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Illustration by Alex Deadman-Wylie
Split up, we wander searching for names, part of an evolving scrum at the Menin Gate in Ypres, Belgium. This is a major stop on a First and Second World War battle-fields tour following a bike tour along the Moselle Valley in Germany.
The Gate, originally a portal, a fortification and a roadway into the medieval town of Ypres, is now a barrel-vaulted commemorative passageway recognizing more than 54,000 missing or dead Commonwealth soldiers of which more than 6,000 are Canadian. It was completed in 1927.
Names of the fallen are carved in stone inside the vault walls stretching to the arches seven metres overhead. Visitors hunt for names. All search on the exterior walls of the gates and on the parapets leading to the gates. Names everywhere, never ending. The unfortunates fertilize the lush rolling countryside in the area, all of which at one time or another served as battlefields on a front that shifted at the speed of tectonic plates – each movement fuelled by collective slaughter.
Francoise and I dodge family groups that chatter, “Did you look there? What about there?” And “Wait a minute, look up there, no, a little to the left. That’s it. I wish we could touch it.”
When a name is found, family search chatter stops. A group is silent, postures reflective – pilgrims at a shrine. Hands need to touch the name carved in stone. A cold human connection is made with a great uncle or a distant cousin. Perhaps there are tears for the loss, the futility or the absurd slaughter. Photos are taken of the name then people move on. Their journey ends. Present day conflicts show us that humankind has not learned.
We find the search guide, organized by country and battalion, and quickly find Lorne V Frood, my grandfather’s youngest brother who enlisted in September, 1914, in the Eastern Ontario Regiment, 2nd Battalion. He was an early adopter, swept up in an adventure where the boys would be home for Christmas. His service record notes he died around April 4, 1915, with the terse confirmation, “Previously reported missing, now for official purposes presumed to have died. Location: the trenches in the vicinity of St Julien.” He was still a teenager.
We find the carved name of Clarence Boyd Frood, slightly older than Lorne, in his early 20s. He joined the 4th Canadian Mounted Rifles in July, 1915, shortly after learning of Lorne’s death. Boyd died 13 months later “on or since a June 2, 1916, attack near Mount Sorrel.” This was part of the 2nd Battle of the Somme. The Official History of the Canadian Expeditionary Force notes that there was an 89-per-cent casualty rate (of the battalion) with only 76 of 702 coming through the conflict unscathed. It was also one of the earliest gas attacks.
We stop, touch and reflect. Then we slowly retreat to a nearby bistro for supper. We would return to the Menin Gate for the 8 p.m. daily Last Post Ceremony.
The bright bistro served good food, but the experience was jarring. We ordered in French, but the servers responded to us in English. Are we simply tagged as being from away, with a polite default to English? Then I wondered, perhaps this is a Flemish bistro. Perhaps the linguistic and cultural divides in Belgium play themselves out through the service provided. French was not welcome – perhaps a microcosm of divides that can escalate into brutal wars. But I am not sure, I do not understand the codes.
I am glad we toured the battlefields, museums and commemorative sites in France and Belgium. It connected me to the struggles of my parents and grandparents’ generations. I realized as well that the most significant moments of the trip were the visits to the actual battlefields where my great uncles died. I was surprised by how I felt at St. Julien and Mount Sorrel – a sense of loss, a sense of sadness, a sense of life potential denied. At these sites, trees rustled with the breeze while the surrounding fields swayed to the rhythm of occasional chirps, peeps and flutters from birds. Nature throbbed with the forces of renewal.
I can never know my great uncles. There is nothing in family records about them. There was never any discussion about them. They did not live long enough to launch careers or create a public record of accomplishments. They are simply names in a family genealogy – and names among others noted at places of commemoration. Grief absorbed, the Frood family moved on.
I now realize my previous participation in Remembrance Day ceremonies in Renfrew, Ont., are the most authentic acts of remembrance for me. The Frood family joins six other families in Renfrew with two sons on the Cenotaph – the Bremner, Dempsey, Anderson, Wight, McGowan and Smith families. The McIntyres lost three. The pomp and circumstance are neighbourly, local and personal. All these names, scratched in stone speak to the senseless loss in communities throughout Canada. When do we learn to reach across divides to reconcile and seek peace?
Peter Frood lives in Ottawa.
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