“Bye, everyone, thanks,” Dana responded, weakly.
The group passed on toward the Gardens.
“Look, Dan,” Tony continued. “We’re all sorry for the other guys and their families, it’s real sad. But that can’t stop us all being happy that you’re here with us, an’ it shouldn’t stop you being happy to be alive.”
Dana forced a smile, and rubbed her eyes with a tissue. More sounds distracted her. A group of children was being shepherded out of the Centre. They all waved to Dana and Tony as they passed.
“Bye, everybody. Thanks for coming.”
Dana turned back to Tony. “Can we go for a walk, please? Away from here?”
Tony, surprised at her request, agreed.
Slowly, they strolled across the grass toward the line of the old track-bed. The bushes and trees had thickened out considerably over the years. Tony’s thoughts went back to those days, years ago now, he realized, when they had first walked together down this path. How he wished that they could be as they were then.
They turned onto the trail and ambled along in silence, Tony brushing aside light branches from time to time.
Suddenly, he felt Dana’s hand grasp his, at his side. He gave it a squeeze. She responded.
They continued on in silence, reaching the old bridge pier. There, Dana released his hand and sat down, her legs folding under her. Tony sat, too. Together, they watched the water swirling around the rocks that protruded up from the stream-bed.
Birds were flitting around the trees on the opposite bank. Leaves rustled in the light wind. Once again, he felt that longing deep inside. He looked at Dana as she continued to gaze into the waters—the light playing on wisps of her hair, gently moving in the breeze, her now-soft breathing moving her body so slightly, the shapes he had known so well, the cute angle of her nose … and yet, he sensed the anguish she must be going through.
But deep down, he knew the time had come, this was it.
“Dan, if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be alive now.” He’d said it, at last. It sounded so stilted, the way it had come out; it had broken a beautiful silence, but he had been wanting to say it for so long. Now, having said it, he worried that he had destroyed the moment. Dana didn’t move. She continued to gaze at the waters below.
“Tony,” she said softly, not turning her gaze. “If you only knew how it was that you saved my life, too.”
He was puzzled, but knew he could not ask now. He watched as the light played on her hair and cheek. She was the same girl, even though the years had passed for both of them.
“Dana, I love you.”
Slowly, she turned to face him. Her eyes were sparkling as they met his. She leaned forward to embrace him. “And I love you too.”
Tony had no idea how long they embraced, and it didn’t matter. It felt so great to be holding her.
At last, she grasped his hand, and together they stood up. As she looked up to his face, he reached down and kissed her. She returned the kiss, pressing hard.
Slowly, they turned and started back along the trail, holding hands. After a few steps, Dana stopped. She was looking downward. Tony watched her. Slowly, she lifted her face to his. Looking into her eyes, he could see the tears forming again. He squeezed her hand.
“Tony, there is something I must do, but I cannot do it alone. I must go to the families of my guys, I really must. Will you come with me, please?”
Tony felt the urge to hold her, to support her. He sensed the tension in her. “Yes, I will.”
Her eyes sparkled, the teardrops glistening. She grasped both his hands. “Tony, can we be together for always?”
His heart skipped a beat.
“Yes.”
ENVOI
- 40 -
Dwayne Hampden pulled his coat collar up around his neck as he walked up the slope toward the barricades set up for crowd control at the side of the roadway in Confederation Square. It was a cool morning, just above freezing, but a brilliant sun shone in a clear blue sky, with the promise of warmth by midday—early November in Ottawa.
He had come early so he could select a front-row spot by a barricade, from which he would have a good view of the ceremony. He knew he would not see all the details of the wreath-laying at the foot of the National War Memorial, but that was not his main reason for being there.
Not totally unexpected, he was nonetheless surprised by how many people were already there. He soon selected his spot. From there, he would have good views of the parades, and would see the arrivals of the dignitaries; yet he would not have the sun in his eyes. He could see the Cenotaph through the lower branches of a large tree across the street.
