Editor: Let’s take time to remember those that fought for freedom.
Many lives were forever altered and changed by the Second World War. How many young men went off to war, with hero dreams dancing in their heads, and came back with nightmarish visions that would stay with them for the rest of their lives?
Most of them would never talk about their experiences.
My Dad was such a person. He enlisted to serve in the war. He left the comfort of home to fight for everyone’s right to enjoy freedom. Just before he left, his Mom asked him what he wanted her to keep for him, and he called back “My skates — make sure you keep my skates for when I return.” That was the last she saw of him for many years.
He went to England and signed up as a motorcycle dispatcher. He would carry vital plans and communications about the war front from camp to camp. The success of the war depended on the accurate and timely delivery of these communications. One unfortunate day, as he was travelling under the cover of the dark of night, he met with an unfortunate accident.
It was a dark and foggy night with a slight drizzle of rain as is so commonly found in the English moors. The little dirt road he travelled on twisted its way through the vales and cliffs of the countryside. The leather pouch resting on the side of his motorbike was filled with the strategies that, hopefully would win the war for the Allies.
He relentlessly drove through the pitch black of night carefully following every hairpin twist and turn in the road. He approached a corner and suddenly a large truck seemed to appear out of nowhere. It filled his vision like an unexpected spectre in the night. There was no time to react.
A screech of tires, the wail of engines trying to stop, filled my Dad’s senses as he was tragically pulled under the truck. Then all was black, until he awoke again on the side of the road. His bike — a pitiful mangled scrap metal heap — lay by his side. His leg was laying beside him at an odd angle.
He remembered wondering whose leg it was that was lying so close to him. Then, there was the awful realization that it was his leg, twisted back in an unnatural, unearthly position. The pain started screeching at him just before he, once again, passed out. He and his dreams were now laying on the road — in the drizzle, in the dark, all alone.
He was shipped home to Toronto where he spent five years in a veterans’ hospital while the doctors tried to rebuild his leg. They told him that he would never walk on it again. They wanted to amputate, but he was determined to save his leg and refused to let them sever his lifeless limb. He did walk on it again — at first with the help of crutches, then a cane, then a large boot with a leg brace for the rest of his life. His leg no longer could bend at the knee, but was rather like a stiff piece of lumber attached to him that got him around from place to place.
Dreams of youth dissipated after the war, including youthful dreams of skating again, of doing things that one used to do. The world changed that day for my Dad.
For many, the war was not a singular event but rather a lifelong event that changed their lives forever. For many, the price they paid for our freedom lasted the rest of their lives. These are the unsung heroes of yesterday.
They left their homes and families to secure a better life for future generations.
Let us not forget!
Wear a poppy this year just for them. They paid a price and we need to acknowledge that!
Cathy daSilva,
Langley
