Working as a parking enforcement officer in Vancouver, Canada, I get to meet a lot of people. My job allows me to cross paths with people from different walks of life; young or old, those with varied financial status, those who are physically capable of doing anything and those who are physically disabled. However, as a military brat, I have always had and always will have an affinity for veterans or members of the armed forces.
I love to stop and chat with them and, in particular, shake their hands and thank them for their service to Canada, a country that because of them remains ‘True North, Strong and Free’. As soon as possible after meeting somebody who has really intrigued me, I enter details in an app on my phone. I happened to be scanning my notes recently looking for something completely different than this topic when I came across something that made me stop and appreciate how lucky I’ve been to live in a democratic country. Democracy isn’t perfect by any stretch of imagination, but it’s certainly much better than the alternatives.
A couple of years ago (Thursday, November 10, 2016 to be precise) I encountered an old soldier in a wheelchair accompanied by his oldest daughter. They were out for a stroll while the weather was good because the following day, Remembrance Day, was supposed to be miserable with rain and wind in the forecast. He wanted to enjoy the sunshine before attending the next day’s ceremonies. They’d just been to an event at his Legion branch. His name was James, so we hit it off, right from the get-go.
He mentioned he’d been a proud member of the Black Watch since 1938 and when he told me that, a lump formed in my throat and my eyes began to water. He looked at me with his head tilted to one side and one eyebrow raised. He said, “You’ve obviously heard of us,” and I told him I had a friend, a woman I’d known since high school, whose father had been the base commander at the time. Her son had been Black Watch as well. Regrettably, he had been killed in Afghanistan in 2007. There was a moment’s silence between the two of us; his eyes locked on mine, both of us fighting the rising emotions. With a very slight nod to me, he began to tell me his story.
In August of 1942, he was 21 years old. The regiment had spent a couple of years training in England and they were full of “piss and vinegar”, as he put it. They were itching for a fight. While training, he wasn’t concerned at all about whether or not he would survive the war. However, that quickly changed when his entire company had to fight their way out of a very precisely laid out German ambush on a stony French beach.
By the time the fight was over, many of his officers and non-commissioned officers were either dead, wounded or captured. The beach was littered with more than 900 bodies. He survived by laying beneath two of his dead friends.
“Somehow, and I can’t honestly say how, I managed to get off that beach, back into the water and began swimming toward the ships laying offshore.” He was quickly picked up by a landing craft that had been attempting to bring more men into the battle, but had turned back due to extremely intense shell fire. His eyes teared up as he told the story and his voice failed him a couple of times.
“I couldn’t believe it when the medics stripped me of my tunic,” he said. “I was covered in blood, but it turned out none of it was mine.” His voice trembled as he spoke.
“I came away shaken, but without a single scratch and they called me a hero!” The tears were welling up again and he swallowed hard a couple of times to regain composure. Reaching into his pants pocket he pulled out a white cloth handkerchief, wiped away his tears and blew his nose. He took a couple of deep breaths but continued on.
“The real heroes were left on that stony beach,” he lamented. “The wounded. The captured. And especially the dead who never had a chance to grow old like me. They’re the heroes!”
James, 95 years old then, said he would be attending the Vancouver cenotaph at Victory Square the next day as he had done since his return to Canada after the war in 1946. At the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month, I can only guess that the 21-gun salute, and the two minutes of silence would inevitably send him back to Dieppe where he’d lost so many of his friends.
“I doubt I’ll be around for next year’s ceremony, but from what I’ve seen throughout the years I know that others will remember,” he noted. “It hurts that my friends aren’t here but I’ll be seeing them soon enough. “I’ve got lots to say to them as I’m sure they have lots to tell me.”
I haven’t seen James since that random meeting two years ago. I suspect he was right about not making it to the next year’s ceremony as he was very frail when I spoke with him. I regret not taking a photo of him when I met him. However, I believe he is with his buddies now and I’m sure they received him with open arms and a cheerful, “What took you so long, soldier?”
Lest We Forget