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My beginning as I remember

On January 29^th, 1915, a bank clerk aged 23 from St. John’s Newfoundland volunteered to join the newly created Royal Newfoundland Regiment following the British Empire declaration of war- the ‘Great War’ had commenced. This regiment of young men were under British command and within a few months were given a boisterous farewell by their proud family and friends as they were transported 5000 miles away to Gallipoli – the Dardanelles campaign- an unheard of destination for all. 

These young Newfoundlanders volunteered for King, country and adventure. The war was expected to be short- over within a year; instead these young men soon endured  trench warfare, daily bombardment, disease, harsh weather conditions and the never ending, haunting and foreboding cries of  dying and wounded comrades and enemy combatants.

Our young bank clerk within months at Gallipoli was struck by a piece of shrapnel in the chest pocket of his tunic. He should have died;  by chance, fate or divine intervention a coin, pen and notepad in his tunic pocket blunted the impact. He would survive to fight another day.

A few blood- stained months later the ill-conceived Gallipoli campaign was abandoned by the British command, and the young men of the Newfoundland Regiment would be transferred to the Western front and an even more brutish and deadly campaign at Baumont-hamel in France. Losses for this regiment surpassed over 50% in deaths and wounded.

Our young bank clerk, who had earlier escaped ‘certain death,’ had been promoted to Lance Corporal but in the ensuing months suffered a  lifelong disability. His participation in the ‘Great War’ had concluded. He would be sent home on a hospital ship; unlike most of his mates he would survive the carnage of  Gallipoli and Baumont -hamel. He would be reminded every day by his lifelong physical disability and the emotional trauma of trench warfare.

 In time, he returned to his previous employment as a bank clerk in New Liskeard in Northern Ontario and soon met and married a young woman, a pioneering female teacher. He soon was transferred to Toronto, and they would have their only child, a son who would be named after his father and grandfather- Ronald Mc Donald Lillie.

Within 10 years (1920s) his young wife suffered a progressive, mental health breakdown (likely schizophrenia) and would live the remainder of her life (over 50 years) locked in her own reality. As her illness deepened,  she drew a commitment from her husband, our young bank clerk, that he would not institutionalize her, a common consequence in that day. He kept his word, ever hopeful for a glimmer of positive change that never came.

In her realty, her son remained forever a 10 year old boy. Over time  family members who entered her life were given names from somewhere in her past – it was simply accepted as the way it was by all the family members. She called me Baby Edgar, and the son remained always her ‘million dollar baby’.

Their son surely struggled all his life to make sense of his childhood and by the age of 20 was married. They had a child in 1938 and within 2 years, like his father before him,  he volunteered for the Canadian armed forces shortly after the start of WW2 in 1939. His send off was quite different from that of his dad some 25 years earlier. The war was going badly, and the future would likely be even worse. He said his goodbyes to his wife, 2 year old son and dad. Would they ever see each other again was a relevant question? 

Both wars placed their lives in the hands of others, fate and chance.

He would serve in Britain for over 3 years  during the Battle of Britain, preparing for an expected German invasion. He returned to Canada in 1943 to train soldiers at Camp Borden- many who eventually served and lost their lives in the Canadian tragedy at Dieppe and later in the heroic invasion of Normandy in June 1944.

Upon his return to Canada the son of our Newfoundland bank clerk would have his second son, born in May 1944. I was that child! I like to believe that my very conservative dad went AWOL to conceive his second son.

By chance, fate or divine intervention of a coin, pen and notebook in a tunic pocket. 

 As a child aged seven I was shown reluctantly by my gramps those ‘survival trophies’ from WWI but once. They simply were and co-existed with unasked and thus unanswered questions about my grandmother’s mental illness; my gramp’s disability; the impact of my father’s absence upon my older brother’s first  5 years of life and upon his young wife, my mother.

From this Remembrance Day my gramps and dad would be an integral part of my childhood, adolescence and adulthood until their passing. They shaped the completing of my whole- who I am for better or worse as a parent and grandparent. Their gifts were their faith in me- even when I was less deserving; just knowing they were there for me from sitting beside my bed in childhood, to a place of quiet retreat in adolescence, to being near in the crisis of my adulthood. 

It has now been 110 years (1915) since our young 23 year old bank clerk volunteered; his son was even younger with an infant child when he volunteered in 1939.  Doing their best for their children and grandchildren, at times imperfectly and very human, was shaped by those years of never knowing if there would be a notebook, pen and coin in a tunic pocket.

 ‘A parent’s love is forever…through whatever!’ That was their gift to their sons and through them to their grandchildren and successive generations. 

 “We find delight in the beauty and happiness of children that makes the heart too big for the body”. (poet/Essayist Ralph Waldo Emerson)

For more on Barry’s own journey with separation, see the About Us section.