“Daddy, tell me about when you were in the war”. When I was a
little girl this request became part of a father/daughter ritual
between my Dad and I. I would crawl onto his lap and we would tell
me stories of life in the barracks and the soldiers that became his
brothers. These stories were fascinating to me. They were accounts
of a time and place far removed from our family’s quiet life in the
Eastern Townships. Mesmerised by these stories I would beg him to
tell them again and again.
It wasn’t until I was older that I came to understand that there
was much more to my father’s story. Dad was born in Putney On The
Thames, England. He grew up in a poor, working class family. My
grandfather, a World War One veteran, had returned from his war
experience damaged by mustard gas. By the time my Dad was a
teenager both his parents had died leaving him, his older brother,
and younger sister orphaned. Dad’s brother, Frederick, disappeared
without a trace. His sister, Lucy, went into household service in
London. My father become one of the Bernardo Boys, orphans who
were shipped to Canada to work on farms.
Many of the Bernardo Boys faced tremendous hardship when
they arrived in Canada - terrible working and living conditions,
physical and sexual abuse. Dad was fortunate. He went to live on a
farm in Scotstown in the Eastern Townships. The farmer and his wife
treated Dad as one of their own. I am sure that it was one of the
happiest times in his life. The city boy had found his hearts delight in
working the earth, watching crops grow, and tending to the animals.
When war broke out in Europe Dad and his friends were quick
to sign up. A sense of duty combined with a sense of adventure
called thousands of young men from the Townships to answer the
call to military service.
One day as Dad was standing on duty outside the base in
Sherbrooke two young women walked by. My mother would say that
she did not notice the young soldier giving her the eye but my Aunt
Margaret did notice. Mom reluctantly, with my aunt’s urging, agreed
to meet Dad for a drink that evening. By the time the evening was
over Mom and Dad were engaged and two weeks later they were
married. As a young girl my parents’ story was like a romantic fairly
tale. Later I would come to appreciate the sense of urgency of a
generation of young adults who lived for moment because the future
was so uncertain.
Eventually Dad was shipped overseas to England where he was
reunited with his sister. She had lost everything in the bombing of
London, her home levelled to the ground. At least dad was there to
give her away at her wedding.
Dad, a member of the Shebrooke Fusileers Tank Corps, was
shipped out in the D Day deployment. Everyone in his tank died on
the beach in Normandy that day except him and his comrade who
pulled him out after they were hit. He was shipped to a military
hospital in Scotland. Gangrene had set in and his left arm was
amputated.
Dad never spoke of his experience on the battlefield. These
were not the stories he told his wide-eyed little girl. Instead he told of
stories of friendships. It was my Mom who eventually gave me a
glimpse into the other side of Dad’s war experience. She spoke to the
pain of separation and the uncertainty of their lives. She showed me
letters dad had written during his hospitalisation. He offered to
release her from their marriage saying she deserved more than “half
a man”. In one letter he spoke of the possibility of throwing himself
overboard on his trip home to end his suffering.
But Dad came home to a loving wife and together they put their
life back together. An amazing accomplishment for two people who
barely knew each. When I became an adult Mom confided how
difficult those first few years were as they got reacquainted, and Dad
adjusted to this new life and his disability.
In the final years of Dad’s life he lived in a world where the line
between past and present was, at times, blurred. There were
moments when he lost himself in the terror of the battlefield and I
would hear him calling for his commanding officer. My Dad died on
Canada Day, July 1, 1999.
Today we gather to remember the countless ordinary men and
women who made the extraordinary sacrifice of choosing to serve
this country as part of the Canadian Armed Forces. Each one of these
soldiers has his or her own story, just as my Dad had his. The
greatest cost of war is not the financial burden but the human price
paid by soldiers, their family and friends.
In my parent’s case there were two things that allowed them to
survive the challenges they faced in their life together both before
and after Dad returned from military service - their love for each
other and their faith in God. Their love for each other and their
commitment to that love served to make our home safe and secure.
Their shared faith helped them bear the long periods of separation.
They turned to God for strength and comfort throughout their 57
year marriage.
In our reading from St. John’s gospel Martha mourns the loss of
her beloved brother. She questions where was Jesus in her brother’s
suffering, in her grief. A normal response given her situation. She
feels betrayed, deserted, and angry. Jesus offers her the hope that
her brother will rise again ...a hope that is grounded in faith.
Today's New Testament reading describes faith in Christ as a
“living hope’. This hope is God’s gift to us, an inheritance that is
indestructible - “imperishable, undefiled and unfading” - an
inheritance offered through the new life to be found in Christ. Human
suffering is not to be glorified but instead is understood as part of
life in which the strength of humanity is often revealed. In the same
way we come together today not glorify war and violence but to give
thanks to God for those who have put their lives on the line as
members of the Canadian Armed Forces.
Thank You.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
