The Elite

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My Irish Grandfather emigrated to Canada but his loyalty to England was such that when England joined the war against the Kaiser, he joined the army. He was no privileged scion of a wealthy or politically important family. He was a glazier, a drayman, a common working man. Neither Ireland nor England had done much for him. But the UK needed him so he went for training, shipped to England, ferried to France,  entered the horrors of trench warfare, became a machine gunner and sniper, was poisoned with mustard gas that left him with damaged lungs the rest of his life. He was sent back into the lines where during a battle, shrapnel tore through his right hand. He and other soldiers lived in muddy, filthy trenches, and his wound infected. There were no antibiotics in those days. He was shipped to a hospital in England. He was still there when the war ended. He was shipped to Montreal. He was in hospital there until the infection finally cleared up.

 

My ex-wife’s father came from a family that was English, that is, had emigrated from England the generation before. When England needed help, he joined the RCAF. He trained in Saskatchewan as a fighter pilot, then shipped overseas for the battle of Britain. He was killed three days after my ex-wife was born. All she ever knew of her father were her mother’s stories, his university record, his poems, and photographs in a black and white album. His body was never found. His bones lie somewhere on the ocean floor off Holland.

 

These are the people that the elitists make contemptuous comments about. These are the kind of people that as far as the elitists are concerned should never be allowed to vote. Not rich enough, not educated enough, not important enough. These are the people that the elitists sneer at and refer to as the populace, the people too stupid to understand the incredibly difficult issues the elite face when making decisions for the proletariat.

 

David Cameron misread the beliefs and feelings of the plebeians when he called for a vote on remaining in the European Union or leaving. How could he not. He was born to wealthy parents. His father was a stockbroker who made a lot of money.  His wife was the daughter of a 2nd Baronet. Cameron was educated and Eton and Oxford. From birth he lived a life of privilege. In his world, my grandfather and my father-in-law didn’t exist. They were just the populace that was there to be used as cannon fodder to protect the interests of the upper class.

 

Decades after WW1, my grandfather said to me, his voice bitter, that on Christmas, he and his fellow soldiers ate canned meat out of the can and strawberry jam while the officers dined on full Christmas dinners. Of course, the really privileged weren’t at the front at all. They were in England and Canada making fortunes supplying the war effort. The lives of the elite matter, The lives of the populace don’t matter to the elite.

 

Articles in papers like The Globe and Mail in Canada and The Guardian in England are at the service of the elite. They appear to discuss Brexit but what emanates from them is the complete contempt that the elite politicians and civil servants and business people have for you and me. They work together to make each other rich. Ordinary people shouldn’t have referendums. After all, they aren’t intelligent enough to really understand the issues.

 

It is interesting, though, that there was no outcry against referendums by the elite and their mouthpieces when the referendums went the way the elite wanted on voting reform and Scottish independence.

 

Do I know how Brexit will play out? Nope. But neither do all those so-called experts. They parrot lines that even a cursory glance reveal to be false. Does that mean that some of their concerns aren’t valid? Of course not. Even the privileged, coddled, and spoiled get things right some of the time. Do the people who support Brexit know how it will play out? No, of course not. There are too many people and forces involved to predict final outcomes.

 

Do I think the EU is a failure? I don’t know enough about the complexity of the EU to have an opinion.. This isn’t about whether Brexit is or isn’t going to benefit England. It’s about how the privileged, the connected, the one percent, the insiders, don’t want people like you and me to have a direct say in our democracy. How we should leave it for our betters to make decisions for us.

 

The same people who have ranted against referendums where you and I get to have a say, have nothing to say against the fact that the rich and powerful get private audiences with politicians. They get to tell the politicians what rules they want, what rules they want changed. They get to have their own private little referendums every day.

 

Current events have made it clear that the current political systems are rigged. They’re rigged to help make the rich richer, the powerful more powerful. If you have enough money and connections you can get laws passed that will make you more money and give you more power.

 

TNo wonder the rich and powerful don’t want the populace (that’s you and me) to have a direct say in government policy. We’re good enough for cannon fodder but not good enough for a direct say in how our government should govern.

My Grandfather and WW1

 

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Today and tomorrow, i will think a lot about my grandfather, William John Smith (Bill). He was born in Ireland. He emigrated to Winnipeg, Manitoba because his three sisters were already there. When  he arrived in Manitoba, he worked at various jobs available for new immigrants: glazier, drayman. He joined the militia. Joining the militia was normal. He was Northern Irish, loyal to the Crown, and the armed forces had deep connections to England.

He was shipped to France in 1915. During his time in the trenches he was gassed. When he recovered from that, he was sent back into the trenches to be both a sniper and a machine gunner. Men were killed by artillery fire all around him. Killed by bullets. Drowned in the mud and water. He was wounded by shrapnel in his right hand. It would have healed but it became infected. There were no antibiotics.He spent the rest of the war in hospital in England and, at the end of the war, was shipped back to Canada where he spent time in a hospital in Quebec.

