Dave Kean

Yesterday I saw the A-Team movie (and admitting to it). It’s not exactly an intellectual challenge, but taken for what it is was a decent way to distract me for a couple of hours. The body count was not huge by Hollywood standards, but a couple of the bad guys met with some spectacularly violent ends.

I know in real life people die every day, go to any date in wikipedia and you’ll see a list of people that died in that year or on that day. It’s not personal,  it’s just a name and date. We can click on a link, perhaps dive a little deeper and find out a little more, but quickly we turn the page.

Occasionally it’s personal; maybe it’s a parent, a close friend, acquaintance or lover. It’s surreal, it’s an unchangeable fact and the ripples will be felt through the years on both special occasions and random days. Birthdays, anniversaries, mother’s day and days that mean something to only you.

Many years ago a very close friend Steve was killed in a car accident. Steve and I shared an office, we shared a room when traveling, competed again each other and were incredibly close. Over a couple of year period we spent a lot of time on the road for work and I spent more nights sharing a room with Steve than his wife did (which is an awful lot less George Michael than it sounds).

Steve’s death was as sudden as it was tragic. His wife was three months pregnant with their first child and I lost my closest friend and colleague. Every year at the end of May I spend a few minutes thinking about Steve, it’s the anniversary of his death and I remember.

At the time I acted as though nothing strange was happening, after all, the world was still turning. I busied myself in the office, stopped sharing a room while on the road for a while and pretended everything was normal. All this was done in a pointless attempt to blunt the pain. Even though that was 17 years ago now, I find it sad that I’m never going to get another Christmas card or his daughter Amy will ever know her father.

Grief is a strange thing. I find that it makes an appearance at odd times, little reminders cause it’s to catch me by surprise. I’ve said before when I call my parents house and dad answers he phone rather than mum. There are many others and while the immediacy of the grief goes away over time, it still makes it’s presence felt occasionally.

I remember the cards and flowers arriving at my parent’s house when mum passed, dad would spend a few minutes every day examining the cards. He liked, actually we all liked, being reminded that mum was missed by others and how we were in peoples thoughts.

Parents and grandmother, 1990ish

We were continuously asked if we were OK, this rhetorical question typically follows the “I’m so sorry” statement. Sometimes it was asked all by itself. I’ve never had any idea how to answer, Yes, No or Maybe? I typically tried for quiet dignity, some kind of affirmative I’m doing OK, and a thank you. Reality was “I am not okay, but I’d rather you did not ask”.

I’m not sure if it’s just part of being British and actually living the stiff-upper-lip stereotype, but it seems to be very difficult to admit admitting we are not doing well. I am not okay, but I’d rather you did not ask.

So when does it all start getting better, when does it all end? In my experience it doesn’t ever get better. It slowly gets more bearable and incrementally the bizarre feelings become somewhat normal. It’s never really over, but we learn to deal.

Everyone goes through it at some time and everyone deals with it differently. Afterwards life is never quite the same, but the world is still turning.

I have found that some gestures were incredibly meaningful on a personal level, it was less about how I felt, more about what I need or most importantly providing a distraction, that hopefully involved great beer or good wine. Here are some things that people have said to me that actually did help:

What do you need?
What can I do?
Here is food.
Here is wine.
Forget that, it’s taken care of.
We should go to the bookstore
The 3P’s has some good beer on nitro, lets go.
Wanna watch Star Wars
Come by the office; we’ll go for lunch.
Here is candy.
Why don’t you write about it?

The Old People

Dear mum, it’s been a while and I miss you. The world has changed very much with out you in it, but I guess that goes without saying. Not just bad changes, some are good as the dark clouds part. I’d trade them all to spend another afternoon with you.

I know you’d be so proud of dad and the way he’s handled the transition. He misses you so much, but that’s not a surprise to anyone is it? A 43-year-old marriage died along with you, I did not understand that at the time, I don’t think any of us did. We are trying to look after dad as best we can, but the stubborn and independent streak that was passed down from grandparents, to parents to my brother and I, runs deep in all of us.

I still expect you to answer the phone when I call, it was one of those things that showed me the world was right. Rain on May bank holidays and you answering the phone. If it helps I know exactly what you’d say had I called today with the World Cup is on. “Do you want to speak to your father? I’ll get your father, he’s watching that bloody football, he’s always watching football. How much longer is this cup thing going on for?”

Thank you for the letters, it took me a long time to take them from Dad, eventually he just handed them to me and said take them. They sat tucked into the cover of a notebook for a while before I opened them. Not so much because I was scared that you were gone, but more because it made everything seem so final and I was not ready for that.

There are moments when something happens and it’s really hard knowing I’ll not get to share the stories about unicycles, dinners  and so on with you. More than occasionally I catch myself thinking “mum will love this…” and then it comes upon me that I can’t.

