I Will Never Forget

I Will Never Forget

Based on A True Story

* Name has been changed.

The Friday before the Christmas Holiday in 1990, my ninth grade Canadian History teacher, *Mr. Bly, assigned me and my classmates to research one of the notable battles from World War I or World War II. He ruled that we needed to have our information ready to be presented after we returned to classes in the new year. Since November 11th (Remembrance Day to honour our troops), our history class had been pouring over every detail that my brown paper covered textbook wrote about Canada’s contributions to two of the world’s biggest wars. I doubted my ability to find any new information regarding anything that happened over 45 years ago.

That evening, the amazing smell steaming from the kitchen, lured my hungry stomach out of my bedroom. Mom was stirring a small stock pot filled with macaroni, ground beef, and canned stewed tomatoes. My favourite meal couldn’t distract me from my mind stewing over my resented, holiday assignment. Knowing that I was going to be away from home between Christmas Day and New Years Day to visit my extended family, I whispered to myself how I was going to use that as my excuse for not completing my report on time.

“What are you muttering about?” Mom inquired as Dad joined us to help get dinner ready for me and my two younger siblings.

I moved around my father as he pulled a small gray table to the middle of our tiny kitchen, I launched my complaint, “Can you believe that Mr. Bly wants me to use my holidays to do a major project on one of the World Wars?”

“Set the table for your mother!” Dad ordered me in a huff. My father’s attitude was not ignored. Anxiety rose in reaction to my father’s tone because typically when my dad had a reaction like this, the next wrong thing I said usually resulted in a screaming match.

“I was hoping to take a break from school and I don’t know when I will find time to get to a library while we are away!” I whined.

“I’m sure our soldiers didn’t want to fight during holidays either, but they still did what they had to do,” Dad debated me. I remained silent as I proceeded to complete the task my dad ordered me to do. Dad suggested, “You could always ask your grandfather about World War II.”

“Really? Did he fight in World War II?” I asked.

“Yes,” Dad validated before he continued, “He fought at Dieppe, and Normandy.”

“Seriously?” I marvelled as I realized that my classroom history lessons had an impact on someone I knew and loved. “Do you think Grandpa would be willing to tell me stuff I could use for my presentation?”

Dad explained, “My dad typically doesn’t like to talk about the war, but he might be willing to share a couple of things with his granddaughter.”

Two days after Christmas, I was sitting on the green carpet, that had not changed in decades. In front of Grandpa’s rocking chair next to their large front window, I contemplated when it would be a good time to ask Grandpa about the war. We all were stuffed from the late afternoon turkey dinner. Nanny (my paternal grandmother), along with my mom and two aunts were busy in the kitchen with a mountain of dishes. The men, along with George and Velma’s grandkids, had picked their post-dinner spots to review the gifts that were exchanged before dinner.  Bing Crosby’s White Christmas played on my grandparents’ brand-new TV that had a remote control so they wouldn’t have to get up to turn the TV station anymore. My grandparents’ mounted Grandfather clock had just chimed the half hour. I decided this was the best time to ask Grandpa about his experience as a soldier for the Royal Canadian Artillery.

“Grandpa, I have to do a presentation about World War II,” I began.

Grandpa turned his gaze from the light snow that was adding to the blanket of white covering his front yard, “Why do they want you to do that?” I missed the apprehension in Grandpa’s question, but I did notice the shift in my father’s and uncle’s relaxed position to one that suggested I was bringing up a taboo subject.

“Since Remembrance Day all we have done is learn about the first and second World Wars. Dad said you were a soldier during World War II.” I explained. “I had hoped you could share with me some stuff I could add to my report.”

“He did, did he?!” Grandpa glanced over to the opposite side of the room, where Dad was sitting, before returning to the picture outside of his window, “I can’t really say anything more than what your teacher has already told you.” Grandpa answered. Grandpa’s silence added to the tension emanating from Grandpa’s son and son-in-law.

I was determined to get something for my report and ignored what Grandpa wasn’t saying. I pressed my topic by prattling out a litany of questions, “I was hoping to find out what kind of soldier you were. Did you carry a gun? Or did you use one of those big guns that shot at the airplanes? Were you scared when you had to fight the Nazis? Did you have any friends that died? How old were you when you went over?”

Dad interrupted with, “Stacy, that’s enough!”

Grandpa shifted and slowly rose to his feet. He gave the top of my head one gentle stroke with his aged hand and said, “All of it.” He left the room and headed straight to his bedroom.

