Beyond these gates lie the victims of the air raids in Norwich during the Second World War. Walking reverently on the new-mowed soft green grass and reading their names, I sometimes gasped at the differences in their ages. Some have lived a full life, others were still in their prime, and a number of them were at their tender of 13 and below. “She was too young. Oh, he’s still a toddler!” I thought out loud as I point at their plaques. I stopped a couple of times and tried to relive some of their affairs long before the war broke out. I imagined a dad taking his son for a fishing trip. The son chomped at the sight of a fish caught in its mouth, struggling to get free. They did set it free and threw it back into the water. I saw little girls in their summer frock picking blackberries to make a pie or a jam. Their lives didn’t have to end this way.
They were ordinary civilians, but the sacrifice they made for the freedom of this city that we now enjoy can never be paid neither by silver nor gold. Nay their names must never be forgotten. To them may we always be indebted.