1896 - 1918 (22 years)
||Horace Edgar Kingsmill Bray |
||27 Mar 1896
||Thamesville, Kent Co., Ontario [1, 2]
||WW1 - 2nd Canadian Divisional Calvalry  |
||Hespeler (Cambridge), Waterloo Region, Ontario, Canada 
|WW1, Lieutenant, 2nd Canadian Divisional Calvary |
|WW1, Service #112018 |
||Galt (Cambridge), Waterloo Region, Ontario, Canada 
||Galt (Cambridge), Waterloo Region, Ontario, Canada 
|Eby ID Number
||9 Jul 1918
|Cause: mid air collision |
||9 Jul 1918
||St. Michael's Church Cemetery, Shotwick, Chestershire, England
||6 Sep 2021 |
- You may have driven past RAF Sealand many times, but did you know that until 1924 it was actually called RAF Shotwick? It was established as a Royal Flying Corps airfield in 1916 until its closure in 2006, and originally was two airfields (Shotwick North and Shotwick South) separated by the railway line. During its early years RAF Shotwick was used for flying training and many pilots were killed in accidents. In one 6 month period there were at least 17 accidents with 8 pilots losing their lives. In the Churchyard there are 9 gravestones of airmen covering the pe-riod from 25th April to the 9th November 1918. They are all from the Dominions or the USA.
St. Michael's Church Shotwick newsletter Aug 2012 https://www.shotwick.org.uk/newsletters/2012_Aug.pdf
Second Lieutenant, R.A.F. Killed by accident at Shotwick, England, in a collision, July 9th, 1918, when on the eve of departure for France. Had previously served in France as a cavalryman, in important engagements in the Ypres salient, and had been seriously wounded. Horace Edgar Kingsmill Bray was born at Thamesville, Ontario, March 27th, 1896, the second son of the Rev. H. B. Bray, now Rector of St. John s Church, Thamesford, Ontario. His secondary education was received at the Galt Collegiate Institute. When about to enter the University, war broke out, and the gallant boy (but eighteen then) enlisted.
LORD ROBERTS OB. 1914
As wrestler, snatching breathing space
To fling a thought beyond the ring,
As runner, panting in a race,
Who sends a sudden thought awing ;
So in our strife we pause awhile-
The throbbing air is mute a space,
A whisper steals from file to file,
Bobs is no longer in his place.
THE KITCHENER CHAP
HE wore twin stripes of gold upon
An empty tunic sleeve ;
His eyes were blue, his face so young
One hardly could believe
That he had seen the death and hate
That make the whole world grieve.
His hair was fair, his eyes were blue,
I thought that I could see
(Just when his sunny smile came through)
The lad he used to be:
Dear happy little mother's lad
Of only two or three.
But when across his eyes there came
A sudden look of pain-
His mouth set very hard and straight,
He was a man again.
John W. Garvin Canadian Poems of the Great War., McClelland & Stewart, Toronto, 1918
CANADA TO ENGLAND, JULY 1ST, 1917
We hold the pride You held - and now we give
New pride to add unto your garnered store,
New deeds beside the old ones, meet to live
And pass into our hearts forevermore.
We do not boast: but we are proud this day
That we have stood the stern and sudden test;
We too have done a little in the fray,
And we have given of our little best.
We too have lost the ones we held most dear,
And we are linked by a new bond of grief;
We too have fought against and mastered fear,
We have sought comfort of the same Belief.
Men called you great, and feared your anger just -
May we too know the strength of noble ire;
As all men honour you because they must.
Teach us to grasp a little of your fire.
Now we are proud, and thankful that the Day
That saw your testing, gave to us our trial,
To pay the debt our fathers fain would pay
And chalk the even score upon the dial.
Mothers and daughters now may journey forth
Comrades in arms, along that better way
That comes with Peace, and things of nobler worth,
And brings the dawning of a brighter day.
Perchance in the days gone by, we thought you cold -
You may have thought us childish still, and weak -
But now - we know; we know your heart of Gold;
We know the things you felt and could not speak.
And you, mayhap, have learned a little too,
Of eager youth, impetuous to aid,
Impatient of delay, and quick to do,
Too young, too ignorant, to be afraid.
O little Mother of the Island Race!
O Mother-Mistress of the distant seas!
We heard your call, and proudly take our place
Now by your side, no longer at your knees!
H. E. Bray
Over the edge of hills the sunset burned;
The silent ageless mountains stood around;
And where the flashing mountain streamlet turned,
A watch of armed men held vantage ground.
