Remembering them

Our last week away from the County is being spent on a military base in Manitoba. Yep, we’re at CFB Shiloh. It’s not exactly a vacation mecca. In true Canadian military fashion, it’s almost indistinguishable from most other CFBs in Canada. This is where MCOM (Military Children of Mine), aka The Girlies, live. This is the life they have chosen. They support each other and serve their country. One is a civilian cook and the other a military medic. They talk the talk. Their home, here, looks pretty much the same as their home did at CFB Kingston. They’re living their dream.

As a parent, I wonder why a person chooses the military. But to be honest, I have also wondered why our other children chose to do what they do. Our daughter-inlaw came from a military family. Her entire life has been CFBs, PMQs, duffle bags, camouflage wear, IMPs, drills, postings and deployments. On the other hand, our daughter’s life wasn’t military. LOML was a teacher and I did whatever I felt like doing, but cooking has always been a passion of mine. The nut doesn’t fall too far from the tree. When I was younger, the recruiter frequently came to the secondary school I attended. “Attention seniors, the recruiter will be in room 110 until noon today. If you wish to speak with him about joining the navy, army or air force, please speak with your homeroom teacher for an appointment and a hall pass.” No one in my senior class ever spoke to our homeroom teacher about an appointment with the recruiter, even if it meant they’d get the precious hall pass. I was often tempted to speak to the recruiter, but I wasn’t sure I liked where a girl fit into the army, navy or air force. The idea of being a military nurse or a supply clerk didn’t appeal to me, to say nothing of the women’s uniforms.

In the sixties, women did women’s work in the military, and in most workplace settings. Who knows, maybe I was ahead of my time because I wanted a more active, exciting role in my life. I wanted to fly the planes, not type memos about them. I wanted to crawl through the mud, not run the laundry at a base. I wanted carry a weapon, not requisition them. I wanted my life to be an adventure, with a soupçon of respect and maybe an exotic posting. I wasn’t looking for a high ranking male to manoeuvre me.

My dad was a military fellow. His father wasn’t, but Dad joined the Royal Canadian Air Force during World War II. He became a flight sergeant and a bombardier. After the war, he spoke of how he’d thought of making the air force a career, but the night flights and bombing raids pushed my dad away from that life. Sure, he was proud he’d served his country and was grateful for the education, but by the time he returned to post-war Canada, he’d had enough of the stress, the politics, the dying and the angst. He had a young family to care for, and traded his uniform for a suit.

My homeroom teacher was a military man my father knew and respected. I told my father I wanted to get permission from the major to speak to the recruiter. Dad told me I was, basically, the nut that fell too far from the tree. Dad didn’t think there was a need for the military after WWII. My homeroom teacher was a prime example of life after the military. Dad rarely spoke of his time in the air force, but that evening he told me it was no place for a girl. My dad never had the pleasure of meeting our daughter-in-law, the military medic, and he didn’t know our daughter as the civilian cook. It’s too bad. Dad would have had something to say about both of them for a variety of reasons, least of which was the military.

Both the girls are dedicated to, and proud of, their lives together and in service to Canada. As proud, I’m sure, as Dad was of his military service. For many years, on Remembrance Day, I celebrated the sacrifices and the contribution made by my dad, my father-in-law and my uncles during World War II. This November I will lovingly think of MCOM who are living and serving here at CFB Shiloh.

theresa@wellingtontimes.ca