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Category Archives: Europe

Vimy Ridge

18 Monday Jul 2016

Posted by jrwmacdonald in Europe, Living, Traveling

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Canada, Canadian War Memorials, France, World War One, WWI

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Canada mourns the loss of her fallen sons from Vimy Ridge, France.

124 years ago today, July 18th 1892, my great grandfather, George Andrew McDonald, came screaming into the world. In his 24th year he enlisted with the Canadian military and entered the Great War. He volunteered likely believing the war would be over by December and thus set sail for England, I imagine, excited for adventure. I know very little of the man though he was one of my father’s principal early care givers.

When I graduated from high school my father gifted me George’s WWI service medal. That gift seemed to somehow connect me to this man. From the regiment number stamped on that medal I obtained his attestation paper from his military enlistment. Library and Archives Canada (LAC) has made these available online. I then went on to pay the photocopy fees to obtain his service record from the LAC. Practically everything I know about the man comes from these documents. It isn’t much.

George Andrew MacDonald

George was five feet six inches tall and likely weighed around 140lbs. He had light brown hair and grey eyes and I imagine that if he and I were standing side by side we might just be mistaken as brothers. He was 23 years old when he enlisted in late November 1915 in Sarnia Ontario. He was assigned to the Canadian Forestry Corps and the 70th batallion. His initial medical report indicates that he had no distinguishing physical marks. Within a year there’d be scars: physical and mental. He was discharged August 23rd, 1918 “being medically unfit for further general service” the record states. He had taken a bullet just above his left knee, “external to the joint,” though I wonder if he walked with a limp from then on? He took that bullet somewhere along the Somme, France on the 12th of October 1916 nearly 100 years ago.

The Somme was a muddy, bloody cess pool. Men literally rotted in trenches as we struggled to learn this new “modern” warfare. His record tells a grim story of the aftermath of that experience though in the most clinical and perfunctory way. One doctor reports that he “claimed” to be shell-shocked 4 or 5 times. I know he was at the front but how long exactly I can’t say. He was in France for 5 months. He developed a slight tremor in his hands that could be seen also in his tongue. He couldn’t keep his food down and lost about 20 pounds. He was nervous all the time and easily excited. If he was anything like me his resting pulse rate should have been in the mid to low 50s. After his time at the front it was 108.

When I learned I would be going to France I hoped that my travels would take me close enough to the Vimy Ridge memorial. George didn’t fight at Vimy (that was a few months after he was wounded). Vimy is the Canadian war memorial to see in France. It is widely regarded that our victory there was the birth place of the nation. France gifted the ridge in perpetuity to the people of Canada and on its hallowed ground stands an inspiring monument to the sacrifice made there.

TO THE VALOUR OF THEIR COUNTRYMEN IN THE GREAT WAR AND IN MEMORY OF THEIR SIXTY THOUSAND DEAD THIS MONUMENT IS RAISED BY THE PEOPLE OF CANADA.

It was raining as we drove through the French countryside, avoiding the toll road, toward Vimy Ridge. The country is flat here and well cultivated. We passed through many small French villages where row homes of weathered brick pressed close against the narrow road. The steeples of Catholic Churches rose majestically above each community against the back drop of storm darkening skies. Then suddenly between villages appeared the familiar white font on black background of Canadian government signs, a small red maple leaf in the corner. This could not be a sign for Vimy Ridge as it was too soon but I was intrigued. I made a left as directed and followed the signs to an unknown, to me, Canadian memorial. The narrow road narrowed more and more until it was essentially a single paved lane winding through French fields. Then just off the road was a small plot, maybe 30 meters square, of fenced coniferous trees with close cropped grass. In its centre lay a rock monument with the statue of a caribou dominating its top. Gueudecourt. I would learn that a regiment from Newfoundland fought bravely and won here at extraordinary cost. Newfoundland was not a part of Canada at that time. It wouldn’t become Canada’s tenth province until after the 2nd World War. Yet, a Canadian monument all the same.

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Gueudecourt Memorial

The small grounds of this memorial are meticulously kept. Even the shallow trench at the foot of the caribou statue was filled with well groomed grass. The rain fell lightly as I reflected on the beauty now found here. I wondered if George felt the sting of that bullet somewhere close by. Perhaps it was a rainy day much like this one and he was in this trench at my feet. His feet rotting in his boots as he anticipated the command to climb out of the mud and charge the enemy. I learned that this line, this trench at my feet, became the front line of the Somme. Indeed along this line some where George had fought. Along this line now stretching off into well cultivated fields George had sat in the mud as explosions shook the ground around him and men died in squalor. Yet, when he arrived the trench had already been dug and the ground watered with the blood of Newfoundland’s boys and when he was done others would come to make their sacrifice. It was sombering to stand there in the rain.

We drove on to Vimy Ridge. Every Canadian has seen this monument. It is on our 20 dollar bill. Two granite spires reach out of the earth toward heaven and at its base a single tomb to represent the thousands lost here and elsewhere in the war. Above the tomb the lone figure of a woman, Canada, shrouded in her granite cloak mourns the loss of her sons. Her eyes are downcast staring at the silent tomb unable to see the view presented by the ridge she stands upon. It was for that view of the plains her sons had fought and died. Fought and died. Sixty thousand Canadian soldiers;  1 in 10 from a force of 600,000. 1 in 10 from a country of a mere 7 million.

