Saying Good-bye Is Easy

By Kathie Sutherland

While creating this manuscript, I’ve returned again and again to the view from the back window of our old green Chevrolet. I’ve revisited the streets where we lived, peeked into the lighted windows of old friends’ homes, and haunted old playgrounds and schoolyards. Now, as an elder watching my early life dwindling in the distance of time, I continue to watch for the next place on my life path as if I’m looking past my father’s broad shoulders and reading the highway signs.

I have learned strength, resilience, and adaptability from my early experience as an army brat. I recognize how blessed I am to have emerged from a transient childhood able to release the old, flow in the moment, and look to the future without apprehension. On days when I’m lonely, troubled, or restless, the nomad child within comes to me, and with the warm, soothing weight of her arm across my shoulders, whispers, “You are safe here. Everything is going to be all right!”

I am no longer a little girl with a military past. I’ve aged with grace and become a mature individual who observes life and people with compassion, possesses an eye for beauty, and cherishes my gift for word painting the world around me. I am grateful for my rich, creative life.

If you glimpse my nomad child in a field somewhere, meet her there, as Rumi suggests. Help her gather up the scattered pieces of her soul, and see them as dandelion seeds carried on the wind. Tell her she is free to root herself in the soil of my storyland.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dream Write Publishing
• Release date: Oct 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9781988723891

Book preview

This book takes the reader on a journey through time, situations, and family dynamics. Told through a series of short stories, the message in the book is resilience. I found myself relating the stories, situations, and deep emotional insights revealed through the brilliant weaving of character and situation. Well worth the journey! – b. b.

The author describes herself as a story in progress and readers who look for metaphorical writing and highly descriptive passages will be satisfied! Curious readers will be intrigued because they are not privy to points where fact and fiction blend. Whatever the cause, if you had a childhood punctuated by frequent moves, this book will also resonate with you.

The author’s descriptions of her father’s battle experiences in World War II and the effects on his life (and hers) are a testament to her admiration and respect for him and for her strong, supportive mother. The book is a powerful reminder of the sacrifice service men, women, and their families make, bringing poignant significance to the term co-service.- s. k.

If you order this, make sure you pick a comfy chair - it’s a hard one to put down! Beautiful and haunting imagery, very well-written. Fascinating stories of military life in Canada.

The chapter Waabigwan the Little Flower offers a glimpse into the Residential School System; and I feel should be mandatory reading for any Canadian. - anonymous

A compelling, complex, and enlightening narrative, full of truths, struggles, and internal emotions. Every reader will find a connection with the struggles, highs, and lows of the narrator. A courageous, heartfelt, and revealing story, told in short stories and reflections.

This book will change your outlook on your life and your life’s path. - m. b.

A haunting book about growing up as an army brat post WWII in Canada and how it affected the protagonist throughout their life. It was moving and thought provoking. The chapter that includes an interview with a residential school survivor was tragic and a must read for those who want to hear a first-hand experience to understand the trauma that came to those Native children forced to attend them.

- t. p.

I laughed, cried, felt sympathy and empathy for our naivety and the heartless way people treat others. - c. s.

Thank you for the wonderful book you have written. Reading your book has made me realize why I have some of the emotions I do. I am seventy years old and still make my bed military style! - j. b.

Thank You and Acknowledgments

Many thanks to my friend and fellow writer, the late Lori Lavallee, Past President of the Alberta Writers Guild, who provided editorial assistance, posed thought-provoking questions, and inspired ideas in the early stages of manuscript development. I continue to hear her whispers in my writing life. I acknowledge the Alberta Foundation for the Arts for providing me with financial assistance when the manuscript was in its infancy.

I appreciate Mandy and Linda and the Writers Foundation of Strathcona County, Dianne and Maria and the Fort Saskatchewan Writers Group, whose editorial feedback and suggestions helped me polish and shape the manuscript. I am indebted to beta reader, Barb, for cheering me on. I acknowledge the many friends, who have given generously of their love and encouragement: Moneca, Glenda, the Pool Ladies, and my old lady friends in a local Reminiscence Group.

