A price so high... a love so deep... a peace so long

This year marks the 60th anniversary of the end of the Second World War. Canada has declared 2005 the 'Year of the Veteran' and the new war museum opened in Ottawa with special significance, reminding us of all the efforts made by so many to defend our country.

Each year we struggle to remember Remembrance Day as anything special beyond a symbolic one minute of silence in our public schools, on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month. As in most things in life, our memory becomes cloudy with time. As younger generations grow into adulthood, their perspective on this subject has deteriorated to an academic level which could be described as neglectful.

What was it like for a young man from small town Canada to be introduced to the stress of wholesale slaughter? To see, on a daily basis, his colleagues cut down, with the expectation of having to do some cutting down of his own? The need to care for the mental health of first responders and the military is a relatively new phenomenon. What counsel did war-time soldiers receive to relieve the trauma and stress of what they experienced?

Stress! What was it like to come home only half the man you were when you left, both physically and mentally? To start all over again when you could barely remember what you did before that great mess began?

These young men knew they had to get their lives back in line with a 'peace-time' world. Many police officers can relate to their experiences. Cops understand that receiving solace from officials, family and friends pales to the attention fellow officers give and receive. Like their war-time counterparts, cops can find it much easier to stand shoulder to shoulder beside the people who have shared experiences and stresses – but I have found there is a watershed of experiences that can cause an opposite effect.

Each year I remember stories from many of these old warriors. As much as I experienced as a cop, I cannot completely comprehend what it was like to be in my uncle's shoes as he laboured in the engine room of a Corvette in the cold North Atlantic. The shear terror of hearing the engine-room doors locked and sealed for battle readiness as the captain ordered an attack on yet another U-Boat is something I will fortunately never feel. Suffice it to say he never wished to go to an annual Haida reunion to relive the events.

I remember the stories of a much decorated neighbour who fought in almost every major battle. The stories came from neighbours, never from him. He never marched in the parades and his numerous decorations for bravery remained in a drawer. I also remember how he died an alcoholic. He was never physically alone but he must have felt his memories were something only he should bear.

The story that made the biggest impression on me was told by a minister friend, who probably felt I could understand. He flew Hurricanes in the famous Battle of Britain. During one particularly fearsome dog-fight, he saw a friend attempting to land his plane, which was on fire. He immediately landed beside him in a field, hoping he could assist, but the plane was engulfed in flames by the time he rolled to a stop. His friend was screaming and trying to open the canopy, which had become stuck.

John tried his best to get close enough to help dislodge it but was forced back by the intense heat and flames. In terror, he realized what his friend was yelling at him – he wanted to be shot. John struggled with this, the final wish of a dying friend, then drew his gun and managed to find the courage to end his suffering.

There is no better teacher than experience, he explained. Those who have not lived through the horrors of battle will never truly understand or be able to judge the variables of war, no matter how hard they try. I felt truly honoured that this man trusted me enough to share this story.

Stress! Do we really know what it means? This year, take some time to remember. Wear a poppy with pride or visit the new war museum, if only to thank those old guys, and all the young friends they left behind, for the years of peace their blood and courage bought us.