Larry Willoughby Veinotte
Born 1908 Mahone Bay
Died and is buried in Sicily 1943
One of 116,000 Canadian Soldiers that never came back home.
Born 1908 Mahone Bay
Died and is buried in Sicily 1943
One of 116,000 Canadian Soldiers that never came back home.
Yesterday was a cold, blustery day. The sea outside my window appeared angry. Whitecaps were whipping the shore, pounding round after round of watery assault like artillery fire. It seemed a fitting day to remember the soldiers of past crusades.
November 11th is always a rough day for me. I can’t seem to pull up my socks and get past the gloom of what war represents. I wish I could join the masses to celebrate and honour those that sacrificed everything for our freedom but instead I dwell on the darkness of war, the suffering, the atrocities these poor soldiers witnessed and it destroys me. All I see are poor, frightened boys in the trenches and my maternal heart bleeds for them. Maybe my type of personality shouldn’t watch a lot of war documentaries, but I do, I can’t stop myself and I’m shell shot by the horrendous footage. My mind is black and blue for days and I keep having flashbacks of scenes on the battlefields. The bodies, the chaos, the insanity of it all and now with coloured reels, so much blood. I keep thinking, that’s someone son, husband, father. I moan, I cry and I scream, why can’t humans get along?
I feel the need to suffer on Remembrance Day, for those that died and those that came home not as whole as when they left. Standing at the Cenotaph under sunny skies with warm breezes caressing our faces is a far cry from the ravages a soldier experienced so I hope for nasty weather so we have to suffer just a little bit, feel the cold drill into our clothing; numb our fingers while the gusts of fall threaten to steal our hats and breath away. So many people suffered and died under despicable conditions so we could be free and for those lucky enough to make it back home, they suffered gruesome images burned on their retina, horrors following them to sleep and cavorting in their nightmares. It drives me crazy to dwell on it but I can’t seem to stop myself.
We shouldn’t have it easy! We need to reflect on their sacrifice while tightening our collars against the wind, feel the chill and echoes of their suffering in our bones. If we don’t remember what these people went through, how are we to prevent it from happening again? But then maybe wars of the future will be of a push button variety, we won’t have to bludgeon one another and tear each other apart like animals, we’ll all just vaporize. As awful as that may sound, somehow it seems more humane than ripping each other apart with knives, bullets, tanks and bombs. Weapons keep getting bigger and more powerful; flesh and bone doesn’t stand a chance, but then I guess that’s the point isn’t it?
Yesterday while we gave thanks for our freedom, we should not only think of their sacrifice in our heads, but let it brand our hearts. To me it isn’t a day to smile and rejoice, we can do that the other 364 days of the year. My family was deeply affected by war. My grandfather died in Sicily when my father was only a boy. He was a sensitive lad and was profoundly affected. His grief festered throughout his life, the open wound never healing, tarnishing any chance of lasting happiness. That in turn affected me and is probably why I feel the way I do about war. In this world it seems to be a necessary evil, humans can’t get along and have become very good at killing one another. Until the day comes when world peace is not just wishful thinking, I will be angry. My own father is now gone but I carry the collateral damage that began with a bullet in 1943 and caused by grandfather to bleed to death in a medic’s tent.
Maybe I need to move my grandfather’s portrait that hangs in the hallway upstairs. Maybe I think about him way to often for my own good. Our eyes lock every morning as I emerge from the bedroom. Although we’ve never met, every day I feel his loss. If he had survived the war he would have passed by now, he was 30 when he signed up, but I would have known him and that would have been swell. I’ll bet dollars to donuts my father would still be alive as well, his world would have had a little less sadness in it. Some of us aren’t strong enough to crawl out from under the shadow of war.
November 11th is always a rough day for me. I can’t seem to pull up my socks and get past the gloom of what war represents. I wish I could join the masses to celebrate and honour those that sacrificed everything for our freedom but instead I dwell on the darkness of war, the suffering, the atrocities these poor soldiers witnessed and it destroys me. All I see are poor, frightened boys in the trenches and my maternal heart bleeds for them. Maybe my type of personality shouldn’t watch a lot of war documentaries, but I do, I can’t stop myself and I’m shell shot by the horrendous footage. My mind is black and blue for days and I keep having flashbacks of scenes on the battlefields. The bodies, the chaos, the insanity of it all and now with coloured reels, so much blood. I keep thinking, that’s someone son, husband, father. I moan, I cry and I scream, why can’t humans get along?
I feel the need to suffer on Remembrance Day, for those that died and those that came home not as whole as when they left. Standing at the Cenotaph under sunny skies with warm breezes caressing our faces is a far cry from the ravages a soldier experienced so I hope for nasty weather so we have to suffer just a little bit, feel the cold drill into our clothing; numb our fingers while the gusts of fall threaten to steal our hats and breath away. So many people suffered and died under despicable conditions so we could be free and for those lucky enough to make it back home, they suffered gruesome images burned on their retina, horrors following them to sleep and cavorting in their nightmares. It drives me crazy to dwell on it but I can’t seem to stop myself.
We shouldn’t have it easy! We need to reflect on their sacrifice while tightening our collars against the wind, feel the chill and echoes of their suffering in our bones. If we don’t remember what these people went through, how are we to prevent it from happening again? But then maybe wars of the future will be of a push button variety, we won’t have to bludgeon one another and tear each other apart like animals, we’ll all just vaporize. As awful as that may sound, somehow it seems more humane than ripping each other apart with knives, bullets, tanks and bombs. Weapons keep getting bigger and more powerful; flesh and bone doesn’t stand a chance, but then I guess that’s the point isn’t it?
Yesterday while we gave thanks for our freedom, we should not only think of their sacrifice in our heads, but let it brand our hearts. To me it isn’t a day to smile and rejoice, we can do that the other 364 days of the year. My family was deeply affected by war. My grandfather died in Sicily when my father was only a boy. He was a sensitive lad and was profoundly affected. His grief festered throughout his life, the open wound never healing, tarnishing any chance of lasting happiness. That in turn affected me and is probably why I feel the way I do about war. In this world it seems to be a necessary evil, humans can’t get along and have become very good at killing one another. Until the day comes when world peace is not just wishful thinking, I will be angry. My own father is now gone but I carry the collateral damage that began with a bullet in 1943 and caused by grandfather to bleed to death in a medic’s tent.
Maybe I need to move my grandfather’s portrait that hangs in the hallway upstairs. Maybe I think about him way to often for my own good. Our eyes lock every morning as I emerge from the bedroom. Although we’ve never met, every day I feel his loss. If he had survived the war he would have passed by now, he was 30 when he signed up, but I would have known him and that would have been swell. I’ll bet dollars to donuts my father would still be alive as well, his world would have had a little less sadness in it. Some of us aren’t strong enough to crawl out from under the shadow of war.
This painting speaks a million words.
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