Thanks so much to Edmonton writing mentors Eunice Scarfe, Pierrette Requier, Shirley Serviss, Margaret MacPherson, and Richard Van Camp, who aroused my Muse so I could write the stories I choose and find meaning in them.

Mary Edwards Wertsch’s insightful book, Military Brats: Legacies of Childhood Inside the Fortress, provided answers to questions I didn’t know I had. I am very grateful for Ms. Wertsch’s knowledge about the culture of the military and how it affects everyone in the family. Many spiritual and psychological mentors have provided guidance and insight and affirmed my courage to walk back into my past.

I am at a loss for words to express the love and kindness I receive from mentors like John, Bob, Jodi, and many others. My family deserves the greatest recognition for their sustaining cooperation, help, inspiration, and acceptance of the time it takes to compose and polish a book like this. I love you.

I love my first family without reservation because these stories would never have happened without you.

Disclaimer

My memory is fickle and unreliable.

Exact recollection of places, events, conversations, and chronology fades as I age. With trembling fingers, my mind rummages through the memories. The silvery dust of blissful blindness had been blown away by reality, but body memories, emotions, and the quiet voice of my soul remain unchanged.

I have imagined some story circumstances to help me understand the meaning of events in my life. I’ve woven these soul stories into a narrative without any pretense of exact truth.

Kathie Sutherland July 28, 2021

A thing may happen and be a total lie; another thing may not happen and be truer than the truth.

- Tim O’Brien, The Things They Carried

Introduction Perspectives on the Past

While creating this manuscript, I’ve returned again and again to the view from the back window of our old green Chevrolet. I’ve revisited the streets where we lived, peeked into the lighted windows of old friends’ homes, and haunted old playgrounds and schoolyards. Now, as an elder watching my early life dwindling in the distance of time, I continue to watch for the next place on my life path as if I’m looking past my father’s broad shoulders and reading the highway signs.

I have learned strength, resilience, and adaptability from my early experience as an army brat. I recognize how blessed I am to have emerged from a transient childhood able to release the old, flow in the moment, and look to the future without apprehension. On days when I’m lonely, troubled, or restless, the nomad child within comes to me, and with the warm, soothing weight of her arm across my shoulders, whispers, You are safe here. Everything is going to be all right!

I am no longer a little girl with a military past. I’ve aged with grace and become a mature individual who observes life and people with compassion, possesses an eye for beauty, and cherishes my gift for word painting the world around me. I am grateful for my rich, creative life.

If you glimpse my nomad child in a field somewhere, meet her there, as Rumi suggests. Help her gather up the scattered pieces of her soul and see them as dandelion seeds carried on the wind. Tell her she is free to root herself in the soil of my storyland.

Canadian Forces Base

Namao May2007

Debrief

Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry regiment arrives home from Afghanistan on a sunny spring day in 2007. I arrive at Canadian Forces Base Namao at 09:00 hours. I’ve come to hang up a poster at the Military Resource Centre to request assistance from other adults who grew up in a family with a member serving in the Canadian Army, Navy, or Air Force in the 1950s and ‘60s. I want to know if we have experiences and feelings to share.

Today, the door to the Centre is closed and locked, but every available parking spot outside the building is occupied, both in the lot and on the side streets, and I park a block away, so I don’t get stuck in the crowd when it’s time to leave. A brisk, warm wind jangles the toggles that secure the red and white Canadian maple leaf flag to the lanyards on the pole. Along the highway, barriers are set up to regulate the gathering crowd: pockets of children play tag with each other, harried mothers push strollers with fussy babies, and grey-haired parents with small Canadian flags tucked behind their ears watch from lawn chairs. They all hope to glimpse a soldier’s face.

