A Remembrance Day Repost

Editor's Note: The following came to me quite some time ago, after I read a book that affected me profoundly. It reminded me of everyone I know who has proudly worn the uniform, in defense of the freedoms we are too often guilty of taking for granted.

On this Remembrance Day, I thought it appropriate to repost what I wrote in April 2009, as a nod to the men and women who have so selflessly given of themselves, many having paid the ultimate price, so the rest of us will never have to.

*********************

I just recently finished reading a book (I do that from time to time), called Blood Brothers, about the bonds that developed between a Time Magazine senior correspondent, Michael Weisskopf, and the soldiers of Ward 57, a wing of the Walter Reed Army Medical Centre in Washington, DC.

You wouldn’t think it necessarily possible that a pencil-pushing reporter and a bunch of rifle-toting soldiers could have much in common, and perhaps Weisskopf and the rest at Walter Reed really didn’t, except for one thing ― all returned from Iraq severely wounded, minus a foot here, missing a hand there, eyesight and arms gone for one, mental stability and a leg gone for another.

Ward 57 is amputee quarters at Walter Reed, where soldiers (and the odd civilian, evidently) are sent to rehabilitate in the traumatic aftermath of war-zone carnage.

Weisskopf was shadowing a late-night patrol of a seemingly ‘safe’ Iraqi neighbourhood when a grenade landed in his battalion’s armoured vehicle. As he instinctively picked it up to launch it back from whence it came, the grenade detonated, causing him to lose his right hand in the explosion.

The book chronicles Weisskopf’s recovery in excruciating detail, and recounts the physical and mental battles that he and his fellow ward-mates encountered as they sought to resume their lives with whatever pieces of themselves they were able to salvage from the battlefield.

I bring up the book, not so much because it left upon me a particularly indelible mark, but more because it reminded me of those I know who wear or have worn the uniform… and who sacrifice or have sacrificed in the name of the Stars and the Stripes on America’s Flag or in defence of the iconic Maple Leaf on Canada’s.

The Major is one of them.

The Major is a man of few words ― shy, quiet and reserved, some might say ― though he can cut a mean rug when he’s had just enough to drink.

He has seen the world, The Major has, though not through the eyes of a vacationing tourist; instead through those of a battle-hardened soldier.

Too often these days, our acknowledgement of those who, like The Major, have put themselves in peril’s way in the name of a cause that could be difficult to comprehend, comes only when it is too late.

The news of another Canadian soldier killed by an Improvised Explosive Device along one of Afghanistan’s barren dirt roads...

Images of another American coffin, draped in the Red, White and Blue, flash across the TV screen...

The sight of thousands of civilians lining our Highway of Heroes to salute one final time the repatriated body of one of our own.

Those are usually the moments where we think to ourselves that it’s a shame... that it’s truly awful how these soldiers, many of them barely out of high school, are cut down in the prime of their life, in the ongoing pursuit of the freedom and security that the rest of us at times far too easily take for granted.

But how often do we think to thank those who make it back, for the most part, unscathed?

How often do we actually say to our brothers, to our friends, to our aunts, to our acquaintances, that what they do matters, but more importantly than that even, that without understanding the danger they were in, we appreciate that they had it in them to face whatever was put before them, wherever they were sent to fight conflict?

Not often enough, your fair blogger says.

If you read C-o-a-B with any kind of regularity, you know that I ascribe pseudonyms to all who get mentioned in this Blog.

Not today.

Today, I eschew the silly nicknames that usually pepper these pages, and instead refer to the real names of the real people who make, or have made, real sacrifices so the rest of us can live the lives of our choosing.

To The Major, Dan, who saw Iraq from close proximity, and thankfully managed to return with limbs intact…

To Nancy, who defended the peace during the Bosnian War, and later weathered the long, hard months of at least a few Afghanistan tours…

To my Grandpa Staples, whose stories of the Korean War I’m sure would have fascinated me had illness not stolen him away before I had even been contemplated.

And even to Matt, who could some day be called to contribute in battle (though presently sits stationed in Cyprus, and according to Facebook status updates, is roasting his skinny arse on a beach along the Mediterranean Sea)…

To all of you and your fellow soldiers, who fight the good fight, who put the call of duty ahead of the call of home, who readily embark upon missions to parts unknown, and who do so without questioning the validity of their task... please accept a humble thank you from someone who is truly grateful that at worst, the only blood I might shed in a good day’s work will come at the hands of a stubborn paper’s edge that somehow slices skin.

My admiration for your courage knows no boundaries.

Friends, family, all who proudly wear the uniform in our defence, thank you for your service and your sacrifice, even amid the white noise that emanates from those who cannot distinguish between the cause and those whose call is simply to defend it.