I looked at my dad with some confusion. My immature, 14-year-old mind could not comprehend the long-term effects that WWII had on Grandpa. Dad used a quieted tone, “Just let it go!”

“But Dad I can’t write a report on that?” I complained in a hush voice, not noticing that Grandpa had returned with a small item clenched within his fist.

“Here,” Grandpa handed me a brass-looking badge that had words, in a language I didn’t understand, stamped into the metal: Ubique quo fas et gloria ducunt (I wouldn’t be able to translate the Latin words until 2025: Wherever Justice and Glory Leads)

While Grandpa returned to his favourite chair in front of the window, I examined the detailed artistry of his badge. I was too engrossed in this family treasure, to notice that my grandmother, mother, and two aunts had moved to the space between the living room and the kitchen’s entrance. My sister and brother along with my two younger cousins were more interested in their new gifts to care, but my two older cousins moved in to get a closer look at Grandpa’s badge. My history teacher taught my class a lot of things about WWII, but now WWII was more than just another story.

“If it weren’t for that thing, none of you would be here today.” Grandpa quietly announced.

I ran my fingers over a divot on the left side of the badge. “Is this dented or should it look like this?” I tried to hand the badge back to show Grandpa the spot I was referring to.

Grandpa refused to look at what I pointing to and kept his eyes on the white flakes outside, “I was wearing that after the battle at Normandy. Shrapnel hit the badge instead of my skull.” Grandpa fell silent.

“D-day? Really?!” I exclaimed. Grandpa just nodded at my question, as he begun to rock his recliner. Hoping to find out more details from that day I asked, “Grandpa where were you when this happened?”

“Stacy!” I looked at Dad, and he signalled me to stay silent. I moved from my position in front of Grandpa’s feet and asked Dad to take a picture of it for my report.

“Take it! You can use it in your presentation,” Grandpa insisted.

“Thank you!” I stated and hugged him in his seat.

“Yep!” Grandpa said and turned up the conclusion to White Christmas with his state-of-the-art remote control.

I don’t remember the details of my presentation about Canada’s involvement at Juno Beach on June 6, 1944; nor do I remember the grade I received for this project. I do remember a couple of my classmates saying ‘cool’ in response to handling a piece of World War II history.

Grandpa died in January of 2000 at 79 years old due to age-related health issues. When he died, he took most of his war secrets with him, but his legacy continues in the generations that were saved by a small trinket he wore on his military cap. To carry on his legacy, that were/are 2 daughters and a son (along with their spouses), 7 grandchildren and 13 great-children. One of his great-granddaughters is the artist who sketched his war medals, which is featured in the cover photo for this article.

I will never forget how Lance Bombardier George Wood of the 53^rd Light Anti-Aircraft Battery with the Royal Canadian Artillery (1940 – 1946); fought and survived through some of the most traumatizing and devastating moments in our world’s history. Nor will I forget how, 44 years after he was honourably discharged, Grandpa once again selflessly volunteered to fight an internal battle to provide his granddaughter with what she needed to complete a memorable assignment.

Thank You Grandpa! We miss you!

In Memorandum

 

Private William Smith (maternal great-grandmother’s brother) – Killed in Action on March 9, 1917 at Vimy Ridge, France during World War I. The photo on the left is his name inscribed into the Vimy Ridge Canadian Monument in France. The photo on the right is of the entire monument. If the name was on the monument, it meant the Canadian military were unable to send his remains home to his family.

 

 

 

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William Thomas (maternal Grandfather, nephew to William Smith) – Served with the Royal Canadian Air Force. Although he never engaged in combat, he faithfully served his comrades on the air bases that he was stationed at. The photo on the left is William “Grandpa” and Muriel “Grandma” Thomas. The photo on the right William “Grandpa” Thomas standing with is mother Anne Thomas (nee Smith). Anne was William Smith’s sister.

 

 

 

 

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George Wood (paternal Grandfather) – This photo was taken near the time of his enlistment on June 29, 1940. By the time Grandpa was “to return to civil life (on demobilization)” on January 18, 1946, he had been promoted to Lance Bombardier (equivalent to Lance Corporal). Grandpa’s photo is sitting on his paybooks from WWII. If you zoom into the writing, you will see 1942 at the top of the first column, below it you will find the dates Aug 15, Aug 17, and then nothing until Aug 25. August 19, 1942 is when my grandfather, along with thousands of Canadian soldiers stormed the beach at Dieppe, France.