Columns
November 06, 2008 12:36 AM
My father was typical of many of Canada’s veterans, very unassuming about his wartime role and seldom speaking of what he observed and what happened to him.
He would speak of it in snippets, a short story about being on a large ship going overseas to England from Canada and being forced to eat rabbit meat, or a little anecdote about a pilot he remembered.
My brother and I grew up knowing that he served as a radar technician with the RAF, but little else. As he got older and we became adults, he shared a few more of his stories, and some were hair-raising, others eye-opening.
I recall one dinner we shared which included a glass of wine for each of us (normally he didn’t touch the stuff) and suddenly he shared an emotional scene which shocked me.
He and all the other men at the base on the English coastline were forbidden to walk on the beach, as they’d be open targets for enemy planes.
But one beautiful summer day several of his buddies broke the rules and on the way to the breakfast mess hall, they just took a short detour to walk along the sand.
Out of the sky descended a German plane, and my father — who apparently had obeyed the rules — watched in horror as his friends were strafed down.
Suddenly I saw my father in a new light and realized that just like thousands of other Canadian men and women, he had literally put himself in harm’s way to do his duty and protect freedom — lofty-sounding ideals to be sure, but very real to two generations of soldiers. (And I know very real to the peacekeepers of today, as well.)
My father spent his final years close to me in a Richmond Hill retirement home, proudly watching his five grandchildren growing into fine young people.
He had always marched with other vets in the Toronto Remembrance Day parades, but in his 80s found the winds too cold and the standing too hard.
When my daughter was in her Grade 10 year at Bayview Secondary, she told her history teacher that her grandfather was a war vet and an invitation came for him to speak to her history class about his experiences.
A former teacher, grandpa was more than willing, but confessed to me that he was embarrassed that he didn’t have any medals to show for his effort, just a few service pins.
So I got online to Veterans Affairs and found out that indeed, he had qualified for three medals.
Arrangements were made to have them quickly sent to his retirement home, but held secretly for me and not delivered to him.
My daughter and I waited anxiously to see if they would arrive in time, and just a day or so before the speaking engagement, my daughter took the call from a friendly government lady saying that the medals would be delivered the next day.
So it was that, with maps of England pasted on the blackboard, my father was in full flight, telling a room full of young teenagers about his wartime experiences.
He tolerated one interruption, when a TV cameraman and reporter from a Toronto station noisily came into the classroom, but was totally stopped in his tracks when suddenly, my daughter got up from her seat and presented him with three shiny medals and I pinned them on his jacket.
To say he was stunned was an understatement.
The students all clapped, the camera rolled, and a tiny piece of history was made.
Eugene Gattinger had a small, tangible thank you from our government and all Canadians for his efforts so many decades ago.
He’s gone now, but every Remembrance Day I attend our local service at the cenotaph and say my private thanks for what he and thousands of others did for us.
And at least before he died, he was proudly able to wear his war medals.