I feel a tightness in my throat as police cars with their red and blue lights flashing brilliantly appear in the distance. The atmosphere is expectant. The cruisers are followed by busses and official Canadian Forces vehicles, all of which loom closer and closer. Everyone, including me, begins to cheer, smile, and wave. The faces of those on the bus are indistinct outlines behind the recruitment advertising on the side, but I imagine the men and women behind the glass are waving back, glad to be home. They search the crowd for the smiles of their wives or husbands, their kids, and the welcoming parents who have been waiting so long for their return.

I am caught off-guard when sudden tears well up in my eyes. Over the past few years, I’ve been writing the story of my father’s career in the Army, during and after World War II. I can picture him coming home from Europe when my grandparents, aunt, uncle, and friends welcomed him with open arms. A whole generation of young soldiers walked off the troop trains into the arms of their families. On the battlefield, each mission requires control of thought. Their freedom to embrace precious moments, to dream of the future, and to express their needs and gifts was denied them. But the day they returned was their day. They were finally coming home. They wanted to slip back into their identities as unique individuals in a civilian life. Even though they hoped to stroll down the same streets with the same friends, sleep in their own beds, renew their relationships with their wives, and play with their children at the park, the world at home had changed in their absence. The days of discipline, comradery, and group solidarity had come to an end. The return to a life of nurturing, reconnecting, and beginning again was a monumental task for every one of them.

Now, here I am, welcoming home men and women I don’t know as if I’m a part of their family, too. I feel part of the military fanfare and the familiar khaki uniforms, shined boots, and brush cuts. All those families at the Resource Centre lining the streets today are like mine used to be, stamped in co-service in a way few civilians understand. Their entire lives serve the military machine and its mission.

My father, Sergeant Emmett S. Hill Regimental #C9700RCD worked in the Canadian Army Dental Corps and that meant we posted out to Canadian Forces Bases where my friends’ dads marched off to work in Air Force blue-gray or Navy blue. Sometimes he worked on ships at sea or at distant outposts in Canada’s north, but he always dressed smartly in his khaki-coloured Army uniform. He took pride in his ability as a Dental Assistant. He kept his kit in immaculate condition and his person tidy and disciplined. Back straight and arms swinging, he pulled his cap visor low to keep the sun out of his eyes as he made his way to the Base Hospital to tend to his duties.

Children like me who grow up in a military family with a parent in the services sometimes identify themselves and other children they know as Army Brats. The word brat has a negative connotation for some people. It is typically used when describing badly behaved children. In my mind, brat is a not necessarily a derogatory term wrongly associated with children with a military background; for me, it’s a connection to others like myself.

Military life is not always what it seems. Armed Forces members are focused on group identity, mission goals, and the hierarchy of rank. Spouses and children are expected to fall into line with this lifestyle. My spit-shined father’s professionalism was true to military expectations. Within our family, he was a gentle man who loved his kids, built snowmen in the yard with them, and helped my mother in the kitchen at Christmas sometimes by chopping vegetables for dinner and sometimes slicing maraschino cherries to make fruit cake.

When soldiers returned to Canada from Europe at the end of World War II, men like my father kept their war wounds secret and put on a mask of stoic acceptance so they could get on with life. The effects of war simmered just beneath the surface of our lives. As an Army brat, I absorbed the atmosphere of the military but was too young to understand the full story of my dad’s service in battle zones overseas when he carried out his duties as a Bren Gunner and later as a Stretcher Bearer.

War and its trauma were never far from his heart. He hesitated to make friends, sat stony-faced when watching Remembrance Day services on TV, and withdrew from family life on battle anniversaries. Sometimes he wept silently when he thought we didn’t see his tears. He repeatedly read Erich Maria Remarque’s accounts of trench warfare in All Quiet on the Western Front because stories of war made him feel connected to others with similar wounds.