This was not going to be a normal day. Just three weeks ago, the city—indeed, the country—had been shocked by the actions of a lone gunman who had shot and killed a soldier on ceremonial guard duty at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier beside the War Memorial, with subsequent shootings in the Parliament buildings nearby.
A few days later, Dwayne had stood with hundreds of others on a highway overpass to pay tribute to the young soldier as his funeral motorcade passed by on its way to the soldier’s hometown. And in Quebec, a soldier had been deliberately run down and killed by a car driven by a radicalized crazy.
These tragic events had stimulated an outpouring of grief, of support, of patriotic fervor across the country. There was sure to be a bigger crowd than usual here this year at the Remembrance Day ceremony.
Dwayne looked around. Public Works men were busy adjusting some barricades. Paramedics were setting up their stations. Sound technicians were working up near the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Military personnel were moving about purposefully. Legion members were assisting and ushering frail veterans and other special guests to positions close to the Cenotaph. Photographers and media people were prominent. He could see the booms of television cameras sweeping across the scene. There was a sense of business, of action, of purpose.
But unlike previous years, armed security personnel were very evident. Dwayne’s quick scan over the scene showed yellow jackets everywhere: police, auxiliaries, and military police, all visibly armed. And then, also, he could see the plain-clothes security, strategically placed, greatcoats unbuttoned, eyes watching everyone and everywhere.
He gazed up at the buildings behind and above him, overlooking the square. They must have been searched and secured, he thought. He settled down for the long wait, satisfied that all appeared to be in order, but feeling a tad apprehensive nonetheless.
Dwayne was confident he would be okay; Elizabeth, his wife, had not been so sure. He was seventy-eight now, and in good health. She was two years younger, but not in good shape, not able to cope with such a challenge, and she was naturally concerned that Dwayne would find the long period of standing too much for him. But she would not hold him back—it meant so much to him.
“Make sure you have a hot drink after, and use your cell phone if you have a problem,” she had insisted.
The Peace Tower Carillon was playing familiar tunes, relayed throughout the square on the sound system speakers. He was listening to the bells when he sensed a presence near him—more than a presence, in fact. He glanced slightly to the right. A couple of paces away stood a man wearing a grubby greatcoat, a small haversack on a strap over one shoulder and across his chest, and on his head a tattered beret with a badge, with grizzled unkempt greying hair and ragged beard. He wore fingerless, woollen gloves.
Dwayne quickly turned his head back to the front. The smell was sickening. Uncomfortable, Dwayne pondered his next action.
Then suddenly the man spoke, not to Dwayne, but to the air. “I told you I would come, Hal, like I always do.”
Dwayne froze. The silence seemed eternal.
Then the man pulled a small flask out of a pocket, took a swig from it. His next words sent a chill down Dwayne’s spine: “I’ll never forget, Hal. Be here next year.” The man turned and moved away, as Dwayne watched him hobble unsteadily on worn, down-at-the-heel boots. A
yellow-jacketed security cop was watching him, too.
Dwayne shuddered. His feelings were torn between disgust and sympathy. He was appalled by the stench he had experienced and by the appearance of the guy, but he was moved by the expression of an apparently deep emotion and memory of someone, maybe a relative or fellow soldier—Dwayne guessed that the beret with cap badge meant that the man had been in the army.
The crowd was growing rapidly now, and Dwayne had to concentrate on maintaining his spot at the barricade. He was impressed by the range of ages—lots of grey heads like himself, but many younger adults, and a goodly number of children. He noticed many military folk, in uniform, in the crowd. After the shootings three weeks ago, military personnel had been ordered not to wear uniform in public—but today was different.
Dwayne’s daughter Andrea had said that she would be there, but they had not planned to meet, as she would come straight from her office. Andrea’s son Trevor, his grandson, had been deployed to the Middle East conflict zone just four weeks ago, and he knew it would mean a lot to her to be at the ceremony.
Dwayne was proud of his grandson. Trevor had not had an easy childhood, with his single mother trying hard to raise him and hold down a job, too. Dwayne and Elizabeth had helped and supported where they could, but they had tried to hold back as much as possible.
