Remembering gets personal

In the little Saskatchewan town where I grew up, the annual Remembrance Day service was held in the theatre. I will never forget that clink, clink sound as the veterans made their way down the sloped floor to the front rows. They were the grandfathers, fathers, and uncles of my school peers. We saw the results of war service every day — the gentleman who swung his straight wooden leg at each step, the neighbour who felt fortunate to be able to still bend his knee above a wooden leg, the fellow who often acted a little strange because “he was in the war.”

At my uncle’s funeral, we watched the Legion members pay tribute to a comrade. One by one, they stepped in front of the coffin, placed a poppy and saluted, until the entire coffin was covered with poppies. We were moved to tears hearing about our uncle’s thirty-plus flights over enemy territory and his post-war duties of assessing damage. He died at age 58, a life shortened by the stress of war.

Nowadays those veterans of the two world wars are gone, but another generation of veterans have emerged. Some of them also have stories behind missing limbs. Their precise drills and sharp uniforms often hide the anxiety and horror they endure as a result of their service. Our peacekeepers and combat troops deserve their moment of recognition. They, too, are someone’s parent, spouse or sibling.

Another group worthy of remembrance are the civilians who provided support services to the troops. They underwent arduous pre-deployment training, slept in the same tents, ate the same food, carried bulletproof vests and helmets wherever they went, listened to land mines explode at sunset, and they breathed the same air. 

Some come back with disabling symptoms similar to those of the personnel they supported. I know, because I live with one. Post-traumatic Stress Disorder, Gulf War Syndrome and other such terms are not mere descriptions. They are real and life-changing conditions, the modern equivalent to the wooden legs of the past.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning

We will remember them.

– from For the Fallen by Laurence Binyon