War Stories and Faded Glories
I remember, when I was child, asking my grandfather to tell me war stories. To an assuming young neighbourhood kid who loved playing "guns" and "army" with the other boys, the fact that my grandfather had survived the First World War was about as cool as if he were Guy Lafleur. At times, I'd be sitting on his knee, asking eagerly "Did you ever kill anyone?".
He told me about how, in 1914, he had lied to recruiters in Canada about his age, so he could travel to Europe and fight. He was only 14 at the time and full of piss and vinegar and a naive spirit of adventure. He told me about wiping his ass with German money in the woods of France. He told me about the faded tattoo on his forearm that read "Winnie", who, according to him, was his cousin. He told me about the time he bayonetted a giant German, right between the ribs, only to be shot in the head and sent back to England. It was there, in the infirmary, that King George had chatted with him and presented him with a token medal. He had named his first daughter Victoria Patricia in George's honour.
By the time I had grown into early adolescence, it occurred to me that I should record some of the conversations I had with my granddad. And it is in those recordings that I found out the truth about what he felt about war. I had asked my grandfather to recount stories, by then well-known to me, about his youth and travels.
Sure, I loved the one about how he sang in a Vaudeville group called the Dumbbells and entertained audiences across the country as a female impersonator. Or the time he sang in Saint Paul's Cathedral in a choir as a young boy. Or how he trapped rattlesnakes with his hands, way up north in Buckhorn, with his Dad and shipped them to a firm in Toronto that paid for their skins.
But inevitably, in one section of the tape, I returned to my favourite question about the war. I prompted him by asking "So granddad, you were in the war, right?". "Yep", he replied in a stern voice I'd never heard before in such conversations. "Yep", "but, ahhhh, that doesn't mean anything". And thus, unglamorously had ended my journalistic foray into his military past. He had refused to read into the record the stories of death, or German brutality or wiping his ass with the Kaiser.
And now I realize why my grandfather always spurned my repeated requests for him to march in the veterans parade every November 11th. I was proud, but he wasn't. While they called it Remembrance Day, to him it was a day of sadness and regret. To me, the old world naive bravado that fuelled those celebrations and were the reason for his regret should have died with him in 1984.
So, why now can't we let those things die? Why must we continue letting our sons and daughters kill and be killed in the name of foreign interests? Political, nationalistic or macho explanations are just not good enough for me. They surely weren't enough for my grandfather in the end, when he finally grew up and gave up the illusion that war is noble.
He told me about how, in 1914, he had lied to recruiters in Canada about his age, so he could travel to Europe and fight. He was only 14 at the time and full of piss and vinegar and a naive spirit of adventure. He told me about wiping his ass with German money in the woods of France. He told me about the faded tattoo on his forearm that read "Winnie", who, according to him, was his cousin. He told me about the time he bayonetted a giant German, right between the ribs, only to be shot in the head and sent back to England. It was there, in the infirmary, that King George had chatted with him and presented him with a token medal. He had named his first daughter Victoria Patricia in George's honour.
By the time I had grown into early adolescence, it occurred to me that I should record some of the conversations I had with my granddad. And it is in those recordings that I found out the truth about what he felt about war. I had asked my grandfather to recount stories, by then well-known to me, about his youth and travels.
Sure, I loved the one about how he sang in a Vaudeville group called the Dumbbells and entertained audiences across the country as a female impersonator. Or the time he sang in Saint Paul's Cathedral in a choir as a young boy. Or how he trapped rattlesnakes with his hands, way up north in Buckhorn, with his Dad and shipped them to a firm in Toronto that paid for their skins.
But inevitably, in one section of the tape, I returned to my favourite question about the war. I prompted him by asking "So granddad, you were in the war, right?". "Yep", he replied in a stern voice I'd never heard before in such conversations. "Yep", "but, ahhhh, that doesn't mean anything". And thus, unglamorously had ended my journalistic foray into his military past. He had refused to read into the record the stories of death, or German brutality or wiping his ass with the Kaiser.