One other person you’d be so proud of is Steve, he has done such an amazing job with guiding Nimah and helping her through out this. Exposing her to the reality and transition but keeping her away from the center of things. I’m really impressed, he is a great father, but we had good role models.

You know we are so alike and I think that’s been at the root of the ups and downs in our relationship over the last 20 years. There have been times we have not got on as well as we maybe should have done, but I’ve always known I’m loved no matter what. I’m glad over the last couple of years we got back to where we should have been.

One of the strangest things was staying in the house . It’s been well over 20 years since I spent a night in your house alone, it felt really strange and something was missing. Even though I had Dora the Explorer to keep me company in the spare bedroom, it did not feel right. Dad’s not been keeping the house to your standard, the dust is pretty thick in places and he’s not vacuuming every couple of days the way you did, but he is doing OK.

I know you believed in an afterlife of some description, I hope you were right and the rest of us totally missed the mark on that one. It gve you comfort, and I think dad got something out of it too.

We all miss you and I just wish I knew what to say next.

Mum “David, why are you reading a motorbike magazine”

Me “Because I’m thinking about… err getting… a motorbike… Maybe…”

I now know exactly where this conversation is going next, and all of a sudden I’m 14 again and it’s not going to go well.

My mother is in bed with cancer and can hardly move. Yet somehow she draws deep and finds the energy to roll back the clock 26 years to give her 38 year old son a scolding… This is why I fly 5500 miles and deal with changing airplanes in the outer ring of hell known as Atlanta. Awesome…

Mum “Da Vid…”

Yep, my name is pronounced as two separate words, this confirms what’s coming…

Mum “Why would you want to buy one of those?”

Dad is sitting across the other side of the hospital bed, he sits back to watch and starts smiling at what he knows is coming.

Mum “You’re 38… Why would you want a motorbike? Tommy tell him to stop being stupid…”

The grin disappears from dads face with a start, he’s now involved, he decides (wisely) not to say anything, knowing that 2 or 3 seconds of silence is all that’s required before…

Mum “David I worry about you so much already, you are not getting a motorbike…”

Ooooh, well played dad. He’s out the game and did not even need to open his mouth. If only I had that skill…

Me “Mum, I’m 38, if I want a bike I’ll get a bike. I’m just looking, I’ve not decided I will actually get one…”

Mum “I worry so much, if there is anything dangerous to be done, you’ll do it. Won’t you?”

Me “Biking is not dangerous”

Oh shit, all that’s missing is the “but muuummmm…” whine to start the sentence. I’ve lost, but how do I get out of this with any semblance of dignity?

Mum “Yes it is, Caroline’s son… You remember Natalie? And her daughter Caroline? Natalie was at Marks wedding. Anyway… He fell off his motorbike and hurt himself! It is dan-ger-ous and you are not to do it! Is that clear?”

Mum hardly pauses for breath and continues  “I worry about you enough now that you live in America and do that racing thing, you are not getting a motorbike! Is that clear? And you are too old for that racing thing you do, you’rs not supposed to be doing that at your age.”

I’ve done that “racing thing” for the last 24 years, it’s not the first time I’ve heard this part of the argument. I remind myself to stay away from the “I’m here now aren’t I, I’ve not died?” logic. History shows reasoned arguments do not do well.

I catch movement out of the corner of my eye and that’s my dignity making its exit with out me… Well fuck…

Mum “I just want you to be safe and happy…”

Me “OK, I’m not getting a bike, you are right it’s dangerous.”

Mum changes track “No need to be sarcastic, you are old enough to do what you want. I just want you to be happy.”

Me “But Muu-umm, I was not being sarcastic”

Mum “David” said rapid fire now. “But are you happy?”

Me “No, I don’t have a motorbike.”

Mum left me a series of mostly short notes, I left them in England after the funeral and have conspicuously ignored them since. Not 100% sure why, I think it’s mostly just the emotions around them.

I read a couple and put the rest in my bag to read once I get home, perhaps accompanied by a nice bottle of wine. Though, as it’s mum, maybe whiskey would be more appropriate.

It’s taken me a while to get there, but I’ve read a few and there have been a few consistent themes. First is the love she has for dad, my brother, her granddaughter and myself. Secondly she is proud of how I’ve made my way in world. Most importantly she wants me to be happy too.

Family around mums bed in the RSCH

This is a story about Henry, my grandfather. He was born in New Brunswick and grew up in the beautiful St John river valley close to the border with Maine. Aside from a couple of trips to Montreal and occasional trips across the border he never strayed too far from home.

Just a few weeks after the invasion of Poland by Germany Henry took a trip to Woodstock and joined the recently mobilized Carleton and York Regiment, this was before conscription started. A couple of weeks later he was ordered to Sussex New Brunswick for six weeks of basic training, this was followed by a week of leave then and then to Halifax, Nova Scotia.

