Dear Douglas: An Anzac Day post
Dear Douglas,
Once upon a time, when I was a kid, a picture of you hung in my grandparents' house. Soldier you: looking all very solemn in your uniform. As solemn as everyone in old photographs looks. That photograph hangs in my mother's house now.
From the time I was little, I used to ask my grandmother to tell your story, every time. She never met you, of course. You were the brother-in-law who died before she even met my grandfather. But here's what she knew:
You were the favourite of all my great-grandmother's children.
The only golden haired child, in a family of brunettes.
(And you can make of that what you will.)
Your father died when you were a child. He was cleaning his gun.
(Make of that what you will, as well.)
You were the kid who lied about his age to go to war. You weren't eighteen at all.
Your mother never forgave your older brother for being the one who survived.
When I was a kid, I figured that you had to die. All the pieces are there for a perfect tragedy, right? If you hadn't been the favourite, you would have lived. If you hadn't lied to join up, you would have lived. If you hadn't been so full of youth and optimism and unfulfilled potential, you would have lived.
When I was a kid, I understood this is an unassailable truth.
But of course life doesn't have the same rules that art does. Life doesn't follow the structure of a story. What happened to you is only tragic in its banality, and in the epic fucking scope of the First World War.
On days like Anzac Day, I do try to take the time to reflect, but I don't know how I feel about the words that get used. Words like "sacrifice" and "honour" and "at rest".
You were nineteen when you died. You were still pretty much a kid. Was it honour and sacrifice you expected, or was it adventure? You were nineteen. Nobody should be at rest when they're nineteen.
I wish I knew more about you, Douglas. I wish you'd written more than your name in the front of your journal. I know exactly how you died -- from the letter your commanding officer sent your mother and, in detail, from the one your friend sent your brother -- but I don't know how you lived.
I wish I knew that.
- Lisa
Once upon a time, when I was a kid, a picture of you hung in my grandparents' house. Soldier you: looking all very solemn in your uniform. As solemn as everyone in old photographs looks. That photograph hangs in my mother's house now.
From the time I was little, I used to ask my grandmother to tell your story, every time. She never met you, of course. You were the brother-in-law who died before she even met my grandfather. But here's what she knew:
You were the favourite of all my great-grandmother's children.
The only golden haired child, in a family of brunettes.
(And you can make of that what you will.)
Your father died when you were a child. He was cleaning his gun.
(Make of that what you will, as well.)
You were the kid who lied about his age to go to war. You weren't eighteen at all.
Your mother never forgave your older brother for being the one who survived.
When I was a kid, I figured that you had to die. All the pieces are there for a perfect tragedy, right? If you hadn't been the favourite, you would have lived. If you hadn't lied to join up, you would have lived. If you hadn't been so full of youth and optimism and unfulfilled potential, you would have lived.
When I was a kid, I understood this is an unassailable truth.
But of course life doesn't have the same rules that art does. Life doesn't follow the structure of a story. What happened to you is only tragic in its banality, and in the epic fucking scope of the First World War.
On days like Anzac Day, I do try to take the time to reflect, but I don't know how I feel about the words that get used. Words like "sacrifice" and "honour" and "at rest".
You were nineteen when you died. You were still pretty much a kid. Was it honour and sacrifice you expected, or was it adventure? You were nineteen. Nobody should be at rest when they're nineteen.
I wish I knew more about you, Douglas. I wish you'd written more than your name in the front of your journal. I know exactly how you died -- from the letter your commanding officer sent your mother and, in detail, from the one your friend sent your brother -- but I don't know how you lived.
I wish I knew that.
- Lisa
date
newest »
newest »
message 1:
by
F.
(new)
Apr 25, 2014 06:04PM
Lovely post. Did you go to dawn parade? Even tho' I did 20 years in the RNZAF I have never been. I would be a liability, just the sound of the bugle calling "The Last Post" is enough to have the tears falling.
reply
|
flag
F. wrote: "Lovely post. Did you go to dawn parade? Even tho' I did 20 years in the RNZAF I have never been. I would be a liability, just the sound of the bugle calling "The Last Post" is enough to have the te..."I didn't this year, and I think last year I was working I do try to get to them when I can though. There is something almost magical about a dawn service.
