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Illustration by Drew Shannon
I recently discovered an old receipt for a new watch from June, 1945, tucked away under a flap in the Soldier’s Service and Pay book of my late father. Every Canadian soldier carried this little pocketbook, a record of their training, their service, their health and their progress throughout the Second World War. It includes a convenient section for your will and who to contact in the event of death.
The receipt was added when dad’s war abruptly ended in the spring of 1945. He had been listed as severely wounded and dangerously ill on March 1, after intense combat in the Hochwald Gap in Germany. His war record stated, “the left elbow was completely disorganized with fracture of the olecranon, and the lower end of the humerus. Wound transverse in direction. Detached bone removed. Ulnar nerve completely severed. Proximal end buried in muscle.” It’s no wonder he needed a new watch.
This wasn’t the principal wound. It was a minor one of three. The main abdominal wound would leave him clinging to life by a thread, but, astonishingly, he was able to resume his life back in Stratford, Ont. On June 23, 1945, he became the (proud) owner of a new timepiece from Swanson’s jewellery store, a business that still runs to this day.
There was something symbolic about that new watch. It wasn’t fancy or expensive. It was a Gruen “Precision,” steel backed, touted as water resistant and shockproof. I still own and cherish it, and it is a constant reminder of how close I came to not existing. That is, perhaps, a selfish sentiment, but it was honestly how I felt when I received and read dad’s 245-page war record that I had requested from the federal government. Any family member can do this, and I don’t know why I waited for so long. Maybe I didn’t really want to know the hell that he had endured, or maybe I had hoped that time would ease the pain. It did not.
I am told, on the good authority of a military historian, that it is not unusual for family members to be shocked by what they read and feel. He said few families understand what it is like to be in battle.
I’m not ashamed to admit that by the end of those 245 pages of medical treatment and telegrams, the tears were streaming down my face. I felt guilt for every day that I hadn’t understood his rage, his physical pain and his emotional anguish. I felt shame for every moment that I had not thanked him and every Remembrance Day that I had not attended the Cenotaph.
There were so many people to thank.
There were his Argyll and Sutherland comrades in arms during that terrible battle. There were the medics who finally found morphine after four hours. There were the people who loaded him on to a Bren gun carrier to move him to a field hospital. There were countless dedicated doctors and nurses who treated him physically and witnessed his despair during his months of recovery. There were technicians who tested his blood to reveal and treat tuberculosis. There were transport people who lugged his stretcher and communications people who informed his family.
Dad’s watch still works. It served dad well for many years after his previous watch was blown to smithereens and the arm on which it rested was reorganized. The second hand springs to life because I am here to wind it. Remembrance Day is like that watch. If there’s no one willing to wind it, it will not tell the time. If there’s no one here to remind us of the sacrifices that were made for us, we will not know the time, where we are in it, why we work for it and why we honour it.
Remembering is the least we can do. You may have been given a life that would never have existed otherwise. You may never have happened at all. Wars are like virtual atomic explosions of alternate timelines. Living life well is the best way to honour those who cannot.
If you aren’t a veteran, learn about one. If you are the child of a veteran, send for their service record. If you don’t understand the history, read about it. History matters. It exposes truth and fosters understanding, and it explains a lot about our current conflicts. Do it while you have the time. Be the one to wind the watch.
Linda Webster lives in Stratford, Ont.