Outpost of England's might - a little band
War hardened, grim and fierce in fight;
Outpost to hold in awe a hostile land,
Guarding a border from a nation's might.
Up the long slope there swept a dusky host
That broke across the patch of meadow land;
A weary sentry called - the little post
Started from sleep: rang out a sharp command.
Then on them broke the flash and thunder stroke -
A thousand sabres in a thousand hands -
The little islet trembled - never broke,
At all the shock of all a thousand brands.
The rifles snapped and chattered in the dark;
Yard long sprang flames with every bullet sped;
And every bullet sped to find a mark,
But man by man the little group fell dead.
Faces all palled, black with battle smoke;
Strong hands tight clutched in lust of battle flame;
And still the living islet never broke,
And still the hordes of dusky legions came.
The stars in solemn circles marched above,
And what a sight was this they stooped to see!
No mercy here, or pity sweet, or love,
But crashing death, and lust of victory!
Dawn lightened on the hills in cold gray streaks;
But few were there, indeed, who cheered the day:
And still the rush of battle, still the shrieks
As steel drove sternly home the Saxon way.
School-fellows whom we knew, and knowing, loved, -
We will not meet again!
Dear lads who met the sudden shock, and proved
The kings of pain, -
Play-fellows who have played the last great game,
Work-fellows, who have labored to the end,
O Comrades, who have passed with glorious name -
This meed of praise we send.
Only a glimmer of tears, a choking sigh,
Only a word, too weak!
But this is the golden deed that never can die,
Past all the praise we speak!
In school and work and play, and now, in war
They held the honor of the school and passed, -
The pride and honor of the school they bore
Unto the very last!
Dear lads, we cannot speak the word we would -
This only can we say:
"They faced the task and died as Britons should,
Strong in the testing day!"
Sweet songs, too sweet to be of mortal things,
High words of praise, - all these, and more, they won;
But down the years, triumphant one word rings -
"They rest, their Duty done!"
H. E. Bray
TO THE SCHOOL
From this far Flemish Field I bid you greeting,
Friends in the dear old school beyond the sea.
And in between, the grey Atlantic beating
Seems to be bridged across by Memory.
You are at peace; and here, the grim war-spectre
Stalks thro' the stricken fields, and levies terror.
While your concern is with the "right-bisector"
We crouch in some mud-hole.
I give you thanks from out a heart full swelling,
And in a mist before my eyes, I see
The old remembered faces, and upwelling
The longing comes for things that used to be -
Be sure we don't forget the happy spring-time
Be sure we don't forget the gift sublime
The magic spell.
For, when the weary day grow sick with longing,
We draw fresh courage from the pride we bear,
We try to keep the Beacon brightly burning
Our Alma Mater gave into our care, -
In darkest hours, with a swift elation,
There comes a dream of Fellowship and Love
To nerve us in the Great Examination
To join the class above.
H. E. Bray
TO THE SCHOOL AT WAR
We don't forget - while in this dark December
We sit in schoolroom that you know so well
And hear the sounds that you so well remember -
The clock, the hurrying feet, the chapel bell;
Others are sitting in the seats you sat in;
There's nothing else seems altered here - and yet
Through all of it, the same old Greek and Latin,
You know we don't forget.
We don't forget your - in the wintry weather
You man the trench or tramp the frozen snow;
We play the games we used to play together
In days of peace that seem so long ago;
But through it all, the shouting and the cheering,
Those other hosts in graver conflict met,
Those other sadder sounds your ears are hearing,
Be sure we don't forget.
And you, our brothers, who for all our praying,
To this dear school of ours come back no more,
Who lie, our country's debt of honor paying -
And not in vain - upon the Belgium shore;
Till that great day when at the Throne in Heaven
The books are opened and the Judgement set,
Your lives for honor and for England given,
The School will not forget.
Response from the staff and students of G.C.I. to H. E. Bray's poem
"To the School"
|Born - 27 Mar 1896 - Thamesville, Kent Co., Ontario
|Residence - Anglican - 1911 - Hespeler (Cambridge), Waterloo Region, Ontario, Canada
|Residence - - Galt (Cambridge), Waterloo Region, Ontario, Canada
|Residence - Abt 1916 - Galt (Cambridge), Waterloo Region, Ontario, Canada
|Buried - 9 Jul 1918 - St. Michael's Church Cemetery, Shotwick, Chestershire, England