Run Sheet
99/11/11
Today was Remembrance day
On the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month the armistice that ended the First World War was signed. World War one lasted for four years and took the lives of many millions of the sons and daughters of Germany, Britain, Canada, and France, to a lesser extent it took the lives of Americans and Russians. Ever after, 11November has been set aside here as a day to remember the dead of the wars of this century.
Here in Canada Remembrance day is a holiday. On this day every year people gather at the Cenotaph that exists in front of every Royal Canadian Legion in the country and lay wreaths, say prayers, and remember those who died.
As a uniformed service, the firefighters always turn out for the parade to the cenotaph. This year was no exception.
The weather was torrential rain, wind and cold. Twenty or so of us marched along looking and feeling miserable. The speeches were long,
We stood at attention as the roll of honour was read, each the name of a dead soldier, sailor or airman from the local area. The post commander stood and said “Will these men answer!” he called out names for twenty minutes. When he was finished there was a pause, and the sergeant-at-arms shouted out…
“THEY DO NOT ANSWER SIR!”
That never fails to get a tear in my eye.
My grandfather died painfully 18 years after being gassed in WWI, where he fought at the age of 16. Two of my uncles died together in the mountains of Italy in WWII, I carry the name of a man who lies buried at Vimy Ridge in France.
Today, as we marched away from the cenotaph to an area to dismiss from ranks, an old man stood in the rain with his family. Adult sons and daughters stood around this old man as the rain pelted onto him, small children played and wandered and whined in the cold wind but he stood as best at attention as the years allowed him to. To all of them he was dad or grandpa, but the medals on his chest told us that he was once something else.
At the right side front of our column marched the markerman, the guy who sets the pace of the march and calls orders,
At the head of the column marched the Chief.
(By rights, all orders to the column should be given by the chief, being the seniormost officer present.)
When the markerman saw the old fellow standing there, he knew the Chief hadn’t seen him in the crowd, he took a chance, and he timed it to perfection.
His voice rang out “EEEEEEEEEYes RIGHT!”
Our heads snapped right and we marched in review. The Chief’s head snapped right, and he saw what the markerman was up to.
“SAAAAAAAAAAAAALUTE!”
Our hands snapped to the brims of our caps as we saluted the old man. He looked surprised, but he stood to attention and returned it.
(Military tradition has it that saluting first is a mark of deference or respect, junior ranks always salute senior ranks first.)
Afterward, in the Legion bar, the Chief bought the markerman a drink, I doubt he paid for one all day.
Lest we forget.