Читать книгу The Remnants - W. P. Osborn - Страница 3

This story began as a private conversation between an old man and his grandson.

I was barely eleven years old when my grandfather came to live with us at our home in Oakville, Ontario. As was the custom at the time, most families chose to care for their older parents at home. Often living arrangements were shared amongst siblings. In our case, my grandfather moved regularly from house to house - taking up residence for a period of time with each of his four daughters.

I remember it as a warm spring afternoon. I had just returned to my bedroom in search of a baseball. I had deliberately waited to slip in quietly, waiting until I knew he was downstairs in the kitchen. I was miffed about the fact that I was forced to vacate my private space and had to move in with my younger brother in a smaller room crammed with a tiny bunk bed and a huge box stuffed with toys best suited for a seven year old. Earlier that morning I realized I’d left my baseball behind in my closet. I had my bat and glove but I needed that ball to get our first local game of the season underway.

I found the baseball in the back of the closet and was beginning to sneak back out of the room when I spotted something new on the top of my dresser, an old yellowed cigar box. Something too enticing for a boy filled with too much curiosity. I grabbed it quickly, sat on the side of the bed and rolled back the lid with some trepidation. The treasure inside was an assortment of military honours, a half dozen of more old medals of various shapes, each attached to a different coloured ribbon. My eyes widened as I exhaled in a low whistle. It was at that very moment that he stepped into the room - my room, and sat down slowly beside me.

“I forgot my bloody pipe” he muttered and lowered his eyes toward my hands clutching his cigar box.

“Is there something I can help you with there, Boy?” he asked quietly in his fading English accent.

“No Grandpa, I found the box on the floor and I was just returning it to the dresser.” I knew that he knew that I had lied to him but his slow smile revealed that he was both unconcerned and sympathetic.

He continued to gaze into my eyes as he waited patiently for me to speak first.

“Tell me about them Grandpa, what do they all mean?” I began. That question alone was intended to deflect my guilt and I knew for certain that I was going to be late for my ball game.

He immediately seemed grateful and a little proud that I had asked.

“Son, this is my paltry collection of medals from service in the Great War. They each have a different value to the army and they all hold very special memories for me.”

I knew that I was about to get another boring history lesson that I didn’t want to hear but I was trapped by my addiction to all things ribboned and metallic. I then calculated that my best bet to escape unscathed was to suffer through his lecture in silence. He began to lift the medals slowly out of the box, one at a time, passing them to me, pausing long enough for me to hold up each one and examine it closely.

“It begins with this basic service medal. It says that I served honourably in the first war. Not much to it, they came in every can of boiled beef at the front. The others are from the various battles that I fought in and for a few things that I had done along the way.”

“This is from Ypres in the Battle of the Somme where more than half a million men fought, hand to hand in the pouring rain and mud for nearly four months. That was a terrible bloody mess crafted by a miserable bunch of half-wit English generals who couldn’t find their hats in a basket.”

He waited as I examined it then handed it back to him. “Where was Grandma then, was she waiting for you in England?” I asked hoping that I sounded interested.

“No, she was back here in Canada. We came over from England barely a year before the war started. She waited here for me and worked at a factory in Hespler.”

I nodded in a blank stare, but I was sure that he knew that I really didn’t care very much. He nodded and continued on by reaching for another medal.

“And this is for Paschendale. Now that was a very gruesome affair. I lost three of my best pals there.”

He paused again, longer this time while he struggled to find his voice. It was then that I first noticed that a solitary tear was glistening from behind his glasses and I sensed his twinge of deep sorrow and a lump began to form in my own throat.

I suddenly felt completely awestruck in his presence. The boring lesson from my grumpy old grandfather had just become his private testament of pride and humility - one that he had just invited his young grandson to share.

“This is one that you should be very proud of too. This one is from the Battle of Vimy Ridge. That was the time that Canada became a country, no longer just some little corner of the British Empire. We all stepped up and did it for Canada.”

He exhaled slowly and deliberately.

“It was a wonderful fight for us. For the first time, we had our own generals to lead us and every regiment of the Canadian Army was there, 60,000 of us Canuks against 100,000 Germans, all dug in and waitin’ for us. But after four long days of bloody fighting, we kicked them off that damned ridge and sat lookin’ back down over the Douai Plain, nearly all the way back to Germany.”

Another break then he continued on.

“We were written up in the New York Times for that. They said we’d got done what the whole British Army and all of those bloody Frogs could never get done. We were all very proud of ourselves for that and they were all very proud of us back here too - very proud. It was a very important time for Canada and we all knew it.”

He looked across at me through a few more tears and tousled my hair and then began again.

“But this one is the most valuable to me, Boy.”

“Why is that Grandpa?” Amid all of his emotion I had finally found almost enough voice to try to engage him with a serious question.

He smiled briefly then whispered, “Because it was the last one.”

I leaned forward to hold his hand and looked him straight in the eye. It was my way of asking him to go on. He reached down to lift up another medal - this one was bronze and star shaped with the word ‘Mons’ inscribed on its face.

“Son, this is the Mons Star. We were given it after the Battle of Mons in Belgium. It was fought through until the last full day of the war, November 10^th 1918 when the Canuks freed that city that had been occupied by the Germans since the very first weeks of the war.”

There was another long pause, his eyes closed shut and then came the final capitulation and he openly wept in anguish.

“My best friend died there just two days before the armistice. He was an amazing man and one helluva soldier and I have missed him every day of my life since.”

He began to sob again and we sat there holding hands in a long awkward silence for a few more minutes. When he finally regained his composure he stretched his gnarled hands across and pulled me close to his chest in a long embrace, one that we never repeated again for as long as I ever knew him.

“Thank-you Boy,” he barely mumbled, “I guess it’s been along while since I’ve thought about all that.”

I stood up and reached out my hand offering my best impersonation of an adult. He smiled broadly through his tears and covered my small hand with both of his own.

“That’s OK, Grandpa.” I tried my best to sound older and more confident, “I was very happy to hear your stories.”

He released his grip and I turned to leave and then turned back around to pick up my baseball from the bed. “I almost forgot it,” I smiled.

He returned the smile with a broad grin and wiped the tears away with his handkerchief. I left the room quickly, hurrying to get to my game. Three steps later, I stopped to look back over my shoulder to see him retrieve his pipe from the top of the dresser.

Those few moments alone with my grandfather have remained with me throughout my life. I have always known that I would find a way to record the story of my grandparents and their complete devotion to Canada. I know it to be one of many great stories of people coming here to start their lives in aspiration and hope. Theirs is unique only in its time and place.

So, it is with great pride and the aid of some respectful creative license that I invite you to know their story in “The Remnants”.

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