The best way to recognise the sacrifice of the fallen? Make sure it never happens again.

In a tiny French commune on a sunny afternoon in late August, a cloth cut from parachute silk lies draped over a monument. In front of it, seven oversized photographs on wooden stakes, each one of a young man in starched military uniform, each beaming proudly. And a stone’s throw away, the graves where these young men have lain for eighty years.

On the night of 28 June 1944, the Lancaster airbomber the British Royal Airforce (RAF) soldiers were flying in was shot down in a field beside the town of Bransles in the Seine-et-Marne region of northern France. All seven were killed. My great-great-uncle, Glan Dixon, was among them. He was 20 years old.

Last month, I, along with family members of the other six airmen, had the honour of attending the unveiling of a monument recognising the sacrifice of the crew of JB664, and the commitment of the residents of Bransles to keeping their memory alive for more than eighty years.

Almost 100 people were in attendance at the commemoration, including regional dignitaries, the Vice President of the Libre Résistance and the villagers for whom the airmen and the lore behind their brief lives had become part of local memory. The Last Post was played, floral tributes were laid and speeches made.

The ceremony was moving in its own right. However, throughout, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of uncomfortable irony that we were recognising the sacrifice of young men of the past, all while our own present feels increasingly unpredictable.

Déjà vu or something new? 

It seldom makes sense to compare historical and contemporary events, to indulge in that most impossible of theoretical questions, ‘what would I have done…?’ And yet it is difficult not to feel a sense of foreboding at our present time. Faced with dire conflicts across the world, the imminent devastation of climate change, and the daily attacks on our human rights and the rule of law by irresponsible ideologues and obscenely wealthy megalomaniacs, it can often seem that the prosperous, progressive future we all anticipated as children is a fading mirage.

The news last week that Germany had reintroduced voluntary military service more than a decade after it had been abolished suggests the very real possibility that Europe is gearing up for global conflict. This idea would have seemed impossible just a decade ago and, even now, with more than a million killed or wounded in Russia’s war of aggression on Ukraine, it still feels somehow absurd. Have we really reached a point where we’re preparing to send more of our young people into battle, eighty years after 25 million died in combat, a further 50 million civilians died as a result of military action, famine and disease, and countless soldiers and civilians were wounded physically and psychologically in ways from which they never recovered?

Not only is that absurd, it is offensive. It is offensive to those millions of young men who lie cold in the ground, many of them hundreds of miles from home. It is offensive to their lovers, whose futures evaporated overnight. It is offensive to their parents - to my great-grandmother - for whom a telegram broke hearts and shattered families.

That in 2025, we can be glorifying war, speculating about recalibrating our production lines for military purposes, and indulging the imperialist fantasies of some of the world’s worst leaders, that is an insult to all those who have died in war. And worst of all, it is an insult to every child alive today who is anxious and unsure whether they will get to enjoy the peace their parents and grandparents have enjoyed.

Somewhere along the line, we started to assume that peace was an entitlement, that it was as natural as the air we breathe, and not something that needs to be protected and worked for. Somewhere along the line, we forgot what it is we owe to each other.

Boldness out of devastation

In 1945, as Europe lay in ruins, people knew what they owed to each other. And they parlayed that into some of history’s greatest acts of solidarity. The Marshall Plan in 1948 and the first incarnation of the EU in 1951 - both created at a time when suspicion and resentment were not only prevalent, they were justified. And yet political leaders, as well as devastated populations, took a leap of faith and came together to build something that would insure against Europe ever collapsing again. 

These were enormous (and expensive) achievements. But solidarity doesn’t always require the commitment of billions of dollars. 

For me, one of the most poignant elements of the story of JB664 was how, on the morning after the crash, the women of Bransles laid flowers at the wreckage of the Lancaster bomber, and thereafter on the airmens’ graves. This was not only a kind gesture, it was an act of resistance - laying flowers had been forbidden by the German authorities. But week after week, flowers reappeared on the graves, even to this day, eighty years later.

Those flowers serve a constant reminder of what we owe to one another as human beings, whether as a small kindness or the ultimate sacrifice.

For us today, solidarity might look more like embracing the idea that people fleeing terror should be able to seek refuge in countries where they are safe, rather than pulling up the drawbridge. It might look like taxing the very wealthy to ensure that the rest of us can continue to access vital public services. It might be enabling those who produce our food to transition to more sustainable methods without falling into ruin. Seemingly simple ideas that we appear incapable, at present, of making a reality. But these are ideas of resistance, ideas that connect people and make our societies resilient against the attacks of those who would benefit from chaos.

The Mayor of Bransles, Florent Négrier, in his address to those gathered at the memorial in August, was direct in his assessment: ‘At a time when war threatens Europe, let us stand ready alongside those who share our values ​​of Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity. Let us remember that Liberty is not a right but a precious commodity for which we must be ready, like our elders, to do everything to preserve.’

With our societies gripped by polarisation and with more than a hundred armed conflicts currently ongoing, I don’t know how we prevent further escalation. But I do know that the best resistance is exactly what the people of Bransles did: remember what we owe to each other and that what we have in common across borders is greater than national interests. So the question isn’t ‘what would I have done…?’, but what are we doing now, collectively, to strengthen our democracies and uphold the values Monsieur Négrier refers to? The answer to that question is what will determine how we respond if aggressors come to our door and what we will be forced to sacrifice.

Opinion article by Kate Fistric, European Policy Co-Lead.