In 1995, when I began to write about growing up in a military family, I researched his service record for clues about the history of his regiment, the Lincoln & Welland. I pored over accounts of the horrific battles they fought in Europe, particularly in Holland toward the end of the war. When I urged my mother to fill in the details of his service, she told me stories that bridged Sgt. E. S. Hill to the father I loved, whose eyes filled with tears at the drop of an emotional hat. Through these conflicting experiences, he lived with both uncertainty and stability. The person he became in the process was at odds. A calm exterior one minute, followed by a second, stormy moment inside his mind.

Today as I write, I hear him speaking to me in clipped military lingo punctuated with colourful swear words…

"Well, Sweetheart, I’m glad you’ll never know the broken boy I left behind in Holland. When I enlisted at 17-years-old, I knew nothing about life, nothing about women except for my mother and my sister, nothing about the big wide world. I had just learned to drive. I dreamt of marrying a nice girl and starting a family. Your grandparents raised me to be kind, honest, and respectful. In my naivety, I left for Europe believing I was doing the right thing. We all signed up to stop the advance of Hitler’s army, but we were only kids with a kids’ view of the world. We were the good guys defeating the bad guys. Battles were heroic for me even when I was young, when I acted out mock combat scenes with my World War I tin soldiers, sure of their success. For me, everything was crystal clear; we were on the right side and the Nazis were on the wrong side. It was all black and white. But as a soldier myself, I realized quickly it wasn’t like that.

War makes people do things they wouldn’t normally do. Once, when the boys in my unit stole gold-plated crosses from bombed- out cathedrals to take home as souvenirs, I objected and they jeered at me, calling me, Chicken Shit." They were just kids hopped up on power. Another time, one of the boys pocketed a Luger handgun stolen from a dead German. I protested and told him he’d never get it past inspections, but my protests ended in a fistfight. One time, when my buddies invited me to join them for beer and a visit to the hookers at an Antwerp whorehouse, I blushed and offered to hold their jackets while they were busy upstairs having fun. I stared at my feet rather than eye the half-naked women posing for them. Earlier that day, the boys tried to loosen me up with booze and cigarettes, but I couldn’t handle my liquor and puked on the floor in front of everyone. Even the whores laughed. A year or two later, my friends insisted the world was Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition. And I agreed. I, myself, was FUBAR.

"War shows the gawd-awful bastards people can be. War is about killing and maiming but lots of guys were excited by it. I have experienced the same raw exhilaration. If I am truthful about it, I liked the ultimate power of taking life, but the reality is now I’m haunted by the idea that I enjoyed killing. My friends used to keep kill counts for the day. The man who killed the highest number of people won. I was eager to win the game of turning human lives into statistics so I could win a cheap beer when we took leave behind the war zone. When they cheered me on, I saw that we all had these sick achievement fantasies. But that was before I took on the Stretcher Bearer role. Now I know better. Every skirmish is about surviving the fight and then feeling relieved that your luck held.

"I couldn’t share dark stories with you kids. If I told any stories, they were mild. No way I was going to steal your innocence, so I kept the worst of them to myself. I kept silent because I didn’t want you to know.

"You’re writing it all down, right? Make sure your kids know war is hell and not the stuff of video games. Tell them ‘Call of Duty’ is just a game. Heaven knows, it’s not play. It’s the worst form of hell come true.

"The Princess Pats returning from Afghanistan today know the cost of doing the Army’s business; all soldiers know. In every war since the beginning of time, soldiers keep going because they want to go home. That’s how they stay alive.

So, you see, Sweetie, I’m glad you were there at Namao to welcome young soldiers back to their home country. I know what it means to them. I also know the hardest thing about coming home is returning without the friends who gave you the strength to keep on going. They are the pillars that support us, and it is difficult to stand when they have fallen.

Kapelsche Veer, Holland

January 25-30, 1944

War Zone

Daddy

I’m dog tired. As the Brits would say, my eyes are like two piss holes in the snow. After these last three nights without sleep, I see shadows slipping by in my peripherals, hear whispers when I’m alone on sentry duty or imagine a whiff of cigarette smoke on the wind – all phantoms in the darkness.

