Remembrance Day: Armed Forces

Chris Kane Excerpts

Tuesday 11th November 2025 Commons Chamber

[Chris Kane (Stirling and Strathallan) (Lab)]

On Sunday, I was at the war memorial in Stirling city centre to lay a wreath and to reflect. Stirling’s memorial was completed in 1922. Six hundred and ninety-two names were recorded on the monument that first year, and behind every name was a story of a life lived and a life given to war. I want to talk about three of those names today, but I want to start with a woman who I have no doubt was in the crowd the day the memorial was unveiled. Her name was Margaret Fleming.

Margaret and her husband, John, lived in Stirling. Margaret worked in a local grocer’s shop and John was a sailor—a stoker on a steamship—who travelled the world’s oceans for months at a time, leaving Margaret to raise their family, including their sons Thomas and Martin. When war was declared, the Fleming men, like so many in every town and village across the land, answered the call to serve. John joined the merchant navy, Martin joined the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders and Thomas joined the Black Watch. On each of the days the men in her life left for war, I suspect Margaret would have helped them to pack, prepared a packed lunch and walked them to the railway station. I think she would have walked slowly. As a parent, I know I would.

In autumn 1914, the first of five battles of the war in Flanders took place near the town of Ypres, which stood between the advancing Germans and the channel ports—a vital line that the allies could not afford to lose. Eight thousand soldiers were killed in that battle, with nearly 30,000 wounded and more than 10,000 missing.

Along with the letters she would have craved, there was one method of communication Margaret would have dreaded receiving: a telegram. Among the telegrams that arrived in family homes across Britain that month, one would have found its way to Bank Street in Stirling, telling Margaret that her son Thomas had fallen on 27 October and been buried near where he died.

A second telegram would arrive three years later. Margaret’s husband, John, was serving on the steamship Batoum, carrying vital supplies across the Atlantic between the USA and Ireland. John was a donkeyman, working the small engine that pumped water from the bowels of the ship. It was a hot, hard and dangerous job. On 19 June 1917, the Batoum was less than six miles from home waters; the crew could see the lighthouse at Fastnet Rock—a beacon of safety after a 4,000-mile voyage—but they never saw the German U-boat or the torpedo that struck the ship. Forty-one of the forty-two members of crew survived. The only man lost that day was John, who stayed to tend to his engine, pumping water from the sinking ship to buy his comrades time to escape.

In 1918, just three months before the guns finally fell silent, a third telegram arrived. In the last months of the war, both sides threw everything they had into one final push and one million men were lost—80,000 fell in August alone. One of them was Martin Fleming, who was killed in Flanders on 10 August 1918. He was 20 years old. Margaret had lost her husband, her oldest son and her youngest son.

For those gathered at the memorial that first year, it was a deeply personal experience. For each of the parents, wives and children, each name recorded was a son, a father, a husband and a friend; all would have been known personally to someone in the crowd. The ongoing sacrifice of the families who were left behind by the devastation of war is more quietly marked than the sacrifice of the soldiers who died in the conflict, but we must remember both the lives lost in war and the lives lived on with the pain of loss to war.

At the unveiling in Stirling, Margaret would have stood before the memorial bearing the names of her husband and sons—three men she had loved and lost to war—their names cast in bronze, quietly carrying both the weight of her sorrow and the endurance of her love. As the years pass, we no longer know their faces or hear their voices, yet we can still speak their names and wonder who they were, how they lived and what they dreamed of, and in that wondering—in the act of remembrance—we keep them present in the life of our communities today. Margaret Fleming’s name is not recorded on Stirling’s war memorial, but it will now be recorded on the record of this place.

At the unveiling, Stirling’s provost spoke of his mingled feelings of grief and pride. Time dampens grief, yet deepens pride. It is with that in mind that I say with my heart full of peace, full of hope and full of love that we will remember them.