Notes from a messy desk….
See this poppy pinned to my jacket? There was a time when I refused to wear one. “Why glorify war?” I asked. No fewer than 5 of my uncles were soldiers during World War One or Two, and I understood, somewhat, why they’d signed up to fight. But I never lived during those times, or felt a direct impact. Then I met Uncle Bob, my dad’s last surviving sibling.
He’d moved to the USA, and his presence in my young life was limited to long distance Christmas calls and infrequent handwritten letters. When I reached my twenties, we finally managed a few visits. Only briefly and rarely did he touch on the subject of war, but that was enough to make it seem, well… real.
As he described the miles of marching, the blistered feet, the violent loss of comrades in battle, I was struck by his lack of bitterness, anger or hatred. It was hard to imagine this soft spoken, gentle man who exhibited old fashioned manners and an easy sense of humour, suited up in uniform, army boots, helmet, rifle and ammunition. Still, the war machine ran on multitudes of human parts like him.
In 1917, with the First World War dragging on, Bob and his brother Bill joined other young men from the Prince Albert area in becoming part of the C.E.F., or Canadian Expeditionary Force. Bill’s attestation papers state his age as 19 years and 10 months. Bob’s show he was barely 18.
Uncle Bob himself explained to me what the records don’t. When asked his age at the recruiting office, he gave it truthfully as 16. The fellow behind the desk suggested Bob take a walk around the block and see if it aged him a couple of years. Bob took that walk, calculated a birth date that made him old enough, and was accepted.
Thus did a couple of Saskatchewan boys leave their parents, a sister, and my 11-year-old father to mind the family farm without them. By June, they were aboard the H.M.T. Olympic with a few thousand others, crossing the Atlantic.
War records show Bill being removed from active duty for a while, having been injured while jumping hurdles, and put doing manual labour. Bob literally marched around parts of France, suffered a shrapnel wound to his thigh, and after 3 weeks treatment was back in the field. He later received medical aid for blistered feet, a not uncommon occurrence in the trenches due to cold, wet, and unsanitary conditions.
Gassing was a popular weapon of war, and Bob later told family his lungs were affected for the rest of his life because of it, but the records show nothing. Checking further, I learned that although thousands of soldiers were gassed, it was often not reported. The temporary effects were bad, but usually subsided, and many years passed before long term damage became apparent. A lot of veterans were refused compensation because they lacked documentation of multiple “minor gassings”.
Unlike many soldiers, Bob and Bill made it back home, and took to building their lives. William Blakeney died of natural causes at age 52. In 1999, at 99 years old, his brother Robert had the insignia of the Legion of Honour pinned to his chest by a representative of the French government, to “pay homage to those veterans who, with their French counterparts, bore arms more than 80 years ago to safeguard their liberty and allow humanitarian values to triumph.” Lest we forget.
When it comes to soldiers like Bill and Bob, we have undeniable proof of what they endured during The Great War. I wonder though, what of their loved ones back home? Imagine the worry and sleepless nights of a parent whose precious child was being trained in warfare, then sent to a strange land to risk his life doing a man’s job, when he was not yet twenty.
But that was indeed the reality.
And today, I wear my poppy.
End