Last night, out in the pitch-dark night, I heard rasping. I listened for the longest time, thinking it might be Gerry on reconnaissance. The sign/countersign codes used by our men were meant to identify friendly forces when visual contact couldn’t be established. The sign Thunder was to be countersigned with the response Storm. I called out the challenge. No response. My ears pushed against the silence, straining to pick out the password Storm! But there was only grinding, like a file on metal. I called a little louder, Thunder! By now, my hands are shaking, and the barrel of my Enfield is wavering. Still no response. I steady the rifle. Blam. A grunt. A thump. Whatever it is, it’s dead.

My guts are twitching. I’ve got the shits. My buddy, Red, says he’s so hungry he could eat the asshole out of a skunk, hair and all. Even our jokes are sick. We wolfed down a hunk of black bread last night after sentry duty, and I puked it up.

I’m so fucking sick of following senseless orders without question. First, it’s hurry up. Get ready for the assault. Then it’s up with the scouting. Bust your hump. Hustle out to ‘No Man’s Land.’ Pick up last night’s casualties. Wait for days until the field kitchens bring up grub. Wait for the engineers to build bridges for the tanks. Wait for medical supplies. Wait for the mail. Wait for dry socks. But none of it happens. We’re still cold, wet, and hungry. Fuck me!

We were part of Operation ELEPHANT, a plan of attack by the First Canadian Army to clear a small island north of the Maas River in Holland, known as Kapelsche Veer. The Canadian regiments fought hard in difficult conditions and suffered high casualties. On the morning of the 31st of January 1945, the one hundred and fifty German paratroopers, who held a strong defensive position between two bombed out brick houses codenamed Grapes and Raspberry, were to be driven from the island.

General John Crocker, Commander, 1st British Corps, feared the Germans might attempt an enemy assault. He wanted this defensive position eliminated.

The flat, low-lying island offered no cover aside from deep dykes and was notoriously cold, windy, and water-logged in the winter. Orders for Operation ELEPHANT included the Lincoln & Welland Regiment, The Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders of Canada, and the South Alberta Regiment. We were told the attack would commence at 7:30 AM on the 26th of January, A and C Companies of the Lincoln & Wellands attacking the eastern end of the island, with B Company crossing onto the centre of the island. D Company would be kept in reserve as reinforcements if needed—the goal being a pincer movement on the enemy’s position.

Meanwhile, sixty Canadian army volunteers were ordered to set out in four-man canoes at the island’s eastern tip and paddle westward toward the harbour, ultimately digging in where they could prevent German reinforcements from crossing over by ferry onto the island. Because the canoe ‘commando’ would come into range of German troops on both banks of the river and the three rifle companies would be exposed on top of the dikes, a thick smoke screen was to be used to provide cover.

Today, just after dawn, Lieutenant Nelson volunteered a new recruit to tag along with me as a Stretcher Bearer. Davis and I were ordered to shoulder our stretchers and slog through the muck on recovery duty. About ten yards out, I found a dead cow. Shot through the head, grass still hanging from its mouth. No wonder it couldn’t respond to the Challenge! Davis elbows me. It’s all I can do to keep my mouth shut and stifle my hysterics. We were all wound up pretty tight, but we still had to maintain silence, you know? I should have recognized the grinding of cud-chewing cows. God knows, I tugged thousands of teats when I worked on my uncles’ dairy herds back home. Guess I am out of practice.

Now it’s getting dark. Davis and I have been out and back, four or five times. The gumbo sticks to my boots and then feels like dragging concrete. It makes for slow going. Last trip out, I stumble. Look down. A grey face clotted with mud is lying there and it reminds me of a theatre mask. No torso. No legs. No arms or hands. Only a head, without a scratch on it. I feel around in the soup of muck looking for body parts. Empty handed, I turn away, soul-deep weariness on my shoulders. A few steps away at the base of the dike I find dog tags without a body. I tell Davis that we sometimes can’t find bodies because the gumbo sucks them down below the surface and covers them. He looks like he’s going to be sick.