I wandered around the monument lost in my thoughts, grateful for the sacrifices made and saddened that it was ever necessary. I placed my hand upon the names of the fallen carved in that granite and felt a small touch of survivor’s guilt. George was only a boy who likely had little concept of the fate that awaited him when he signed that attestation. Sure there was some courage there, some patriotism, some sense of duty but it was probably the uniform, the call of adventure, the smiles of the girls that compelled him to the theatre of war. The dark clouds roiled above us but did not obstruct our view of the valley which seemed to stretch out a hundred years and into our prosperous lives.

Just a few days later Lisa and I joined hundreds of thousands of Parisians at the foot of the Eiffel Tower to celebrate Bastille Day. A day of freedom. Later that night when the fireworks had ended we learned that a man had used a truck as a weapon at a similar fireworks show in Nice, France. He indiscriminately smashed through the crowds killing and maiming men, women and children. In a great act of evil he took the lives of nearly 100 people and injured twice as many. Tens of thousands more mourn their loss. Their eyes are fixed on the tombs at their feet. It is a new “modern” warfare. There is no trench to climb into and if there were those firing from the other side are surrounded with innocents. Is there a weapon made with hands that could find our enemies without giving rise to more? I won’t claim to have the answers but it seems clear to me that the soil at our feet has an infinite capacity to drink the blood of man.

A mourning Canada.
A lone tomb representing our fallen.
Canada comforts the suffering.

The names of fallen Canadian soldiers on French soil during WWI.
The Canadian war memorial at Vimy Ridge, France

50.384502 2.767196

“Home James” A Car in Italia

03 Tuesday Nov 2015

Posted by jrwmacdonald in Europe, Traveling

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Dad was on his last ounce of energy when we finally stumbled into our hotel last night. It was a long train ride, followed by another train ride, followed by a taxi to the hotel. We’ve made this mistake two years in a row now: booking a hotel near the airport rather than next to a metro station. I followed this up with another mistake. I scheduled our flight to leave at 7pm today not at 7am. I must not have been paying attention when I booked the flights. So there we were this morning at a hotel 5 kilometres from the airport with nothing around us and an entire day tragically looking like it’d be lost to boredom. Of course, we could take a cab into the metro and then the metro into Rome and then a train back to the airport but all this would cost quite a bit and probably lead to my dad’s early demise. What would we do with our bags? We could go spend the entire day hanging out at the airport! Please, anything but that.So, late last night I decided to rent a car. I could run to the airport in the morning (it is only 5k) pick up the car and we could do a little exploring. This would solve the luggage problem as well as keep me from walking dad to death. I dragged myself out of bed this morning and set out to run to the airport. I took my passport, driver’s license and credit card (I booked the car online the night before). I felt impressed to take along a few coins. Maybe I could buy a water at the airport. The run was going pretty well for the first 3k. Then I came to the bridge spanning a little river I don’t recall the name of. There was no sidewalk. A giant 4 lane overpass with no sidewalks and absolutely no shoulder. Dang it!

I ran around the approach to the bridge several times looking for a way across on foot. Nothing! I checked my Google Maps again and scrolled up and down the water way. Nothing! What idiot builds a massive multi-million dollar bridge with no way to cross on foot. You sir or madame are a jerk of the highest order but I forgive you… only because I have to. I thought about giving up and heading back to the hotel. It was 3k to the bridge and I’d covered another 3.5k running around looking for a way across that did not involve becoming road kill. I started looking for people to ask directions from. I love Europeans and their multi-lingual abilities. My entire Italian vocabulary consists of: grazie, prego, sucsimi, bonjourno and ciao (thank you, please, excuse me, hello and goodbye). After a couple conversations (and silent prayers) I learned that a city bus could take me across the bridge for a few coins (glad I brought that change with me). I had to find the bus stop and I had to wait 20 minutes to catch it but awesome! I’d googled it the day before but the local bus schedule is not in Google Maps (giving me the impression there was no city bus to the airport).

I rented a little 2-door Fiat 500. Europeans like their manual transmissions it seems. The last time I drove a stick was in London. I’m not going to lie. I stalled it a couple times but may have also had a little fun on the winding Italian roads. The Romans sure built some great roads. It’s too bad that they haven’t repaired them since the empire fell! The worst roads I’ve ever driven on. Worse than Prince George even.

We drove down to the beach in Ostia, rolled the windows down and cruised the coastal road with the music from my iPod humming in the background. We found a public beach and walked down to the water. A beautifully warm November day. I removed my shoes and waded in the cool waves of the Mediterranean. Sadly the beach reminded me of the UAE, a filthy mess. Rome is essentially an open garbage can and it seems to be the same here. The beach was pretty bad. Despite this there were several people enjoying the day. Kids were playing tag on the beach, lovers making out in the sand, deeply leather browned sun bathers worked on their cancer.

Once we had enough of the beach we decided to take a road trip down to the coastal city of Anzio. The road follows the coast closely in that direction. We took our time and drove with the windows down. Dad snapped pictures from the moving vehicle and I expertly avoided the car sized potholes. We stopped at a gas station in Anzio and got a few snacks. Then it was back to the airport to wish Italy goodbye. Turns out our flight has been delayed several hours. We’ll roll into Delhi about 9am and I’ll go straight to a long board meeting. I may be a little sleep deprived when I write next. Should make for an interesting read.

 

A beach in Ostia, Italy

 

A beach in Ostia, Italy

 

Best airport chairs ever

 

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