New Book Prologue: Part 3

“I put on my tunic. White shirt and green tie. Grey flannel pants. Black Oxfords. I have my medals fastened to my tunic. Slightly askew but on purpose I may add because I have always wanted to stick it to the strict regimentation and uniformity of the Army. But they cannot hurt me now.

My medals. Ah, these medal gongs. The British War Medal and the Victory Medal, and a few other odds and sods from a grateful nation—be it Canada, Britain, and even France. I was a member in good standing, I might add, of the proud and true Canadian Expeditionary Force. Distinctly Canadian in structure, but not in command. We came under the authority and control of Great Britain, as our Canadian constitution held us under British rule for matters of foreign affairs. So, when Britain declared war on the Hun in 1914, we in Canada were automatically at war with Germany. Same for Australia, New Zealand, India, and other nations that fall under the British Commonwealth of Nations. That was a sore point for me. Yes, Canada was a young and sovereign nation, Alberta even younger and prouder, patriotic to the core—but the British bulldog still had control of our foreign affairs back in the day. To King and Country. God Save the King—and all of that of which I had mixed feelings. For me, it will always be The Maple Leaf Forever. The rallying cry of our boys. The Red Ensign, or Green for us land pounders.

“Da dah dah dah, da dada dah…” whistling now in a low tone:

The Maple Leaf
Our Emblem Dear,
The Maple Leaf Forever.
God save our King and heaven bless,
The Maple Leaf Forever.

A great martial tune. It provided the perfect cadence for a march past. I could never understand the significance of the Maple Leaf though, as this was not native to the Canadian West. Certainly not Alberta. It was more emblematic of the old Upper, Lower, and Eastern Canadian provinces—the original provinces of Canada of 1867. It was a great tune, nonetheless. It held us together in a litany of pride and patriotism for our country. It brought a tear to the eye whenever it was played.

“C’mon, Dad. We must go. There is a bus for us to take us out to the site.”

“Coming, sweetie.”

“Hey, did ya know that Robespierre was born and raised in Arras Charlotte?

“No, I did not.” She responded, quizzically.

“And the entire Arras plain is chalky. A grey/white chalky texture. Like the white cliffs of Dover. Everywhere, including the ridge. Did ya know that, Charlotte?”

“No, I did not Dad.” Now come on. We must meet the bus outside of the lobby.”

‘The Sappers loved it.’ I thought to myself.

The memorial was only about six kilometers from Arras. You could almost see its two large pilons sitting on a flat, symmetrical base and standing like guards over the surrounding landscape. Even from our distance just outside of Arras, it looked majestic. Blindingly white, its mass of stone and marble stood high on a ridge above the Douai plains to the east and the countryside of the area to the west, known as the Pays d’Artois. On our short journey to the site, I could see rolling hills, woods, and picturesque villages—most of which are being restored after the carnage and destruction of the so-called “War to End All Wars.” As I sat there on our bus, looking out over the farmer’s fields, I could not discern the potential or the beauty of the countryside as it looks today, but only the death and destruction, horror, and hell of yesterday. That was—or is—my reality. My subconscious mind could only interpret this picturesque landscape, as it is viewed in the here and now, to the grey hues and chromatic tones of death, dismemberment, horror, and hell. Whenever we passed a farmer’s ditch, I could only see craters. A farmer’s drainage ditch fell to me as an endless trench. No color, just the dark tones of eternal rest in…DEATH.

“Are you okay, Dad?” My daughter Charlotte touched my arm as she asked me in a hushed voice.

“I smiled at her reassuringly.” I am fine sweetie. Just lost in thought of the years gone by.”

Our bus was full of men just like me, lost in their own thoughts—veterans of these fields of blood. I wonder what memories are racing through their minds.

Looking out across these fields and rolling hills to the bright white memorial that was now ahead of us, I had to ask: ‘How on earth did I survive when so many of my countrymen, fellow soldiers like me, did not?’

 Survivor’s guilt, perhaps?

To me, this was a mystery of my life—one that only God has the answer to.

It was deathly quiet on our bus. We disembarked on a grassy plain that was a short walking distance to the memorial. Finally, after such a long journey, here I am again at VIMY RIDGE!”