My grandfather, artillery officer H.P. MacKeen, shown on the left, wrote this poem in Ypres in September 1917, two months before the Battle of Passchendaele.

The White Cross

It isn’t a medal or order,

It carries no ribbon or braid

But a token still

As on Calvary Hill

Of the greater sacrifice made.

It stands as a lonely sentinel

O’er the place where the hero sleeps

‘Neath a lowly mound

In the shell-swept ground

Near the battered walls of Ypres.

It bears a simple legend,

Yet a tale of lasting glory:

“Here lies a British Soldier

Pro patria mori.”