Remembrance Day

Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry once more.

When we were kids, we marked Remembrance Day and honored those who served, like everyone else. This was a day to honor the Veterans. Our Dad, Big Al had also served, but we would not really learn about it until much later in life.

They taught us in school that you should respect the veterans, which we did, but Big Al did not discuss his experiences much, so we didn’t either. When we became teenagers, we found that sometimes at Christmas, the Drambuie would loosen his lips, and he would tell us tales from the war. These were few and far between, and usually humorous stories about waiting for D-Day.

My personal favorite was about the pub they used to go to while training in England. When there was an air raid warning, everyone would have to evacuate, and leave their beers behind, until they returned. Big Al told us how he would leave a note tucked under the edge of his beer saying “I spit in here!” This was apparently greatly successful until once when he returned, someone had appended “So did I”.

Until Big Al had his strokes in the early 80’s, he only really discussed battle with his younger brother, and it was usually Big Al telling him that he had no idea what it was like. After his strokes, he would start to tell Mom stories after seeing or hearing things that triggered his memories. After a while, Mom started to record these.

At the time, Mom started copying letters Big Al had written my Granny while serving in Europe. I will keep my copies of these letters forever. Mom was somehow contacted by an old friend of my sister who was doing research for a book on Canadians in WWII and was more than happy to pass on her materials to him. My daughters took turns taking the book to school on Remembrance Day for the teachers to use.

Quebec and Ontario do not recognize November 11 as a statutory holiday, so school kids get to be taught in class, and people at work get to observe a minute of silence, when hey remember to. I have, when working in Ontario, since Big Al's strokes, to at least take the morning off in order to go to the Cenotaph to honor my father’s memory. Alberta and BC observe this as a holiday, and every year, Nita shows her love for me by accompanying me and holds me tight when my emotions get the better of me.

But back to today’s story. While dredging up his memories, Big Al wanted to try and reconnect with his war-mates. Mom somehow found out that Big Al’s Sergeant, Big Mike, was in a nursing home in Guelph. I was living there, so I was asked to deliver a letter to him. According to the ladies at the nursing home, Big Mike was somewhat reclusive, but they would bring him the letter. A week later he had died, but I am certain he saw the letter. This was 1992.

Mom diligently kept digging and discovered that Big Al’s regiment, the Highland Light Infantry, held a reunion every year on or about June 6, as they were a D-Day regiment. The reunions were held at the regimental barracks, at Main & Ainslie, in Cambridge. The barracks were in Galt, which is south Cambridge, and about 25 Km from where I was living.

Big Al reconnected at the right time. Our first reunion was 1992, and the following year the HLI were planning their 50th anniversary of D-Day, by going to Normandy. Fortunately, my folks were all for this. They went with the regiment and had a wonderful time. Mom was the only partially French person, and acted as translator for the group.

From the letters published in the book, my favorite was one that chronicled the entry of Big Al’s platoon into the town of Bernier-sur-mer .Their mission was to ensure that the town was clear of Nazis. Their officer thought Big Al was French, and sent him in for a recce ,the reasoning being that they would know if the town was Nazi occupied if they got shot at. No shots were fired, so on the return ride through the town, Big Al started singing the only French he knew-the opening to hockey night when the Habs skated out on ice. The sounds of “Les Canadiens sont la” must have worked, at this point the entire village poured out, and the mayor insisted Big Al and his jeep-mates be inscribed in the city ledger as being the first of the liberators.

They returned to the village in 1994, and Big Al had to walk into the village. He was so slow with his cane that a few of the ladies from the village met him and escorted him into the village. Although this may seem like a minor thing, I found it incredibly moving, and am continually amazed at how well the French honor our Canadian soldiers.

We should too.

Cheers

Ps. I have many more Big Al WWII stories, for the next blog