Trevor was not very interested in pure academic studies, but was heavily into mechanical and electronic devices. He had found his element as an avionics tech in the Air Force. When Trevor had first told them about his plans to join up, Dwayne had had misgivings, but he had soon come to realize that it was a good career choice.
Dwayne caught the sound of a distant drumbeat; the parade was on its way. He shook his body inside his coat, stamped his feet, and prepared himself.
He had not always come to this annual remembrance ceremony at the National War Memorial; it was only in recent years that he had felt a strong obligation to do so. Dwayne’s own immediate family had had no connection with the military; earlier generations had all been associated with the farming business in the upper Ottawa River valley.
Dwayne was the first breakaway, having come to Ottawa on a whim, joining the Public Service as an accountant. There were some distant cousins in Britain who had served in World War Two, but that was all, until his grandson joined the Royal Canadian Air Force two years ago.
But as Dwayne stood there on this November morning, his mind went back, as it did every year, to that remarkable sequence of events that had changed his view of the world forever, to the miraculous survival of Dana Munro, and the tragic loss of her comrades.
Dwayne watched intently as the parade approached the National War Memorial and the waiting crowds. The band led, followed by the Military College Cadets, regular and reserve Armed Forces, the RCMP, and finally, platoons of youth in the Cadet programs. It took some considerable time to assemble all these units into position around the square.
Dwayne realized that his left foot was tingling. He stamped it on the ground and alternated pressure on both feet, bending his legs; this had the desired effect of getting the circulation going again.
The skirl of the pipes caught his attention. The veterans’ parade was on its way. As they passed by, some two or three hundred of them, he was taken by the stoic expressions on their faces, so many of them determined to march tall and upright; but it pained him to note that some of them were so frail. And what stories might they tell.
The memory of that vagrant fellow who had stood by him earlier came back to him—what was his story, what had brought him to that sorry, filthy, alcoholic state? Dwayne shuddered involuntarily.
The dignitaries were arriving. Today’s special guest, the Princess Royal, Princess Anne, accompanied by the Governor-General, after receiving the salute, chatted briefly with disabled veterans near the Cenotaph. There was an expectant atmosphere in the crowd. The flags that had been hanging limp earlier in the morning were now flying free in a light breeze. Dwayne stamped his feet again and checked his coat collar. He was surrounded by a respectful, friendly crowd.
Dwayne’s thoughts drifted back to his youth; he was fourteen when the Korean War started—yes, he remembered how he and his pals were impressed when that tough Johnny Heidegger from the farm up along the old forced road in the Valley had joined the Army. But he was never the same when he came back from Korea—he had had a pretty rough time. His life was destroyed, he was a wreck.
Why do ethnic quarrels devolve into such vicious conflicts? pondered Dwayne, as his gaze wandered over the assembled crowd. I suppose it isn’t fundamentally different from much smaller conflicts back at home, he rationalized, like when those townhouses were built near the Gardens.
Some of the comments made by normally sedate neighbours had been extremely vicious, inflammatory, and accusatory, he remembered. Just let the situation escalate many times, throw in money, politics, wealth, and poverty, and what have you got? he thought. War.
The band’s opening notes of the National Anthem were picked up by the people around him as they all joined in to sing. Then the trumpet call, the Last Post, sent shivers down his spine as the crowd fell silent.
The Peace Tower clock began to strike eleven, and in the distance, he heard the first gun salute.
The haunting sounds from the lone piper, as he played the Lament, carried Dwayne’s thoughts back to that solemn and sad memorial ceremony for Dana, believed at the time to have been killed. It was truly when his understanding and appreciation of what is meant by ‘sacrifice’ deepened, and when he resolved never to miss this Remembrance Parade, so long as his body allowed him.
