Remembrance Day

Tomorrow is November 11.

At 11am stop everything you are doing. Stop working, stop talking, stop playing, stop reading, stop listening to music, stop everything.

Stop everything and listen to the wind.

Listen to the voices on the wind of those who paid the ultimate sacrifice for us. Listen to the voices in your head that tell you that you know why you're free today. The voices of souls who long ago died on the battlefields of Verdun, of Vimy, Passchendaele, of Cambrai, the Somme, Normandy, Ortona, the marshes of Holland, the hills of Korea, the sands of Afghanistan.

Stop and thank them, in your own little way. Say a prayer for them or their families, or just stand there, and listen to them. They still talk to us. It's when they stop talking to us that we begin the process of forgetting. That's not what this day is about. This day is about remembering, so that it never happens again. The tyranny of the world's past cannot ever come back to threaten our freedom, the idiots of the world must be kept in their places. The sacrifices of those who fell on far off fields of battle have made that possible. Without the 42,041 Canadians who were killed in World War Two, as well as the other allied nations, Hitler would have kept going.

All the way back to the War of 1812, Canadians were dying for what they believe. We weren't a country back then, but we were still Canadian. That pride started there, and has never faultered. By the way, we lost 1,600 in that conflict, including some old relatives of mine. While that war was against our greatest present ally, it was different then. With the Bicentennial of that conflict approaching, it's fitting to get it mentioned, as it will many more times in the near future. I will be making a pilgrimage to the Niagara region to pay my respects, you should as well. And when you do, stop, and listen to the wind. The dead of that war will talk to you too.

A couple of years ago I wrote this post. I put tons of research into it, crossed my i's and dotted my t's, and since then I've had hundreds of hits on it. I guess I got the info right. I urge you to re-read it, because nothing I can say here does it justice. The dead talk there too. In the names of the places they died, and from that, one can get a firm idea of why they are buried in far off lands, or have no known grave, only a name on a granite monument. There are over 112,300 Canadian war dead. There are countless wounded. The numbers who have paid the price are staggering.

In World War One, Canada had a population of around 7 million people. 400,000 volunteered to fight. Think about that for a moment. That's 6% of the population of the country. Of those, 66,000 didn't come home. That's 16.5% of those who went. A huge amount. To date, we've lost 152 in Afghanistan. 152 dead in a country of 33,000,000. Don't get me wrong, I'm not advocating more casualties, what I'm saying here is the war was so massive, such a scale that nobody now can even comprehend it. Imagine the City of Chatham dying in one blow. That was the Somme. Think about the sheer magnitude of this "War to End All Wars". Think about the fact that it wasn't.

Think about them. I also wrote this, last year. I also go lots of hits from it. I hope some of the people who read it teared up, I know that a year after writing it, I still did. This story, in a different version, was true. Men did this. Remembering started that day...

At the 11th hour, of the 11th day, of the 11th month, the guns fell silent, and remembering began.

Wouldn't it be nice if the guns truly fell silent? Wouldn't it be nice to just here the wind?

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.

Painting: Ghosts of Vimy Ridge

Depicting the ghosts of the Canadian Corps on Vimy Ridge surrounding the Canadian National Vimy Memorial. Oil on canvas, 138 x 270.2 cm. Source Canadian House of Commons Collection, (AN: O-4714). 1931 William Longstaff

Shilo Ranch

I taught a class to green star cadets the other night about exercise preparation. After following the lesson plan for what seemed like forever I finally found myself going off topic, which of course is infinitely more fun that following the rules. We talked about weekend camps that are more memorable than others, and how they get that way. We discussed what makes a camp that you tell your kids about. It's not easy to decide which ones make the books, but in all my years, one thing is certain, the best camps were the ones that were, at the time, sucking.

Of all the weekend camps I have participated in over the years, I find it hard to remember places we went, training we did, anything that would make something stick out in memory. Nothing that would be worthy of stories down the road. Just run of the mill camps. The ones you remember are the ones that were essentially traumatic, if only to the young ones.

Hence, Shilo Ranch.

Shilo was a weekend camp in 1982 or 83, either way, a long time ago. Now, I was only 14 at the time, so I would love it if some readers (you know who you are) would add to my little account. I know several people who read this were there, and your additions to this little story would do alot to add to it. Use the comment feature at the bottom and go to it!

