My grandfather clanked when he walked. He lived with our family in my early years when I was growing up. He read stories and recited nursery rhymes to us children. I remember him as being very tall. His war records state that he was five feet, four and a half inches—taller than my parents, but hardly the giant of my memory.

My grandfather did not relish war, but he felt it was his duty to enlist, so became a private in the Canadian Army in 1916. He was sent to France in 1918 with the 4th Canadian Division.

Our family knew my grandfather had been wounded twice. We had an idea that he was shot first and blown up second, but it was the other way around. In August 1918, near Amiens, he suffered shrapnel wounds to the head, face, right upper arm, and right thigh. After six weeks in hospital, he rejoined his unit on September 25. His medical care was not exemplary, as shell fragments were still working their way to the surface thirty or forty years later. On October 1, 1918, near Cambrai, he was part of a detail of thirty men who were sent across an open grain field to occupy an advanced position. Unexpectedly, they came under fire from a machine gun nest that had not been cleared from a nearby woods. Less than a third of the men reached their objective. Since this was too small a number to hold the position, they decided to return to their former lines. In recrossing the grain field, my grandfather was struck by four bullets, to his right knee, lower right leg, right thigh, and left thigh. The thigh wounds were not serious, but the lower bullet almost completely severed his calf muscle, severed an artery, and shattered his fibula. Before leaving him, his sergeant applied a tourniquet that controlled the bleeding and probably saved his life. He remained there, hidden in the grain, until evening. Under cover of darkness, he began to crawl back to his lines. He reached his objective at dawn and was about to call for help when he looked over the parapet and saw a German soldier cleaning his bayonet. As quietly as possible, he crawled back in the opposite direction. His brother, who was in the same battalion, asked for permission to go and look for him, but was refused.

My grandfather was finally rescued after two days. He spent the next eight months in hospital and rehabilitation and was finally discharged from the Army on July 2, 1919. For the rest of his life, he was able to walk only with the help of a cumbersome metal brace.

My grandfather was a gentle man, a school teacher, a devout Christian, and a respected Bible teacher. He was quite certain that he had never killed anyone in battle and was glad about that. He rarely talked about his war experiences, but they remained a vivid memory all his life. He would frequently have nightmares, waking up screaming after dreaming that he was being strangled by a German soldier.

There is a sequel to this story. While on leave in England, my grandfather visited his brother-in-law’s family. After the war, he wrote to his brother-in-law’s sister and asked her to come to Canada and marry him. By this time, she was a widow with a young daughter, my mother. There being a distinct shortage of eligible men in England, the sister agreed to marry my grandfather, a man she had met only a few times. In those days, people lived by faith. In July 1920, my grandmother and her daughter arrived by ocean liner in Montreal. My grandfather (it will be clear by now that he was actually my step-grandfather) met her at the boat. They walked down the street to a church and were married the same day. And that is how I was blessed to have a grandfather who lived with us and who clanked when he walked.