An afternoon with a veteran

Each time I visit my granddad he is laying in the same position, arms crossed over his chest, with the same black shoes and the same brown cardigan sweater he always wears.

It is the middle of the afternoon, the sun is shining, and he is hiding under his covers with the window blinds shut while the weather channel plays music softly.

His room is small. In the corner there is a long spider plant growing down to the floor over the rim of the pot, his shelves are lined with outdated photos of his grandchildren and his bulletin board holds postcards stuck in by Remembrance Day poppies.

I’ve brought him ice-cream. He grabs it out of my hand and immediately spoons a big helping into his mouth.

This is a good sign. He is in a good mood today.

I open the window blinds and change the television to the football game, Hamilton vs. B.C., before I ask the nurses to move him from his bed to his chair. Once he’s settled into his chair, I ask him about World War II:

“It wasn’t very nice I’ll tell you,” he says, holding his neck.

I ask him what he can remember and his eyes, sunken deep into his face, blink their lids while he thinks back.

“There are things that I can’t forget. Things you don’t want to hear about.”

He enlisted in the 3rd Division Ammunition Company (R.C.A.S.C.) on May 27th, 1940 when he was 24 years old, not telling his mother until he had already received his papers, and served in Canada, the United Kingdom and throughout Continental Europe until he was discharged on December 11th, 1945.

During his time in Continental Europe he worked mostly as a transport soldier, driving a truck from camp to camp carrying ammunition, supplies, food rations and other necessities.

“We shifted from place to place,” he said, staring at the T.V. At this point he is drawn into the football game. “Everybody’s running.”

It’s the end of the second quarter, B.C. and Hamilton are tied at 14 and Hamilton scores a touchdown ending the first half. He loses interest after this and we continue to speak about his experience.

One time when he was driving a motorcycle to transport some items, the knife he carried in his boot slipped out and cut his leg. Luckily for him, this was one of the few injuries he sustained during the war.

“It was scary, yeah, but not all the time,” he said, trying to remember the lighter times “I had lots of friends… we did whatever we could find to do.”

He was decorated with three medals or honour: Defence Medal, 1939-45 Star, France & Germany Star.

When I ask him what else he did out there he repeated, ‘things you don’t want to hear about,’ and after I assure him that I do want to hear, he spits out a hard response.

“We fought each other.”

“You do whatever they told you,” he continued. “You do what you’re told.”

I asked him how he felt about things he had done and he answered with one word.

“Bad.”

I didn’t want to push him too hard to remember, so I left it at that.

Each time I leave he grabs me by the hand and grips it hard. I smile at him and he smiles back.

And I am proud to know more about his story.

Post inspired by interviews for my Remembrance Day article: here.

Point du Hoc, Normandy, France. It was here that Canadian and Allied soldiers climbed in an ambush on June 6th, 1944 - D-Day