Dad Veteran

When the Second World War hit Europe, the evils moved across their space in hideous uniformed droves.


Great Britain said NO MORE, and what Great Britain said, Canada said too.


My father was clever. He knew he'd be called up. He had a wife and three small children. So he was smart.


In secret, he signed up with the Canadian Air Force, a volunteer being given the sweet privilege of choosing. He chose plane mechanic, to be stationed on a local Air Force Base.


There would probably be, for his time in the war, no call to fight overseas. He would be able to see his family on leave. He would not have to fight and kill, a horrible thought to him, because my father was a quiet and gentle man, whose voice I never heard raised and whose anger always never showed.


He did the right thing, knowing that his wife would freak out when he told her, and she did. She never forgave him for that. She should have. He did the right thing.


Dad had all the war privileges he sought. And he never had to go overseas and kill. He became a valuable plane mechanic. And after the long years of war, he came home alive.


He kept his uniform and Air Force photos of himself and his fellow airmen, but they rarely surfaced in our house.


Over the years, he never talked about his service and contribution, but he always stayed quiet and listened when his brothers and brothers-in-law needed to talk. They were the ones who had waited until they were called up. They were the ones who lived with their stories of horror every day and night of their lives.


War veterans are a special lot, because they are ordinary men and women who have to face alone the evils of our world, no matter how many soldiers and leaders are with them.


It is a personal thing to be a soldier.