Shilo wasn't infamous for what happened, but rather what didn't happen - training. It was a wet, cold, foul muddy weekend camp in a field just south of Windsor. I was selected as part of the advance party for the camp - the group that sets up the tents and generally gets the place ready. So off we went Friday morning, trucks loaded with tents, tables, kitchen equipment, and various other stores required for almost one hundred cadets to spend a weekend in the field. Certainly, a large undertaking. The weather was beautiful Friday afternoon and we set to work setting things in place. The remainder of the Corps was to arrive around 6, so we had to have it all built by 5ish. Members of the 21 Service Battalion trucked everything out to us in their MLVW trucks (large 6x6 army trucks - they had the nickname 'mighty large volkswagens'). We spent the afternoon building modular tents and getting the training areas ready.

The rest of the Corps arrived at 6ish, disembarked from busses and got the grand tour. After a couple of hours of quite forgettable camp routine, the rain started.

And it didn't stop.

All Friday night the rain continued. The field where we set up was quickly becoming a mire of mud and ponds of rain so deep you could easily find yourself up to your knees in it if you weren't careful. The temperature dropped from a balmy 60ish during the afternoon to a wet cold 40ish in the evening. Everything became wet. Your clothes, your hair, hands, feet, sleeping bags, food, everything. It quickly became a chore and a goal just to find something, somewhere, out of the water. With 100 people on the ground, it also became impossible.

This is where my memory of the events begins to fade. I was a junior cadet at the time, not quite privy to the goings on of the staff and seniors, never mind the militia guys. So I ask you to fill in the holes.

I do remember a few tidbits. I remember Dave Brooks had a Ford Pinto that was the only vehicle not bogged down. I remember him bombing past an MLVW that was up to it's axles in mud and completely immobile.

I do remember John Pudar jumping up onto a 6' folding table inside the mod tent, and the table collapsing into the mud.

I do remember seeing a fire actually floating.

I do remember the mud.

I now remember that was the worst weekend I ever experienced. And I would do it again in a heartbeat. Not for the pain of it all, but for the memories (however sketchy), and the experience of being there. In my new position as assistant training officer, I hope to plan weekend camps that are useful, educational, and fulfilling to the cadets. I certainly don't hope for a write-off like Shilo Ranch, but at the end of it all, I won't remember the successes.

Please help me fill this one out. Joanne, John, Villian, Joe, Veronica, Paul, Phil, Jeff and more, you guys were there, add your thoughts!

Cheers.

Mongolian Tree Sloths et al

Today my cadets marched in the the Kingsville Migration Festival Parade. For the first time marching in a town parade they did a great job. There was only 22 of them on parade, but most were new cadets and really had no clue what they were doing. Prior to the start we gave them the speech about following the pipes and drums. Just listen to the bass drum, and the rest will fall into place. The CO arranged for us to march immediately behind the pipes, so that part was easy. Within a half hour, we were done, and preparing to meander back to the legion hall for pizza and an afternoon of shooting.

While the relays were ongoing I took advantage of the captive audience to teach some classes and tell some stories. Of course, I then opened the floor for the cadets to respond in kind. We had a good afternoon sitting on the grass on a beautiful day - we won't have many more 70 degree days in October, so we took the opportunity to enjoy it.

The theme of the tales was that the memories you cherish most in this organization. Stories of rained out camping trips or when the equipment shows up completely non-serviceable, or maybe the time when some schmuck caused some weird accident that messed up the rest of the trip; years later these are what you remember. These are the weekends that make you come back. Part of you wants to relive the activity, while the other part wants it erased from recent memory. But of course, you tell the story, thus perpetuating the legend. I especially like telling horror stories to new recruits. One half of their faces cringe in horror, the other half beams with excitement. You can tell when you've left them wanting more. It's my sincere wish to give these kids their own memories, so that one day they sit on the grass telling stories of their own, just like I did today.

So in the spirit of great memories, here's one from my "Best Weekends Ever" Collection. (I haven't actually started a collection yet, consider this the first).

1992 - Gesstwood Church Camp, Gesto, Ontario.

I was the Training Officer for a Corps in Windsor. My job for this particular weekend exercise was simple - plan it and execute it. I had support from my Commanding Officer and other staff, but for the most part the Ops Order and all supplemental planning was my fault. If anything went wrong it would be on my head. Great. Nothing like holding the lives of 40 kids in your hands and being told not to screw anything up. At the time I was a young officer, 3 years in, and full of ideas, however unique. At times, I was also full of alcohol - not a good combination when working with youth. Yeah, I know, stupid. But hey, it was almost 20 years ago, move along.

While on a bender one night I decided to complete my leadership exercises for the weekend. I had the cadets move through a series of team building and leadership exercises culminating with a night exercise that evening. Some were simple - cross this obstacle as a team with the obvious difficulties imposed, or shoot a bearing on certain locations correctly. But I wanted to have some fun with a particular person in my charge for the weekend. Each exercise we had support from our affiliated unit - The Windsor Regiment. They provided vehicle support and a driver who was at our disposal for the duration. This weekend, I got a young cocky corporal who had no time in his life for our organization. He was vocal in his belief that we were all wannabees, and except for being paid, he shouldn't be wasting his time. Several times I asked him to keep his comments to himself, and each time he reminded me that I was 'just' a CIC officer - one not to be taken seriously. He was pissing me off.