He was one of the lucky survivors. Except the damage to his lungs could never be healed. Mustard gas does terrible things to lungs. He never complained about the war except to say that the treatment of ordinary soldiers was dreadful. Officers dined well and the men on the front lines atebully beef out of a tin and strawberry jam. He never had anything to say about the German soldiers except that they were very brave. I once asked him if he’d killed anyone during the war and he said, “Thousands.” And explained about an enfilade, machine gun trajectories crossing over each other on both sides, slaughtering the soldiers charging toward them. It was a slaughter as generals tried to fight battles with outdated strategies against new technology. The senior officers were often so clueless that they matched the French generals who were shown machine guns in action before the war started and one of them said, “Interesting, but what would you use them for?”

But that’s not what I will think about today and tomorrow. What I will think about is that the cold winter weather of Manitoba made it difficult for him to breathe because of his damaged lungs. He could never afford a car and rode his bicycle to work at the railway roundhouse. Sometimes his lungs were so affected by the cold that he couldn’t get his breath and  he would fall from his bike. My grandmother, on more than one occasion, saw him crawling through the snow toward the house.

War is not business as usual. Soldiers are not just another group of civil servants. While my grandfather suffered bombardment, saw his comrades torn to shreds by explosions, killed by snipers, killed by mustard gas, made to mount attacks in impossible situations, politicians in Ottawa and elsewhere lived in comfort and safety. For many, the war was about making money. For them, war was an opportunity to become rich. Once the war was over, my grandfather and all the other cannon fodder were a nuisance, a cost instead of a profit and responsibility for them was cast aside. Read the history of the General Strike in Winnipeg, the unemployment, the refusal to accept responsibility of the plight of the returning soldiers by the politicians who had spent the war in comfort and security.

There was no glory in scarred lungs. No glory in a shattered hand. No glory in a lifetime of memories of the horrors of war. Celebrate the bravery of people like my grandfather but don’t make war glorious. There is no glory in it.

 

Let Us Remember

My mother’s father came to Canada from Ireland. In Winnipeg, he joined the militia. When war broke out, he volunteered. In 1915, he went into the trenches as a machine gunner and sniper. He survived some of WWI’s major battles but was gassed.

After medical leave for being gassed, he was sent back into the trenches. During a battle, shrapnel ripped through his right hand.  He was bandaged but infection set in so he was invalided out to England. There were no antibiotics in those days. Infection wards crammed with soldiers were common. At the end of the war, he was still sick with infection. He was shipped to Montreal and stayed in a hospital there until the infection was cured.

He had risked everything for King and country. For the rest of his life he suffered from the damage done to his lungs. Back in Winnipeg, he spent a lifetime working for the Great Northern Railway. He couldn’t afford a car and rode his bicycle to work summer and winter. In the cold weather, he sometimes could not breathe and my grandmother told me, he crawled through the snow.

I asked him once, when I was a child, had he killed anyone in the war. “Thousands,” he replied and would say no more. Machine gunners laid down enfilade and slaughtered German troops as they struggled through the mud of No Man’s Land. When the Canadians attacked, the Germans did the same.

He and his companions seldom talked about the war. It was too disturbing. Once, he told me about a young replacement from Saskatchewan. A farm boy. Nervous, curious. He kept putting his head above the trench to see what was happening. He was told not to but did it anyway. A sniper shot him. He arrived in the morning and was dead by evening.

My grandfather had no use for stupid comments from civilians. It wasn’t returned soldiers that made ignorant statements about the Germans. It was the civilians who had risked little or nothing, in many cases, civilians who had grown prosperous on the war. He had no patience for the stupidity of romanticizing the war. There was nothing romantic about trenches deep in water, trenches where the rats were so thick, feeding on the dead, that the soldiers used to entertain themselves by trying to bayonet them. One Christmas, the senior officers dined off fine china and crystal, had a real Christmas meal, while the soldiers ate tinned meat and strawberry jam. They were down to nine bullets per man. He remembered these details with bitterness.

He’d met my grandmother when he was on leave in Ireland. He’d taken a fancy to her and wrote, asking her to come to Canada and marry him. She wrote back and said that her mother was dying of cancer and she was looking after her. However, once her mother died, she’d come to marry him.

She came, they got married, they bought a house. His wages got cut, then cut again, then cut again. It was brutal. The boss would show up and say, “We’re cutting your wages and if you don’t like it, get down the track. There are a hundred men who want your job.”

Finally, he couldn’t pay the mortgage. The bank foreclosed. When the foreclosure notice came, it was delivered by one of the soldiers he’d served with in France.

 

“How can you do this?” he asked. “We fought together. We were comrades in arms.”

His former comrade said, “Bill, what can I do. I have a wife and kids. If I don’t deliver this notice, I’ll be fired.”

