[SB] Sabbath Blessing

[Molly Wolf]

NOTE: Apologies for missing last week; we were having connectivity Issues.

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Remembrance Day

It rained, as it often does this time of year, and the wind off the lake 
cut sharply, whipping out the standards by the cenotaph. Students from the 
Royal Military College in their distinctive worn-to-one-side caps, 
reservists and soldiers from the Princess of Wales's Own Regiment, younger 
cadets, officers and enlisted men from the base, veterans, and the two 
bands (pipe and brass) stood solemnly as people carried up wreath after 
wreath on behalf of the communities of this town.  The rest of us stood 
attentively, quietly. We sang "O Canada" and "God Save the Queen", and a 
singer gave a lovely performance of "In Flanders Field." It was, as it 
always is, a sombre and moving occasion.

I hadn't dressed for the weather -- just a light jacket and no gloves, 
although I had had the forethought to bring an umbrella. After about an 
hour the cold seemed to sink into me, and I found myself starting to 
shiver. And I thought what every good Canadian thinks on Remembrance Day 
when the rain is cold and the hands and feet are growing numb: Hey, this is 
nothing. Remember what *they* went through.

"They" were our troops, 90 years ago. For this country, World War I was the 
big one, because it was the first time we went into action as a nation, 
because we proved ourselves in those battles, because we lost so many -- 
60,000 may not be much by World War II standards, but this was a small 
country, not quite 8 million people. Practically every small town that 
existed back then has its cenotaph for its Great War dead. Practically 
every small town lost some young man.  And of those who came home, I'd 
guess that most were wounded in mind and soul, if not in body.

But what we remember each November 11th isn't just the deaths, but the 
unimaginable suffering they endured in trench warfare and the extraordinary 
endurance and courage they showed. That's why we never, ever speak of glory 
at these services. World War I cannot in any way, shape, or form be seen as 
glorious; it was a hellhole, pure and simple, not least because commanders 
were indifferent to the well-being of their troops.  The troops went on 
regardless, and Canadians performed like heroes. That's what we don't 
forget. There are only three Great War veterans still living, and when the 
last one goes, there's talk of a state funeral to mark the passing of that 
generation.

It's more than that, though. I'm proud of the way we handle these 
occasions: we separate out soldiers from war; we honour the former and 
soberly count the costs of the latter. During the Vietnam War, I remember 
how some who opposed the war were cruel to the soldiers who were fighting 
it; when they came home, there was no rejoicing, no honour given them. The 
war itself was wrong, and some soldiers behaved dishonourably in the field, 
but that was no excuse for neglecting the vets as America did. They had 
done the best that they could in difficult circumstances out of loyalty to 
their government, and the payback they got, too often, was ostracization. 
More recently, some Americans -- unfortunately, the ones holding power -- 
forgot to count the cost and suffering that war inevitably entails; the 
payback for that negligence is only beginning, and it will be terrible.

I propose -- with that peculiarly Canadian combination of genuine 
diffidence and smug self-righteousness -- that maybe our way of approaching 
matters military has considerable merit to it. Choose your fights, and 
choose them very, very carefully, with an eye for the real costs and the 
long term, because war is without doubt a dreadful thing in the eyes of 
God. Count every person, in uniform or out of it, as a child of God. Be 
willing to endure and persevere, and give honour to those who have endured 
and persevered.  This is a serious business.

Canadians have taken pride in being peacemakers; that's how we, as a 
nation, found our military feet. It's a role we've developed and gotten 
good at. This time, in Afghanistan, we're in real fighting, and (as usual) 
we've found that we're good at it. We're doing well. But while our forces 
are growing to love the people and the place, and are forging extraordinary 
bonds with each other, we still don't *like* what we're having to do; we 
mourn the process but feel that the end is worth it. Each Canadian killed 
is fully mourned -- and so are Afghani casualties. If we have to do war at 
all, this is, I think, the only way to do it.

It was especially poignant for me; among the green-bereted young men in 
battle dress uniforms was one taller than most, a darkly handsome young man 
with glasses and an extremely serious expression. I've known this one since 
they laid him in my arms as a newborn twenty years and a bit ago. I never 
thought he'd be a soldier, but that seems to be the direction he's called in.

So I stood in the rain and my eyes filled up and I shivered and thought, 
"This is nothing compared to what they went through." I knew that cocoa and 
a hot bath would warm me up. I thought of all those who died, all those 
years ago, scared and soaked and shivering, and who still managed to push 
themselves out of their trenches and into hell. I don't think we'll ever 
forget them.

Nor should we.