The cadets were coming to the last of the stations I had set up. I used the mouthy corporal to my advantage. If he really wanted to see what we were doing there with a bunch of kids, I'd be happy to show him. My instructions to him were simple - go ten feet up the tree and wait. The cadet's job was to get him down, safely, in teams. He wasn't allowed to help them unless he felt his life was in danger. He was my Mongolian Tree Sloth. A creature too stupid to climb down out of the tree he climbed into.

He took a moment to absorb that.

He finally said "Are you serious??"

Yup. I'm serious. Climb that tree, and wait. The cadets would do the rest. Upon arrival to the tree I gave the cadets an overview of the situation. They grinned as they looked up at the corporal. I could see the wheels turning in their evil little minds. I was however, very clear that I was not going to be responsible for anyone getting hurt. I reminded them that if at any time the corporal had to help them, they failed. And the games began.

The first couple of teams struggled to find a way to do the tasking, but managed the task. Then the next team, then the next. With each group, the young corporal began to get the swing of things. By mid-day, he was acting like a Mongolian Tree Sloth - whatever that would be - being a fictitious animal, he pretty much had carte blanche to make it up as he went along. He began groaning, making weird noises, most of which would pass for really stupid groans, and tried to chew on the tree branches. When cadets tried to help him he acted more. He chewed on their berets, reached into their pockets for food, and more. He was really good, and really having fun. He made my day, and that of the cadets.

By the end of the day I had an apology from him and a request to help the Corps out in the future. We took this militia know-it-all with a single track mind and opened his eyes to what a bunch of teenagers are capable of when they need to be. I also reminded him that if he asked around his regiment he would find that the majority of his peers were cadets once. We feed the regiments. He was converted to our little world.

Years later I still tell the story of the Mongolian Tree Sloth. The cadets that were there that weekend so many years ago also tell the tales. A simple funny story about a great day. The sort of memory that makes us keep coming back. We want more of these, and we want the younger generation to create they're own memories.

One day, I will be camping with them again, and someone will send someone up a tree and try this exercise again. I just want to be there when they do. I will grin ear to ear and think back to 1992 and my kids. I will think back to the reason I do this.

Cheers.

I'm back!

I'm back.

Haven't posted anything here since August 16, because frankly, I haven't wanted to. I have had no desire to be creative, no desire to express any form of thought, no desire to type, no desire to do anything but eat, sleep and work (the work thing is on the fence). Yesterday I spent the better part of 8 hours loafing around the house bored stupid. Several times I looked at things I should have or could have been doing, and then opted to waste more time in useless endeavours. Eventually I fell asleep on the couch with the TV on. Around me, my son came home, my niece went home and apparently my sister was here.

Missed it all.

Stupid. I wasted a day. Well, no more. I need to rejoin the living. This is a good start. Part of the reason I haven't posted is that I've had to endure some fairly shitty days of late, and as much as I've wanted to tell the 3 people who read this all about it, I felt that I should be better off just keeping my trap shut. So I did. I haven't written anything for fear of my temper showing itself in my writing. Nutbags and asshats begin that way. Writing evil diatribes and manifestos, letting the world see their anger through their writing. Ted Kazinski was just one such nutbag, now he's serving life for trying to blow people up. Luckily, with the support of my family and friends, I have felt now need to make anyone go boom. I'm on the path to fixing things. This is therapy writing now.

Therapy action has been going back to the Cadet organization. I started back last month after a five year hiatus. At the time it was retirement, but now that I'm back in, I wonder what the hell I was thinking by ever leaving. For the past five years there's been a hole in my heart where the kids used to be. I missed them more than anything else. I've been involved with them for just shy of 30 years all tolled, and my life was empty without. I got involved here and there from the outside but never was I parading and teaching. It just wasn't in me for the longest time. As time went on I felt the calling. I felt the pain of not being a part of the Corps. Last May I got a call from an old friend asking if I wanted to go back. I was asked to go help fix a nearly defunct unit, and I jumped on it. I have to re-enroll as an officer, I have to go through all the training again, I will lose my rank, and for the next year or so I will be parading as a civilian instructor, but that really doesn't matter. I'm back.

