A Poppy for all Seasons
Poppy Field
Word Count=1659
In Flanders Fields
by: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)
Canadian Army
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place, and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
Any Canadian who attended school from 1918 up until just recently, will, no doubt, be aware of the poem by John McCrae, which forms the basis for the Canadian tradition of wearing a poppy during the start of November up until Remembrance Day on November 11th. We call it Remembrance Day because we remember, and we remember because it is our duty so to do. To pay homage and tribute to all those brave Canadians who have given their lives in the defence of our way of life. November, however, is not the only time to remember, nor is it the only time that the poppy graces a lapel. For some of us the poppy is for all seasons.
…Remembrance is a small price to pay…
We met in a dorm room at Wilfred Laurier University. Doug was the boyfriend of my girlfriend’s roommate. Hardly an auspicious introduction, we shook hands, he smiled in warm and charming way and after the formalities were over we went and drank some beer. We didn’t have a lot in common, he was hockey and football, and I was history and literature. We were dating roommates, women who would subsequently become our respective wives, so we had at least some common ground. We talked about all kinds of things in our beer inspired camaraderie. It was the eighties, we were young and invincible, and we were going to live forever.
Doug married his girlfriend I married mine. They had been friends since high school and their friendship insured that Doug and I would continue ours. I distinctly remember singing a particularly silly song at their wedding reception, much to the delight of all assembled, or so I’m told as my intake of alcohol prevents accurate recall of the event. I was even less sober at my own wedding so any recall of reciprocal action by Doug has long since vanished from my memory. We were happy, we were married, and our lives were just beginning.
Doug was from an old Army family and he signed up right out of school. He was going to be an officer and he joked that his dad, the sergeant, would finally have to call him “sir”. I had thought briefly about joining the Army but there didn’t seem to be any call for the historical literary types on the field of battle so I thought more realistically about research and other pursuits. Doug was risk and adventure, while I was quiet and safety.
We didn’t see each other very much, although our lives, through our wives were intertwined. Our families visited each other on a semi frequent basis, and we caught up on each others lives. He was doing basic training; I was researching dead Canadians for a biographical dictionary, or more accurately I was filling out three by five index cards with information that would never be published. Doug’s tales of officers and drill sergeants were exciting and in a small quiet way, I envied him.
Doug finished basic and went on several assignments. He was posted to Germany, the Golan Heights and during the aftermath of the first Gulf War, he was stationed in Turkey helping to organise supplies to the Kurds in northern Iraq. During his tour in Germany my wife and I visited and our families took a whirlwind rally from Lahr to Vienna in a Chevy station wagon, four adults and two children. Doug and I joked often over two large beers that the trip could be the basis for a National Lampoon movie. In the city of Munich we stayed the General George Patton Hotel, which was rather unremarkable except that for servicemen it cost a mere ten dollars a night for a room, and that in the main dining room was a huge mural of the general leading a host of Sherman tanks across France. Doug and I both spit our coffee through our noses when one of the wives innocently asked “Why would they have a picture of George C. Scott on the wall?”
It was in Germany, trapped in the confines of that Chevy wagon where Doug and I became friends in our own right. Both being insomniacs, we spent long hours talking in the front seat of the car as we raced through the Swiss Alps while our families slept in peace behind us. Near death experiences always bring people closer. We were travelling in a thick fog near the city of Zerl. We were looking for a place to stay for the evening and we exited the highway. The off ramp ended abruptly with signs pointed left and right that both spelled out in light reflecting paint Zerl. Immediately past that was a rather solid mountain side that would not be forgiving if we met it at the speed Doug was driving. Bedlam ensued. We screamed as one, the wheel turned, tires skidded, and screeched as we traversed the impossible corner. When we came to a stop. We discovered that we hadn’t died, and that we were still on the road. Doug and I started laughing in that nervous just cheated death sort of way, and from the back of the car we heard a groggy “Will you guys keep it down! we’re sleeping back here.” Doug and I laughed harder. When we got to the bar latter that day we toasted the “Whirl from Zerl” and our apparent good luck. It was the nineties, we were young and invincible and we were going to live forever.
In Germany we formed a friendship that was beyond our wives being friends. I talked about wanting to be a writer, he talked about wanting to go into radio after he finished his tour in the Army. Oh We knew that we’d never just call each other up to go to a game, or hang out. But when our families got together, Doug and I had more than two guys being awkward and trying to force out a conversation.
Our families grew. Children were born. Doug came back Canada and was stationed in Ontario and finally in British Columbia. A country stood between us but still we had the time to trade pleasantries and jokes over the phone or through email. Doug and his family seemed to be prospering, my family was going through troubles that eventually led to turmoil and divorce. The thing I remember most plainly about that time was the great disruption in my life and friends who ran hot or cold about whether I should leave my wife or stick it out it what had become a hard marriage. I won’t go into the details, that’s private. It is a tale for another time. What I do remember however, is Doug calling me up on the phone to tell me that he know that I was going through a tough time. He knew I was hurting, and while he didn’t understand all the reasons, he told me that I would always be welcome in his house as a friend. Doug didn’t tell me what I should be doing, he just offered an ear to listen should I choose to make use of it. It was a heart felt gesture that I cherished and was grateful for.
I never got the chance make use of it. Late in the day, in the last twilight of March, I received a phone call, from a mutual friend of mine and Doug’s. Doug had been on exercise with his regiment just outside of Victoria. They had marched all weekend and Doug came home tired. On the Monday morning he complained to his wife of a sight pain in his chest, but thought nothing of it. The Army doctor had recently given him a physical and Doug had passed it with flying colours. He was a robust man, a healthy man, in the prime of his life with two wonderful children and a fabulous wife who loved him dearly. Doug had everything. Doug also had a heart condition that the Army doctors had completely overlooked. By mid afternoon the pain from the morning had developed into a full blown heart attack. Doug collapsed in his office, and by the time he was rushed to the hospital, he was dead. I stared dumb founded holding the phone as the story was related to me.
The next time I saw Doug he was in his uniform laying in a casket. All of his hopes and dreams extinguished in a spit second. His loss devastated, a family, a community, a people. The funeral was a celebration of his life. A statement about the relentlessly pursuit of the things he loved most; Family, country, honour, and a life of purpose. I was asked to read the prayers of the faithful, asked to recite pleas of understanding from a distant god to hear our prayers and grant us some kind of reasoning for why Doug was no longer with us. When I came to the part where I had to actually say his name, I broke down and sobbed openly. I don’t think I ever have really recovered.
When Doug died, something in me died. Doug was action and adventure and the essence of life, now he was rest eternal. I was quiet and safety, but Doug’s death made me see that quiet and safety could end at any time without warning. We were no longer young, we were not invincible, and forever was an illusion. Doug’s death was senseless, but it gave me the sense to begin living a life and not be content to be an observer. In some ways Doug’s life gave new meaning to mine.
So while we remember the soldiers who died to defend our freedoms on Remembrance Day each November 11th, at the eleventh hour, at the end of March I wear a poppy to remember one soldier whose life gave new meaning and new life to me. Remembrance is a small price to pay.
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