On December 9^th 1939 he boarded a ship in Halifax, along with the rest of the Carleton and York Regiment, and sailed for Britain.

He disembarked in Greenock on the 20^th of December.

As an interesting aside, my paternal grandparents lived in Greenock, my grandfather worked in the extensive shipyards and my father was 4 years old when Henry landed in his hometown.

They boarded a series of trains in Greenock Central destined for an army transit camp in Aldershot Hampshire, before finally making the short journey to Quebec Barracks in Bordon Camp in Hampshire in early March 1940.

The Carleton and York were part of the newly formed Third Brigade of the First Canadian Infantry Division. Henry is assigned as a mechanic and driver to a field workshop tasked with repairing and recovering the battalions vehicles.

At this time rationing for basic foodstuffs had just been introduced in England and the 200,000 men of the British Expeditionary forces were deployed in France. Any hope for an early end to the fighting was destroyed with the invasion of the Low countries and the German sweep into France during the Spring of 1940 causing Chamberlain to resign and Churchill forms a coalition government.

In early May, while drilling on the parade ground at Quebec Barracks a lone German bomber appears over Bordon with no warning. It’s thought that the aircraft was lost and found a target of opportunity. The aircraft dropped a couple of bombs, killed 8 (10 by some reports) on the ground before departing at tree top height.

A small element took part in the ill-fated Dieppe raid in August 1942, but other than that the Carleton and York drilled and trained in Southern for the next couple of years. While in Bournmouth preparing for a training exercise on Salisbury Plain in March 1942 Henry was hit by a civilian car. He was taken to hospital in with a badly broken leg.

After a few days he was transferred to a military hospital in Aldershot, where he stayed for a couple of months before being sent back to Bordon and his home unit to continue his rehabilitation. The damage to his leg was severe and kept him on limited and light duties for over a year.

In June 1943 the Carleton and York along with the rest of the First Canadian Infantry Division embarked on transports from Plymouth and Falmouth to participate in Operation Husky, the invasion of Sicily.

Henry was still recovering from his broken leg and was kept in Bordon until late August or early September. He then deployed to Italy, landing in allied held Bari and joining the Carleton and York near Foggia.

The First Canadian Infantry Division was now part of the British 8^th Army and was tasked with breaking through the multiple defensive lines the Germans had set up running across Italy. The Carleton and York along with the rest of the division were tasked with supporting the crossing the river Sangro by New Zealand troops on November 28^th 1943, and moving towards Ortona on the Adriatic coast.

Fortunately the German 86^th Division that faced the New Zealand and Canadian troops were largely ill equipped replacements that allowed the allied troops to take all their objectives with little trouble. This was not the case along other parts of the offensive, where other parts of the 8^th Army went against battle tested units and did not advance.

With the weather deteriorating the lines stabilized over the winter and the Carleton and York were withdrawn for a few months and were later assigned to support the 8^th Army in the drive to Rome through the bloody battles at Monte Cassino and the Livi Valley through April and May 1944.

The Carleton and York continued north over the following months, through Rimini in September and holding at Lamone in November. At this point Henry and a majority of the First Canadian Infantry Division were withdrawn and sailed from Livorno to Portsmouth, arriving back in Bordon in just before Christmas 1944 to prepare for deployment to Holland to join the drive into the Rhineland in the Spring.

Some elements of the division arrived in Holland, but for the Carleton and York specifically the war moved too fast into Germany and they never joined the rest of the division in North West Europe.

Henry returned to Canada in early 1946, arriving in Fredericton with is new wife, Vera. In December1946 my mother was born and together they moved back to South East England in 1947.

In 1992 I visited New Brunswick, it seemed like I’m related to about half the St John River Valley. I was told quite a number of stories about Henry. A significant number of which of which he would deny (and in some cases has), and I’m fairly sure he would not want them published here.

This is the brief synopsis of six years of his life. How he came to Europe, made a difference, served his country and later returned to make Guildford his home. I had a tremendous grandfather that I loved. He taught me ethics, appreciating cats, not to be afraid of hard work, don’t get too attached to a car, never forget to have fun, let those around you know you love them, how to set the timing on a car, that you can never have too many tools and that my father should have been nominated for sainthood in 2002 (if you want to know more ask, I’m not going to expand on that here).

I’ve used a number of primary and secondary sources for the information, the dates, locations and operations are correct as far as I know. I’d like to thank the Canadian Department of Defence, specifically Paul McDonald in the Office of veteran’s affairs for his invaluable help and contacts that made the details possible, the 8th Hussars Museum in Sussex NB and the Canadian War Museum in Ottawa.

The Carleton and York have gone through a number of amalgamations and their history, and by extension the history of Henry and those that served with him, are now part of the Royal New Brunswick Regiment.

Incidentally, the Royal New Brunswick Regiment have recently returned from a six month deployment to Afghanistan.