November 7: As I went to bed last night, a wicked westerly wind was rattling the windows of my apartment. Waves of red and yellow leaves scuttled across the lawn as the temperature dropped to the single digits. I had been watching a TVO documentary on the First World War that reminded me of the deprivation and horrors those men endured. I was glad to be safe and warm in my bed. I thought about how those men must have felt when they too were finally able to find a comfortable bed and leave the battle behind.
It continues to amaze me that on some level they had chosen to be there – most of them, at least in the early stages of the war, had volunteered. My own Father volunteered during the Second World War and became a navigator on a Halifax bomber. The sole story he shared willingly was about the night his plane crash landed near Leeming in England (November 22, 1944). They had sustained damage due to flak and knew they would not make it back to base. The pilot picked out a field and told them to prepare for the landing. My Dad and the mid-gunner were braced in the centre of the fuselage between the wing struts when there was a forceful impact that they believed to be the plane hitting the ground.
In fact, the plane had gone between two trees and sheared off the wings. Seconds later they hit the ground and Dad, who was facing aft, watched as the rear of the plane disintegrated. When the plane stopped moving, he and the gunner ran off across the field, thinking that the plane would explode. Only later would they realize that the wings, and the fuel tanks, were gone. I recall him saying that they had some time off after the crash, and there is a gap in his logbook until December 24 when they flew to Dusseldorf. He flew a further 23 missions before his war ended on March 22, 1945.
As I lay in my bed, I tried to imagine how he must have felt that night when he escaped the plane. Did he take comfort in a warm bed with the blankets over his ears, or was he awake for hours reliving the events he had just survived ? Was his bed a refuge from the war or a place of torment, of nightmares and dread of the dawn yet to come ?
And finally there would have been the night when he was finally home in his own bed with the realization that he had survived in one piece. How wonderful it must have been to feel the warmth and comfort and security of his bed and realize that the horrible chapter of the war had been closed. It’s a feeling I will never have. But as I lay awake in my own bed, listening to the witch of November outside my windows, I was flooded with gratitude for the sacrifice of my Dad and so many others. We are where we are today because of them.
Sleep well, bhoys. Sleep well.