One of my most cherished memories is of hearing The Last Post played at Ieper (Ypres), in Belgium, close to where Douglas died. They still play it every night at the Menin Gate.
On that trip my sister and I also visited Douglas's grave, which was a strangely emotional experience. Strange, because I didn't expect it to affect me the way that it did. I mean, I never knew him, and there is nothing more special about him than any other person who died in the war, but it felt important, somehow, to visit and tell him we were there. That someone from the family had made it all that way at last.
God, you made me cry in Starbucks, Lisa.Beautiful post.
Emma Sea wrote: "God, you made me cry in Starbucks, Lisa.Beautiful post."
Emma Sea wrote: "God, you made me cry in Starbucks, Lisa.
Beautiful post."
Sorry, Ems!
Lovely, Lisa. And I understand about it affecting you so much upon visiting his grave. Sometimes we just know, our hearts do, even if our brains don't.Thank you for sharing that with us.
That's so wonderful that you and your sister were able to go and experience all of that.
My grandpa, my dad's dad, also served in WWI. I never heard any of his stories myself - he had a stroke when I was about 5, so most of my memories are of him reading to me - but my dad has told me more than once that grandpa was a rare one in that he shared some of his experiences with his kids. It sort of set a precedent for the next generation when they were sent to Viet Nam and Korea, as they have also shared some of their experiences over the years.
War experiences were not spoken about in my family. Douglas's older brother never spoke to the family about what he'd seen in WWI. The only time anyone remembers even any mention of it was when his younger brother (my grandfather) was thinking of volunteering for WWII, Harry shouted at him not to be so bloody stupid. And from a man who was by all accounts quiet and stoic, this outburst became something of a family legend. On the other side of my family, my grandfather did serve in WWII. As my aunt says, what happened to him would these days be called PTSD, but in those days a man was expected to just pick up where he'd left off. To say he had issues would be an understatement.
I think what fascinates me most about war is the shadow that it can cast down generations.
Definitely true re: the men (and women) being expected to just buck and deal with it back. Kind of amazing that recognizing the important need to deal with the emotional impact is such a recent phenomenon, at least on a wider scale. Of course, even now, it's not getting the support and acceptance that it should.My mom's dad served in WWII, mostly in Japan and China, if memory serves. He didn't talk about it at all, really, at least not that I remember hearing. He was also a very quiet man but always quick with a smile and so good with us grandkids. Makes you wonder how he was able to do that knowing the things he probably witnessed and had to do.
Lovely, poignant post, Lisa. My parents both served in the 2nd world war, and it was only after they'd died that I heard their stories (from other family members). I guess they wanted to put it all behind them, but it always leaves me with a sad sense that I should have asked, while they were still here.
I should have mentioned the women too! Given that women on both sides of my family served as nurses in both world wars. My grandparents' wedding photo is of both of them in uniform.It is incredible that people were able to come back and pick up their lives, and were expected to deal with the psychological fallout on their own.
Sofia wrote: "Lovely, poignant post, Lisa. My parents both served in the 2nd world war, and it was only after they'd died that I heard their stories (from other family members). I guess they wanted to put it all..."Thanks, Sofia.
I think it's a generational thing. People were expected to come back to civilian life and put their war experiences behind them. Like Smurfette says, it's only very recently that there's been any acknowledgement that talking through things can help resolve them emotionally, and be a good thing.
I always wish there were more questions I'd asked my grandparents as well though. My grandmother was great for answering anything and everything I threw at her, but my grandfather wasn't much of a talker. Not unless it was about living out west. Which, sadly, I wasn't interested in as a kid.
I am American. My grandfather was in what we named WWI, but it is being forgotten here. John McDermott's Waltzing Matilda keeps it in my mind.
The Band Played Waltzing Matilda is a great song. Always gives me goosebumps .