And now I realize why my grandfather always spurned my repeated requests for him to march in the veterans parade every November 11th. I was proud, but he wasn't. While they called it Remembrance Day, to him it was a day of sadness and regret. To me, the old world naive bravado that fuelled those celebrations and were the reason for his regret should have died with him in 1984.
So, why now can't we let those things die? Why must we continue letting our sons and daughters kill and be killed in the name of foreign interests? Political, nationalistic or macho explanations are just not good enough for me. They surely weren't enough for my grandfather in the end, when he finally grew up and gave up the illusion that war is noble.
Labels: Canadiana, Foreign Affairs, Philosophy, War
posted by K-Dough at 3:46 AM
14 Comments:
Hey KD, when you get it all sorted out, can you evolve the other 6.5 billion of us?
You are one cheeky batard CC, but I would never shoot you.
Y'all need to take baby steps.
Here is an exercise I started with: Practice visualizing your sperm as bullets.
It works!
K-Dough, I like this post better than the last one eventhough I like that one too.
Sometimes war is necessary to bring peace. I supported the peacekeeping mission in Afghanistan but that has changed and I am not longer certain whether I want the troops in Afghanistan. The Iraq war I didn't support and I don't like people who think that US' wars is equivalent to the west's wars.
150,000 civilians are estimated to have died since the US invaded. How many would have died if Saddam had remained in power?
Does it matter who killed them if they're dead? How many Afghanis will die? Does it matter if they are shooting at Russians or Canadians? I doubt it. Did all those dead Russians die in vain? Yep. Will all those Canadians die in vain? ...
Complex questions that no one has the answers to. Just suggestions.
JC- sorry dude- above I referred to you as CC- who we all know is Chucker Canuck.
My Grandfather had a somewhat different experience. Influenced by the Anarchist Movement and his experience as a draftee in France 1903-4, he hated militarism and war seeing it as a racket. He immigrated to Canada in 1912 and in 1917 when Conscription was passed he paid a doctor $50 to say he had a heart condition. This way he didn't go overseas and get himself killed for no reason like so many millions of others. By the way, he lived to be 101, feisty and lucid til the end!
Larry- sweet!
My father, wearing a kilt can you believe, served with a Scottish regiment in the first W.W. and spent time in the muddy, rat infested trenches. Ultimately, was sent back to the U.K to hospital, but while there, received from the then Princess Mary, and others at the hospital, small engraved brass boxes contained some candies. The box is engraved with other countries who were in that great war. I still have this little box. But on another note, I could rarely every get my father to talk about his time during that war..I guess the memories were too awful.
My father, wearing a kilt can you believe, served with a Scottish regiment in the first W.W. and spent time in the muddy, rat infested trenches. Ultimately, was sent back to the U.K to hospital, but while there, received from the then Princess Mary, and others at the hospital, small engraved brass boxes contained some candies. The box is engraved with other countries who were in that great war. I still have this little box. But on another note, I could rarely every get my father to talk about his time during that war..I guess the memories were too awful.
I just put my Remembrance Day post over at Sheenavision.
Excuse me while I go blow my nose.
This poses another complex question: would conscription ever work in the US/Canada, if needed? How would you enforce it considering the tens of thousands of people who would flatly refuse to comply? This is assuming the cause is something vague or for anything but justified reasons (i.e. Iraq), rather than something more substantial & honourable, like nailing Hitler & Co. I'd rather be wearing coveralls, eating gruel and be made some guy named Bubba's man-wife for 20 years than kill a stranger over oil or political leverage for the mindless religious right (Need I point out that 'mindless' & 'religious' are complimentary terms).
That said, hats off to vets EVERY day, not once every fricking year. And STOP closing Legions. I've had some of my best times playing music for and/or drinking with those guys.
Beware the March of Dimes.
...and welcome the march of dime bags!
You remember so many things about Grandad's stories that I've forgotten. Hearing your recordings and reading your recountings is so precious to me. Thanks.
Jer.
oh, i REALLY like this story, mighty-k. !!!
your gramps was quite a character....but obviously with good soul and the fortitude to come around to the crushing realities of a tape recording perhaps shaping the gurutre of dough's to come lives.
bet you miss the old codger.
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