If my grandfather had retreated during battle, one of the officers coming behind would have shot him. He would have been called a coward. He would have been condemned by politicians and civilians who risked nothing. Thousands upon thousands of men died in the trenches where he fought. Death came from every direction. Men were killed by the body parts of their friends who were blown up by exploding shells.

The politicians and the senior army officers had no mercy, not just for the Germans, but for their own soldiers. No mercy. It didn’t matter how many men died in an attack, a thousand, ten thousand, a hundred thousand. It didn’t matter that they drowned in the mud and water. That they died coughing their lungs out after breathing mustard gas. They were expendable.

It didn’t matter that they’d risked everything, their limbs, their lives, their sanity. When they got back to Canada, they didn’t matter. They were no longer an asset. They were a liability. They needed things like medical attention, jobs, things that cost the taxpayers money, and that could cost the politicians votes.

I am proud of my grandfather. He was brave. I am proud of the other members of my family that served in the war. But Stephan G Stephansson was right. It was a slaughter house. Only someone incredibly stupid could think it wasn’t. He was also right about the war memorial he opposed. He said collect the money, give it to the soldiers who are returning. Help them deal with their personal cost in the war, their ruined bodies, their ruined minds. Statues are about glory. My grandfather didn’t think there was any glory in the mass slaughter in which he participated.

What he would have appreciated was the bank saying, he’s a returned veteran. He risked everything. He nearly lost his life. He is handicapped by the injuries he received. We’ll do whatever is necessary to see that he gets to keep his house. Or, the government that was prepared to send its young men to their deaths, to step forward and help pay the mortgage. Or, the community, in an act of appreciation for the courage and sacrifice of its soldiers, to raise money and donate it to see that returned soldiers received as much as they had given.

Statues, by their very existence, imply that there is glory in war. There is no glory. There is no glory in having your body torn apart by explosions. Your limbs blown off. There is no glory in being shot and lying in the mud, dying. There’s no glory in being burned to death by a flame thrower or in a tank. There’s no glory in drowning in the mud. Whisper into a young man’s ear, a young man drowning in the mud, this is glorious. I dare you.

After WWI ended, there was a conflict in the Icelandic North American community. Some people wanted to raise money to build a memorial to the soldiers from the Iceland NA community. They were opposed by the poet, Stephan G Stephansson. All through the war he had written poems opposed to the war. The argument had grown so bitter that a member of the Icelandic Manitoba community had wanted him charged with treason. Now, that conflict was resurrected with the argument over the building of a monument.  Those proposing the monument wanted to honour the soldiers from their ethnic community. Stephansson had a different vision.

In Wakeful Nights, Viðar Hreinsson´s biography of Stephan G. Stephansson, he tells us that Stephan, after the war was over, thought “What was important…was the welfare of the living – the returned soldiers and their famlies. The soldiers had been promised all kinds of benefits before they went to war and the Icelandic communithy should demand that these promises be kept….those who had been seduced into the army with nationalistic fanfare should have the right to a job and other benefits.“

It was an unfortunate conflict between people who had views about the role of the Icelandic community in North America. What made it even more difficult is that Iceland never had an army, never had a role to play in warfare. Armed conflict in their history went back to the vikings and that was in ancient times. There was no history and tradition to guide anyone.

Both the ideas put forward were good, even necessary. Those who supported the idea of the memorial should have continued raising money and, when they had raised all they could, created a memorial for which they could pay. Those who felt that money collected should go to help soldiers returning from the war should have done that. The idea that there could only be one right way to acknowledge and honour our returning soldiers was wrong. Both the memorial sculpture and the immediate help for servicement who needed it would have been a powerful expression of our respect for those who died and those who returned.

That monuments do  help to preserve the memory of battles fought in past times is without doubt. However, history has shown that Stephan‘s concerns were valid. Today, 94 years and a number of wars later, the newspapers regularly feature stories about veterans being denied benefits. Every possible reason (excuse) is found to deny benefits. It is true in the United States. It is true in Canada. The CBC reports on Oct, 23, 2012, “Injured ex-soldiers often unfairly denied benefits, AG finds”.  Or The Huffingtson Post, 9 Oct 2012, “Former members of the Canadian military who are struggling with mental health problems say they’re being denied benefits”. Or Sympatico CA.news, “Veterans denied funeral expenses by Canadian government program”.

The maimed, the dead need to be remembered. We need to honour those who have sacrificed their health and their lives for us. However, when we build our statues, let them not be used to absolve us of our responsibility to our soldiers. My grandfather, Irish as he was, would have agreed with Stephan. He’d rather have had help with his mortgage, help with finding a decent job, help with improving his education and qualifications, help with making up for the five years lost from his life than a statue.

Let us remember. Let us wear poppies in memory. Let us lay wreaths at our monuments. Let us tend and care for those monuments and teach each generation about the sacrifices of those who fought. But, never let us forget that our first duty is to those still living who have risked everything for us.