surgeon to the First Brigade of Canadian Forces with the rank of Major and second-in-command. In 1915, John was in the trenches of Ypres, Belgium in the area traditionally known as Flanders. Some of the heaviest fighting of the war took place there during the Second Battle of Ypres.
On April 22, the Germans used deadly chlorine gas in a desperate attempt to overtake the Allies. Despite the debilitating effects of the gas, Canadian soldiers fought relentlessly to hold the line. In the trenches, John tended hundreds of soldiers. He was surrounded by the dead and dying.
On May 13, 1915, John watched the horrific scenes of battle unfold. A wagon, a horse or a stray man would reach the road just in time to be shelled. The previous night, John’s good friend, Alexis Helmer of Ottawa had been killed in battle. He was placed in a makeshift grave, marked by only a rough, wooden cross. Hundreds of crosses stood, like sentinels, in the same field. McCrae was devastated. Even his superior skills as a surgeon were of no use to him. Men were dying while he stood by, helpless.
As dawn crept over the eastern sky, John could hear the larks singing between the volleys of gunfire. He looked over the field where the crude crosses stood. The field was thick with scarlet poppies, blowing gently in the breeze, their seeds germinated when the guns uprooted the ground. Beauty in the midst of carnage.
McCrae had been writing since the age of 16. He ripped a page from his dispatch book and wrote a short poem.
IN FLANDERS FIELDS
By John McCrae
In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing fly Scarce heard amid the guns below.
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