Yrys
Army.ca Veteran
- Reaction score
- 12
- Points
- 430
We owe the dead soldiers our attention
I've seen ramp ceremonies at Kandahar Air Field, repatriation ceremonies
at Canadian Forces Base Trenton, stood on an overpass above the Highway
of Heroes as soldiers' bodies were brought to the coroner's office in downtown
Toronto and twice followed at breakneck speed such a cortège along this route.
I've watched one or another end of the long goodbye in person and on television,
and yesterday, for the first time, I watched the ceremony at Trenton on my laptop,
because neither of the country's two major all-news networks (including the CBC,
the alleged national broadcaster) could be bothered to carry the ceremony live.
This, by the by, enrages me.
As it turns out, it takes less than a half-hour to unload the coffins of three young
servants of Canada from the airplane, solemnly march them one by one to waiting
hearses and have them met by various huddles of their weeping and stricken
relatives. It doesn't seem too much to ask of the networks that they air each of
these ceremonies, which possess more inherent dignity and grace than almost
anything else on the small screen. Why do you suppose the vast majority of the
families left behind decide to allow the media on the tarmac at Trenton? It is their
call, always, and when they say yes, it is not so we will ignore the ceremonies,
but rather so we will show them and report on them and perhaps, through this
coverage, that this will encourage others to stop and notice.
It is curious to me that I am compulsively drawn to these things. It's as if I need
to suffer a little - if not physically, as the infantry likes to do, then emotionally -
so as to keep the pain fresh and live.
Yesterday, the returning young men were Privates Justin Jones and John Curwin
and Corporal Thomas Hamilton, all from the 2nd Battalion, the Royal Canadian
Regiment, which is based in CFB Gagetown. They were the 101st, 102nd and
103rd soldiers to die in Afghanistan since Canada first went there in 2002. Their
collective age totalled 73, which is a year older than my father was when he died.
Cpl. Hamilton was called "Hammy," of course; I have a Hammy too, a soldier I
know and love from my time in Afghanistan and who is one of the central figures
in my book about Canadian troops. My Hammy took one look at my increasingly
haggard face not so long ago and said he suspected I felt I owed the troops something,
which was, he said, "of course horseshit." But it isn't, and in fact I feel we all owe
the soldiers, at the very least, our attention.
Cpl. Hamilton was the highest ranking of the soldiers killed on Saturday, so it was
his casket that was off-loaded first, and his family whose members walked to the
first hearse. Their faces disappeared one at a time into the dim of the vehicle, out
of sight from the TV cameras, but I could see someone lifting his little daughter
Annabelle, who is 4, up and into the back of the car. She wore pink snow pants and
a purple ski jacket. Cpl. Hamilton was due to fly home on Christmas Day for leave,
and according to his ex-wife, Heather Peace, who spoke to the Daily Gleaner in
Fredericton, he was planning to take Annabelle skating for the first time.
Pte. Curwin's casket was next. One of his relatives was on a motorized scooter.
Born and raised in Mount Uniacke, N.S., Pte. Curwin was so proud of his hometown
that he wrote to the local paper and asked if they could help him get a Mount Uniacke
flag. Sure enough, they did, and he proudly posed with it in Kandahar and sent the
pictures back home. He and his wife Laurie, childhood sweethearts, have three young children.
Pte. Jones's casket was the last off the plane. Among his pallbearers was a young
soldier so tall he had to hunch down so as to not throw the others off, and among
his mourners was a Mountie, in bright red dress, and a woman in a wheelchair.
It was at this moment that the cameras moved to the dignitaries, among them
the tiny, and lovely, Governor-General, Michaëlle Jean. Her head was bent low,
but behind her dark sunglasses she must have been crying, because she was
wiping her face with a sodden tissue.
I was at her house, Rideau Hall, just last week, to receive an award my book
won. I'm not sure of the protocol of all this, but I liked her immensely, and was
most struck by her interest in and empathy for our soldiers, this woman who
was born and raised in Haiti, and whose family fled to Canada in 1968.
François (Papa Doc) Duvalier, the first but not the last dictator in his family,
was in charge then, notorious for the paramilitary thugs called the tontons macoutes.
For the Governor-General, as with other Haitians of that era, the uniform must
have meant fear, death and terror. Now she is the commander-in-chief of the Canadian
Forces, in a country where the uniform is worn, in Quebec, by young men and women
who helped put that province back together after the infamous 1998 ice storm, and in
Toronto, by young men and women asked by a hysterical mayor to come and shovel
the snow, and in Manitoba, by young men and women who saved homes in the Red River floods.
Hers is a remarkable journey, and that she is able to embrace Canadian soldiers,
as she has, is testament to her and soldiers both. To the families of Cpl. Hamilton,
Pte. Curwin and Jones of Baie Verte, Nfld., she said in part, "May they know that they
are not alone to shed tears for these three irreplaceable men. Not only were they
courageous, they were proud to serve their country with all their skills and might to
help the people of Afghanistan, torn by decades of war and profound misery."
