To those who never made it home...

Two days ago, the Ninth of April, marked ninety years from the day the Canadian forces succeeded where Britain and France had previously failed when they spearheaded the offensive that resulted in the seizure of Vimy Ridge from German control, a crowning achievement among the travails of the Great War. On this day, we on the north side of the border were asked to demonstrate how proud we were of our men who fought and how grateful we were for the sacrifices they made in the name of "freedom". Yeah, yeah, yeah, you know the drill.

Lying in bed that evening, after bearing witness to the usual war dogma trumpeted by our media personnel and elected officials, I couldn't help but wonder how this battle might have looked through the eyes of one of its participants. I pictured myself as a young man in 1917, once excited in anticipation of performing his duty for King and Empire, now living among the rats and the mud in a trench, wearing the same outfit since Lord only knows when. I'm wondering when this will all end, when I will finally get to return home to my mother and father, my friends, and my special lady.

Up until now, I've seen more combat than I care to imagine and been surrounded by death and despair. I have watched comrades killed and I have killed. Upon my arrival, I am told the men on the other side of the firing line, the men in the other uniforms, the Germans, are to be hated, feared, killed, for no reason other than their not being on our side of the mess. They are young men like me who, like me, probably have loved ones waiting for them when they get to go home, but it is my job to ensure they do not get that chance, for it is their job to deny me the same opportunity. I do not necessarily wish to kill anyone, but if it's a matter of my survival, I must do what I have to do to see my loved ones again.

Today is to be the most intense we have known, as we are to retake Vimy Ridge. I am crouched low, waiting for my turn to charge at the enemy. I am watching the first waves of my comrades leaping to their feet and running headstrong into a rainstorm of bullets and mortar. I hear screaming and wailing and gunfire. I see medics rushing back and forth with stretchers to fetch the dead and dying from the battlefield and wonder if this is the day I make my exit - of course, this thought is not new; one tends to conceive his own demise on a regular basis out here. On one of these stretchers lies a good friend of mine, bullets lodged in his chest and leg, breathing his dying breaths. This catches my eye as I prepare for my turn at the enemy.

We are given the signal, and off we go, bayoneted rifles in tow, dashing towards our opposition with full force, weaving our way through the barbed wire and the shower of bullets. I witness another good friend of mine being cut down; it appears he has been hit in the abdomen. I want so badly to be able to help him, but I cannot, as my stopping may very well get me killed. The medics will have to handle him, I say to myself, for I have to press onward. I have no time to lament the loss of anyone; I have seen numerous young men like myself die, but I am still alive and wish to remain that way.

I am mere yards from the enemy line when I am cut down; I have been hit in the stomach and left thigh. I fall to the ground, but do not feel the pain. I lay flat on my belly and fire the rounds from my rifle at will, aiming towards my adversaries, not knowing if I've hit anyone. Slowly, but surely, the pain registers. I look down and see my ragged uniform soaked in blood. I wonder if this is to be where I die, in "no man's land", caught between two rows of weapons firing at one another. It is too dangerous for the medics to fetch me, so I lie, and I wait.

I am shivering now. I feel weak. The screaming and hollering and firing around me has become muffled, and everything around me has begun to grow dark. So this is it. I will not return home to enjoy any more of my mother's hot meals, nor will I converse with my father by the fire, nor sleep another night in my warm bed. Worst of all, I will not return home to the love of my wife, the woman I had intended to marry. My life with her, our children, our grandchildren, they are not to be. I am to die face-down on this cold ground, shrouded by a blanket of hatred and fear.

I cannot harbour a sense of pride seeing how many of us have died and continue to die in wars we do not start. I cannot rally around the calls of heads of state knowing they are not the ones who fight these wars they start. As far as I'm concerned, there are no victories in war, only losses. So easily, we detach ourselves from one another because our so-called "leaders" teach us to hate and fear each other, that death to this "other" will preserve life for us. War is not something to make us feel proud, but rather to humble us, to install the desire to never see such horror again. I suppose, though, in a world in which guns are made and sold and a select few reap the rewards, war will always be the answer.

To the victims of the first World War and all other wars preceding and following it, I have nothing to say but this: I'm sorry.