I just came home from spending my Saturday afternoon cleaning the Corps office. A blank slate as it were - we had the chance to clean out the old and bring in the new. Ideas flowed like water from the well, three of us working away, no cadets or parents around, just working on brining back the glory of this 40 year old Corps that almost closed last spring. We get to fix it. The very idea of being part of that is exhilarating. I had memories come back to me that haven't paid their respects to my consciousness in years, like the time I blindfolded cadets four at a time, drove them around county roads for a half hour, then kicked them out and told the to find their way back to camp. Not to worry, each group was armed with a compass and map, and I dropped every group within sight of a visible landmark to the camp. If they had paid attention, they just beelined for home. All but one group made it back fine. Those were good times, even if the CO was pissed at me. The kids loved it. The Mongolian Tree Sloth is another story. I'll save that for another post.

This Corps is lacking in officers. Hurting actually. I was actually recruited as a Lieutenant, but the paperwork problems were not readily foreseen. So we're still short a couple. We have a very competent Lieutenant now, and a Commanding Officer we're borrowing from another Corps. It'll be a while before we're up to full strength. Until then, I will be parading in a suit. I'm the drill instructor. A role I've always loved. The small problem is that civilians aren't supposed to teach drill, but we do what's necessary to accomplish the task. Each week now I've been on the square yelling like a marine, bringing these cadets up to snuff. I haven't done this in years, so my voice is cracking, my demonstrations are rusty, and I have on more than one occasion referred to the Canadian Forces Manual of Drill and Ceremonial (affectionately known simply as 201). I'm getting there, I review my lessons, and march around my house like a dipweed, but I'm getting the cadets back to parade ready. I'm proud of what they've accomplished in a few short weeks, even though each week has involved me tossing out everything they know and starting over. You see, the previous CO never opened good old 201. He wrote his own book!

We've got weekend exercises planned soon, and parades coming up for the Kingsville Migration Festival and Remembrance Day. We're also planning shooting weekends and fundraising events. We want to give these cadets what they deserve - opportunity. We want to bring back the pride in their Corps. We want them to be proud to wear the uniform and the badge of the Essex and Kent Scottish. Last week we let them put on their kilts for the first time in months, and they were damn proud to do it. They want more and it's our job to give it to them. We want the Corps to grow, and in a small town like Kingsville that's not easy. A tough task for an established Corps, nevermind one that's in the process of being rebuilt. But I like the challenge.

On an ironic note, the weekend camp in mid-November is at the same place that saw me blindfolding cadets and twenty year Mongolian Tree Sloth sightings. I can't wait to go back.

When something grabs your heart and doesn't let go, you shouldn't let it go. You should hold on to it and nurture it. That's how it is with this organization. I never should have let it go. I'm happy to be given the chance to give it a second go. I'm motivated now, more than I ever was. I feel a purpose beyond just working and keeping house. (family excluded - they're always my purpose), but a person needs passion. Mine is seeing young cadets grow and achieve. Seeing them move up in ranks, win awards, and lead their peers, and know that I've been a part of that effort. I makes me proud.

On Annual Inspection in the Spring I will stand off to the side and watch my cadets come forward to accept what they've earned, and I will beam with pride. Once again, they'll be my kids again. Once again, I'll have purpose.

The old me is back!

Thinking in plaid

I went off to play silly bugger this weekend. I attended the First Annual Military Muster at Heritage Village. I won't go into all the details, frankly almost everyone who reads this was there. If i didn't talk to you, I at least saw you. From my vantage point in the vendor's area I watched thousands of people wander by all day taking in the sights and sounds of a wonderful and long overdue event. I was playing the role of recruiting officer this weekend, trying to snag unsuspecting teenagers into the cadet movement. A role I've played many times over the years. I enjoy talking to the parents more than the kids, it's usually them asking the questions anyway. I had a half dozen cadets with me, all of whom probably enjoyed the free admission and lunch more than the chance to bring up their numbers. In any case, putting on the kilt again this weekend gave me the itch, again. For years I've wanted to invest in highland garb and play the part. Recently I've even become a member of the Scottish Club. It seems that as I get older my heritage is more important to me; maybe as a way to honour my father, or maybe because I'm just proud, but I want my own kilt now. Not a borrowed one.

As I sit here pondering such a silly thing the first question that comes to mind is where would I ever wear it? Would it be practical? Should I go regi... oh, wait, never mind. It doesn't matter, it'd get use. Lots of it, just not in January. There are many events around here that could warrant it's use, everything from Highland Games to this weekend's muster. I'd find a use. I got married in one once... I could do it aga... oops.

Just a thought running around in my head, a thought of heritage, history, culture, everything my father brought us up with, the sound of the pipes, the swing of the kilt, the jokes of the un-initiated. It's all part of the game.

So I'll begin trolling the net for deals. My missing other me is out there somewhere.

Beannachd leat