my father's war
Feb 6, 2010 · 1 comment
my father was too young for war. signed up in ’44. just in time to be shipped out to Haida Gwaii. spent his Air Force years driving ambulances on the wet, wind-coast.
he drank rye.
every Nov. 11 we stood under grey skies, under umbrellas, at the cenotaph. him in a Legion blue blazer, grey slacks. never once pinning a medal or insignia to his chest. and every Nov. 11 he’d cry. then make his way up to the Legion to dance and drink and b.s.
he felt a phony, a fake, never having made it to theatre in Europe or the Pacific. wasn’t proud of his time in. the only war time stories he ever told were of chasing my mother, the teenage CN telegraph operator, and how he used a pseudonym when he hooked up with women at the dances so they couldn’t trace him back to the base.
and really, come to think of it, I believe it was my mom who told war stories. about dating officers then dumping them for the enlisted man because the man who would become my father many, many years later had eyes that matched his Air Force uniform (what is it about women and uniforms anyway??) and he was a good jitterbug dancer and he made her laugh.
he died an old man. left little behind of tangible things, but a big, close-knit family. I kind of admired that efficiency. come in with nothing. leave with nothing. his legacy to all of us children and grandchildren being his sociability.
and the night I packed to go to Afghanistan, I opened my dresser drawer and saw his Air Force insignia, a little blue and gold heart. pinned it to my undershirt. never took it off by night or day the whole time I was away. showed it to many, said, “this was my dad’s”.
and I often wonder what he would have made of me and this crazy thing I’ve done, am doing. proud or mystified (I was always the different bird in the nest). I like to think that he’d shake his head and laugh. and somehow part of me is convinced it might have made him glad to know he’d made it, gone to war, done his part. at last.
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The page you're reading contains a single diary entry entitled my father's war. It was posted here on February 06, 2010.
Bill Horsman
I like the idea of drawing together threads over decades, generations. Common feelings in a new landscape.
I once asked my Dad whether he died in the [Second World] War. What a crazy question! I think it’s because it seemed like a story and not his memory, and therefore all outcomes were possible.
Feb 06 2010 · 02:15