Another shiver ran through him as the words of the Act of Remembrance were spoken: “They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old …”
Dwayne wiped away the tears that had formed at the corners of his eyes as the rabbi had pronounced a stirring and uplifting benediction at the end of the ceremony. He had stood firm during the Royal Anthem, but now he had to give in. Emotion took hold of him. He thought of his grandson Trevor, far away, in potential danger; he thought of those men and women who had, in fact, lost their lives in that far-away conflict in Afghanistan; he thought of the fallen in wars long ago; he wondered about Hal, named by that vagrant earlier that morning …
He turned, not sure for a moment where he was going. The crowds were too thick for him to go up to see the new additions at the War Memorial; that would have to wait for another day.
He had been standing for almost three hours; he suddenly realized that he was cold, stiff, his back was aching, and he needed a hot drink. His mind was focussing now on immediate bodily needs, and his stride picked up.
Suddenly he felt a vibration and heard his cell-phone ringing. He fumbled to find it deep in an inside pocket.
“Hello?”
“Dad, it’s me. Where are you?” The voice was trembling—it was his daughter.
“Hi, Andrea. I’m just leaving the Cenotaph. Are you okay? Where are you?”
“I’m not okay, Dad—it’s Trevor—he’s been wounded. I just got word. I can’t get hold of Mom—she’s not answering the phone …”
Dwayne’s pulse had suddenly sky-rocketed—he felt unwell. But his daughter was crying—she needed help.
“Love, where are you now? There’s nothing you can do for Trevor right now, so try to be calm. Can you go to our house and see if your Mom is there and okay? I’ll meet you there as soon as I can.”
“Yes, Dad, I’m still at the office, but I’ll go to your place. Oh Dad, I’m so worried.”
“Go carefully, dear. I’ll see you there.”
He closed the phone and put it in his pocket. The world about him was spinning, it was going grey … black …
Dwayne could hear the sounds of voices. He opened his eyes to find faces in front of him—above him, he quickly realized.
“You’re okay, sir. I’m Jonathan; I’m a paramedic. You’ve just had a faint, here on the sidewalk. You’re going to be fine. There’s a
n ambulance on its way. We’ll check you out. Does anything hurt? There is someone here who knows you.”
Dwayne was still puzzling over what had happened.
“Hi, Mr Hampden, it’s Dana Munro. I hadn’t expected to see you—and definitely not in this way. But I’m glad I am here. You’re in good hands.”
Dwayne tried to ease himself into a sitting position. The paramedic helped him, cautiously. Dana lowered herself to a squatting position.
“Dana—Dana, this is a surprise.” He looked up at her, in uniform, trim and smart. He smiled. “I’m not sure I would have recognized you.”
“No, you’ve rarely seen me dressed like this.” She grinned. She turned. “Tony is here too.”
Dwayne looked up. There stood Tony in a smart overcoat. He smiled.
Suddenly, Dwayne remembered what he had been doing, and tried to get up. The paramedic gently dissuaded him. “Steady on, Mr Hampden, you’ve had a fall. Just wait till the ambulance gets here in a moment.”
“But I’ve just had a call from my daughter. She needs me. My grandson has been wounded, somewhere in the Middle East.”
“Oh! May I call her back, Mr Hampden?” Dana asked. “Tony and I will do whatever we can to help.”
“But …” Dwayne realized that he was not feeling as well as he should be. He fumbled for his cell-phone. “It’s the last number that just called me,” he said.
Dana took the phone, stood up, and moved a slight distance away. Dwayne could vaguely hear her voice.
As Dana, Tony, and Dwayne approached the door of the Hampden residence, it opened and Elizabeth came out toward them. “Look at you, Dwayne, you’re all of a mess. Come on in, all of you; come and get warmed up. My word, Dana—you are an angel to bring him home—oh, hi, and Tony, too. Come on through, never mind about shoes.
“Let’s get your coat off, Dwayne … Here, give it to me. Sit down in your chair. Oh, Dana, Tony, make yourselves at home. What can I get you? Dwayne, you’ll want a hot drink. You must all be starved. I knew I couldn’t stand that long, but Father here insisted he could. Tea, coffee, Dana, Tony, or something stronger?
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