As we inch towards the solemn holiday of Remembrance Day, we contemplate the sacrifices so many men and women made for our country. And while some survivors of war later chose to focus on the sadness and loss, others preferred to compartmentalize their experiences from the war.
My father fell within the latter category. He chose to separate the war into parts, and not let the horrifying memories mingle with the droll ones.
During WWII, my dad was a medical officer in the Canadian army, and needless to say, he saw a lot of gruesome things on the war front in Europe.
When I asked him about his army experiences as a doctor, he used to say that he preferred to remember the good things. Hard to believe that there could actually be good things to recall, but apparently, there were. And he shared in abundance.
My father’s favorite anecdote involved the liquor that was left in the officer’s mess at the end of the war.
There was no way in hell they were going to abandon all that perfectly good booze and return to Canada empty-handed.
So, what did the medical officers do? They put plaster casts (think broken limbs) around each bottle of liquor and sent them home via army mail. Ingenious, no?
Another account my father shared involved his nickname, Sir Sidney. Sounds kind of royal, doesn’t it?
Well, it so happens that my dad’s skin has always been very sensitive and he hated itchy fabrics. He quickly realized that his army uniform was made of wool and that he would be one big rashy mess if he didn’t do something about it.
Now I’m not sure where he was stationed in Europe at the time, but when he had an army leave, he immediately went and bought some silk pajamas to wear under his uniform. Yes, you heard correctly. Hence, Sir Sidney.
As a commissioned medical officer, my dad was assigned a batman (and not the kind with the sidekick Robin).
A batman is a soldier that’s like a personal servant of sorts, to his commissioned officer.
He would clean my dad’s boots, accompany him on his travels, etc. According to my father, he would regularly ask his batman to go steal eggs from a nearby farm so that he could fry up some Spam and eggs.
And no, this is not a Monty Python skit. He really used to do this. Thus, was born my father’s love of fried Spam.
Another story passed down by my father involved shrapnel and a part of his anatomy. I won’t go there, though.
While no part of war is funny, my father managed to carry the humorous memories with him, long after it was over. And he carried them in a separate compartment.
Shelley Civkin is a retired communications officer