It was a nice bit of symmetry; Cpl. Hamilton had also served in Haiti.
I've seen ramp ceremonies at Kandahar Air Field, repatriation ceremonies
at Canadian Forces Base Trenton, stood on an overpass above the Highway
of Heroes as soldiers' bodies were brought to the coroner's office in downtown
Toronto and twice followed at breakneck speed such a cortège along this route.
I've watched one or another end of the long goodbye in person and on television,
and yesterday, for the first time, I watched the ceremony at Trenton on my laptop,
because neither of the country's two major all-news networks (including the CBC,
the alleged national broadcaster) could be bothered to carry the ceremony live.
This, by the by, enrages me.
As it turns out, it takes less than a half-hour to unload the coffins of three young
servants of Canada from the airplane, solemnly march them one by one to waiting
hearses and have them met by various huddles of their weeping and stricken
relatives. It doesn't seem too much to ask of the networks that they air each of
these ceremonies, which possess more inherent dignity and grace than almost
anything else on the small screen. Why do you suppose the vast majority of the
families left behind decide to allow the media on the tarmac at Trenton? It is their
call, always, and when they say yes, it is not so we will ignore the ceremonies,
but rather so we will show them and report on them and perhaps, through this
coverage, that this will encourage others to stop and notice.
It is curious to me that I am compulsively drawn to these things. It's as if I need
to suffer a little - if not physically, as the infantry likes to do, then emotionally -
so as to keep the pain fresh and live.
Yesterday, the returning young men were Privates Justin Jones and John Curwin
and Corporal Thomas Hamilton, all from the 2nd Battalion, the Royal Canadian
Regiment, which is based in CFB Gagetown. They were the 101st, 102nd and
103rd soldiers to die in Afghanistan since Canada first went there in 2002. Their
collective age totalled 73, which is a year older than my father was when he died.
Cpl. Hamilton was called "Hammy," of course; I have a Hammy too, a soldier I
know and love from my time in Afghanistan and who is one of the central figures
in my book about Canadian troops. My Hammy took one look at my increasingly
haggard face not so long ago and said he suspected I felt I owed the troops something,
which was, he said, "of course horseshit." But it isn't, and in fact I feel we all owe
the soldiers, at the very least, our attention.
Cpl. Hamilton was the highest ranking of the soldiers killed on Saturday, so it was
his casket that was off-loaded first, and his family whose members walked to the
first hearse. Their faces disappeared one at a time into the dim of the vehicle, out
of sight from the TV cameras, but I could see someone lifting his little daughter
Annabelle, who is 4, up and into the back of the car. She wore pink snow pants and
a purple ski jacket. Cpl. Hamilton was due to fly home on Christmas Day for leave,
and according to his ex-wife, Heather Peace, who spoke to the Daily Gleaner in
Fredericton, he was planning to take Annabelle skating for the first time.
Pte. Curwin's casket was next. One of his relatives was on a motorized scooter.
Born and raised in Mount Uniacke, N.S., Pte. Curwin was so proud of his hometown
that he wrote to the local paper and asked if they could help him get a Mount Uniacke
flag. Sure enough, they did, and he proudly posed with it in Kandahar and sent the
pictures back home. He and his wife Laurie, childhood sweethearts, have three young children.
Pte. Jones's casket was the last off the plane. Among his pallbearers was a young
soldier so tall he had to hunch down so as to not throw the others off, and among
his mourners was a Mountie, in bright red dress, and a woman in a wheelchair.
It was at this moment that the cameras moved to the dignitaries, among them
the tiny, and lovely, Governor-General, Michaëlle Jean. Her head was bent low,
but behind her dark sunglasses she must have been crying, because she was
wiping her face with a sodden tissue.
I was at her house, Rideau Hall, just last week, to receive an award my book
won. I'm not sure of the protocol of all this, but I liked her immensely, and was
most struck by her interest in and empathy for our soldiers, this woman who
was born and raised in Haiti, and whose family fled to Canada in 1968.
François (Papa Doc) Duvalier, the first but not the last dictator in his family,
was in charge then, notorious for the paramilitary thugs called the tontons macoutes.
For the Governor-General, as with other Haitians of that era, the uniform must
have meant fear, death and terror. Now she is the commander-in-chief of the Canadian
Forces, in a country where the uniform is worn, in Quebec, by young men and women
who helped put that province back together after the infamous 1998 ice storm, and in
Toronto, by young men and women asked by a hysterical mayor to come and shovel
the snow, and in Manitoba, by young men and women who saved homes in the Red River floods.
Hers is a remarkable journey, and that she is able to embrace Canadian soldiers,
as she has, is testament to her and soldiers both. To the families of Cpl. Hamilton,
Pte. Curwin and Jones of Baie Verte, Nfld., she said in part, "May they know that they
are not alone to shed tears for these three irreplaceable men. Not only were they
courageous, they were proud to serve their country with all their skills and might to
help the people of Afghanistan, torn by decades of war and profound misery."
It was a nice bit of symmetry; Cpl. Hamilton had also served in Haiti.