Sure, we find living souls, sometimes our own buddies, sometimes the enemy. Their shrieks of pain and their low death moans stay with me. I hear them calling, Stretcher Bearer, help me! Some of these kids had smooth faces that had never seen a razor and they cried, Mama! Mama! One guy sticks in my memory because he only lasted a couple of minutes with his guts spilling out onto the ground. The gut shots are the worst.

Davis and I spot a burned-out Panzer tank within jogging distance of the ambulance unit, so we crawl under it out of the sleet falling in pellets. I’d like a little shut-eye while we wait but Davis is a motor-mouth. He’s got a bad case of nerves.

Hey, Sergeant! What would you give for a cup of hot coffee?! How about a steak, rare, with mashed potatoes and gravy?! My stomach growls. I’ve been nibbling on a small piece of cloth-wrapped chocolate from my kit, and his question makes me hungrier. Shut up, Davis!

I’d rather hunker down in a slit trench with my Bren gun and my friend, Red McDuff. He and I took basic training at Borden together. That man is so calm. His nickname suits him because of his hair; it’s the colour of carrots. He’s not a fiery type of red-head. He’s gotta be the only soldier I’ve met who understands me. He’s shy, like I am. Got teased when he walked to school, like me. We laugh at the same things. We even drink the same beer, Carling Black Label. We try to make it better for each other by sharing dry socks or cookies in parcels from back home. He wants to be an accountant after the war. Maybe we’ll set up a business.

I haven’t seen him in a few days. He’s at the bridgehead haulin’ ass with the gunners in Company B. He’s dug in, if you can call it that, with the ground frozen and ice forming on the river the way it is. They’re trying to keep the Germans from ferrying ammo and supplies across to the Island.

Hey, Sergeant! It’s Sergeant Hill right? Davis punches me in the arm. How come they call you Pops?

Look Davis, you can count right? The rookies coming down the pipe are kids like you, babies out of diapers! They don’t know their arses from holes in the ground. The fucking Germans have advantage, both sides of the river. They keep mowing our battalions down. The Lincoln & Welland are strong and tough but when B and C re-climb the dykes for the assault when it comes, they’ll be sitting ducks. I hope the tanks don’t get bogged down in the river mud or sunk at the bridgehead. The German machine guns and mortars are making mincemeat out of us, man. I’m twenty-five years old, and I know every one of the guys in the regiment. I’m an old hand at this. That’s why I have the ‘Pops’ handle. You get it? I shake my head.

He tents a match in his palm and lights a smoke. He stays quiet for a few seconds. Thank God. But it was only momentary since he said immediately afterwards, Pops? You got a girl?

I’m not going to sleep, and I know it. So, I thought okay, I’ll humour the kid! Talk makes the time go by anyway.

Once. We only dated for a little while. In England. I’d been assigned from Dental Clinic to running buckets filled with amputated arms and other chopped-off body parts from the operating rooms to the incinerators at the Rehabilitation Hospital. I met this woman at a Red Cross dance. June Foster was a real looker. Black wavy hair. Legs up to here. She dumped me for an RAF officer.

No shit! What a crappy deal!

"I stopped grousing after a few weeks and said, ‘Fuck it!’ I’d been thinking about volunteering for active service instead of feeling helpless every time we received a new load of carnage. When she told me to screw off, I dropped my Sergeant stripes and stepped up for active duty. I trained on the Bren gun for a week, and they shipped me over here where the bloodshed was more horrific than at any hospital. When the Captain found out I was medical trained, they volunteered me to this unit.

How long have you been off the boat? I ask Davis to keep his mind busy.

I watch his tight mouth and trembling chin. He’s losing it. Three months. I took basic at Borden. Shipped out in a month. Arrived in Liverpool a week later.

I tell him how Standing Orders are for us to keep the Red Cross vests