He came home from World War II a changed man.
He lied about his age to enlist because he was younger than the official acceptance age. As the son of a World War I hero, a year-long resident in England with his mother’s family, and an idealist with strong convictions, he held a slightly romantic view of war. His brother, relatives and friends had already enlisted. It was the exciting, heady mood of the day to ‘sign up’. A talented artist with his own mind, he wanted to join because he felt it in his blood. And it was The Royal Canadian Air Force that attracted him because he wanted to learn to fly.
He lied about his age to enlist because he was younger than the official acceptance age. As the son of a World War I hero, a year-long resident in England with his mother’s family, and an idealist with strong convictions, he held a slightly romantic view of war. His brother, relatives and friends had already enlisted. It was the exciting, heady mood of the day to ‘sign up’. A talented artist with his own mind, he wanted to join because he felt it in his blood. And it was The Royal Canadian Air Force that attracted him because he wanted to learn to fly.
There was a systemic problem, though. His artistic temperament fed a sensitive vein that ran through him. If he saw colours in technicolour, then he saw battle atrocities in vivid replays. Over and over.
Soldiers aren’t supposed to be sensitive. They are taught to be tough robots.
After his return to civilian life, his subdued temper flared more easily. Tortured by the realities of war, his subsequent art reflected a declining mental state. Dark canvases featured war lords, demons, and hell. Years later, his condition would be recognized and labelled as post traumatic stress disorder but at the time, he was diagnosed manic depressive.
Soldiers aren’t supposed to be sensitive. They are taught to be tough robots.
After his return to civilian life, his subdued temper flared more easily. Tortured by the realities of war, his subsequent art reflected a declining mental state. Dark canvases featured war lords, demons, and hell. Years later, his condition would be recognized and labelled as post traumatic stress disorder but at the time, he was diagnosed manic depressive.
This decent gentle man once took his children for walks in the woods where he paused, listened to the wind whistling through the trees, and whispered: “hear the fairies dancing through the leaves?” He wore corduroy jackets that warmed his touch and skin, the fabric emitting an aura of sweet tobacco from his pipe: the perfect place to snuggle when the world let you down. He painted murals on the bathroom walls, creating a fantasy world for his bathing children. His talent caught the eyes of prominent civic citizens, which led to numerous local newspaper articles and a scholarship. He painted day and night because it was his life’s blood. And in the evening his children, tucked into bed, were comforted when they heard their mother read to him as he put paint to canvas. He encouraged them in all ways creative, from drama and music to art and writing. Today some of his grandchildren and great grandchildren exhibit---and excel---in those talents.
So each November, especially because Remembrance Day is part of this month, I think of him. Perhaps I’ve embellished some of his characteristics but then, why not?
For this soldier---who suffered as do all soldiers---was my father.
For this soldier---who suffered as do all soldiers---was my father.
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