Marble Orchards

                My Grandfather had an interesting expression regarding cemeteries; he called them ‘Marble Orchards’.  It was an apt comparison. Cemeteries evoke scenes of rural, pastoral tranquility. Fields of manicured green punctuated not by sheaves of wheat nor laden fruit trees, but rather rows of cold marble and etched stone. Peaceful, serene, calm, and visually appealing, the War Cemeteries of Europe coax you into a state of ease, making it possible to forget that on the very ground that those calm orchards occupy, there was a terrible harvest. Human beings make a very bitter crop.

                Vimy Ridge is an astonishing place. It is sovereign Canadian soil, a national park, given to our nation as thanks for the successful capture of the German line. The French and the British had tried in vain for several years to break the German hold in Arras, France, without success. It took the Canadian Corps three days of systematic shelling, followed by infantry charges, from April 9-12 1917, before the Allies held the high ground at last. It was the first ever all Canadian action in our country’s history. Many believe that Canada as a nation was born in the blood and screaming of that ridge. That could very well be, but it was a costly endeavour. One just has to stroll about the grounds. Row upon row of plain unadorned stones mark the final resting places of many. Some of the fallen were known and identifiable. Others were not, being little more than mangled heaps of flesh, graves marked simply “Known unto God”. The ages range from 15 on up. It is sobering. There is no wonder why, on the stunning monument, the fragile figure of “Canada” stands weeping between the columns, shedding tears for her sons stolen from her. 3,598 men from the Canadian Corps died during those three days. The number of German dead was never recorded, but the moving wall of shells would have taken a bloody toll.

                Brad and I had no direct connection to the battlefield. My Great Grandfather was taken prisoner at Passchendaele, and took no part in the victory of April 12^th. Regardless, I felt it was appropriate to uncork a bottle of Vin de Pays, pour a dollop for myself, for Brad, and feed the rest to the soil, homage to the fallen of both sides.

                As we threaded our way across the North of France, the scars of both wars were evident; French beaches sit under the ominous glare of aging pill boxes and machine gun nests. Dieppe held special significance for me. My paternal grandfather was a member of the Royal Hamilton Light Infantry, and on August 19^th, 1942, he made landfall on the beach, charging into a hail of German bullets with his gun and radio. Shot in the face, he took refuge under the body of his best friend, who had been less lucky. He lay there all day, taking fire, making radio calls back to command, staying alive. The Germans, safe on the cliff tops, rained death down onto the beach. He watched as the Spitfires came screaming in, the pilots risking their own lives to provide what scant covering fire they could to the desperate and embattled troops on the ground. He watched men die around him. He watched as the rescue boats hove into view, signalling the end of the poorly planned operation. He ran, on a leg filled with shrapnel, into the surf. Unable to swim, he was hauled by other brave and desperate men into one of the boats, only to have to abandon ship moments later when a dive-bombing Stuka sank it. Again, other men risked their lives to drag him through the water into another rescue craft, and safety. He made it, at long last, bloodied and broken, and would carry the scars of that day forward, suffering flashbacks and alcoholism until he died at 52 years of age.

                The cemetery at Dieppe sits quietly away from the bustle of the village, near to the sea. Less grand than Vimy, it is still a place of quiet reflection. Brad and I signed the log book provided, and I read the other inscriptions. Many others had come there in search of a familial connection. Not all men were as fortunate as Ernest Ludkin; of the 5,000 Canadians who landed that day, 3,367 were casualties. I cried quietly, smelling the crisp clean air off the English Channel, as I thought of what my Grandfather had endured that day. Although I had never met the man, I was close to him at that moment. I once again watered the soil with red wine, a tribute to the fallen on both sides of the line.

                Not all war cemeteries are located in the north of France, however, and at the bequest of my maternal Grandfather, I went in search of a Marble Orchard in the Italian heartland. Cesena was a small Italian city taken by the Canadians as they marched north, driving the Germans ahead of them. My Papa was a young man of 16, and was not able to enlist, but his best friend, Harley Duff, was 18, and went off to fight for King and country. This farm boy from Binbrook never came home. After the battle he lay in a field, recovering. A stray shell whistled into the air, snuffing out his young life. My Grandfather asked me to find his friend, and so I did, closing a circle that had lain open and heavy on my grandfather’s mind for 60 years. I was able to say “goodbye” to Harley from Red, helping to heal a very old wound.

                And so, the Marble Orchards sit, allowing us to reflect upon the folly and tragedy of the Human experience. So many bitter harvests, so many poisoned fruits; and lessons never really learned.