Inside the Silence
I served six and a half years in the Canadian Armed Forces (CAF). I was never deployed and I never saw combat. Sometimes, I am ashamed of this and am hesitant to call myself a veteran because of it. This is, however, the reality for many of what we refer to as, our ‘new veterans’ these days. Instead of deployments to combat zones, we stay and support our country from home. We support our troops from home. For some of us, we support our troops at home; those who’ve come home needing extra support. Troops who, have seen firsthand, the experiences, illness and injuries that forever alters a soldier’s life, after deployment.
Many of us only ever see this second-hand; experience these things vicariously through helping and supporting our comrades. All of us, see and know of the damage that can be done; to the soldier, to their family and to their larger CAF family, as a whole. Many know what it’s like to sacrifice something for the greater good; in service to our country and to one another. Many know what it’s like to live with the consequences of these sacrifices, day in and day out after it’s all said and done. Many of us; even us who haven’t seen combat, have a story to tell of a loss, illness or injury resulting from that service.
Many of us will tell our stories to other veterans, in attempt to find some sense of belonging and cohesion; a sense of inclusion so, they aren’t left to bear these burdens, alone. Some of us will only tell a small portion of it; as a therapeutic kind of catharsis, to help us heal. And, some will not share at all. Some go silent. Some disappear into that silence. Much like the silence we observe every Remembrance Day, when we honour those we’ve lost; some disappear into silent reflection. Some just disappear.
We all know what’s inside those two minutes of silence. We all have our own series of thoughts and emotions that we experience throughout these two minutes. Two minutes that to some, can feel like a lifetime; of grief and endless pain for our lost comrades and the pain we carry within ourselves, as well.
Inside my silence, there are thoughts of my grandfather’s, uncles, great uncles who fought in so many wars before I was born; before I served. Thoughts of those of them who died in service to our country, and those who died because of service to our country. There are thoughts of sitting on my father’s fathers lap and listening to him tell stories from World War I and II; remembering fondly, talking about his comrades and laughing about the antics they got up to, together. And then, of seeing the pain in his eyes right before he went silent, himself.
Thoughts surrounding friends and family members who; including my daughter, are still serving. Wishing them health and wellness, and hoping to be there for them to help fight whatever monsters they may encounter throughout their service. Thoughts of hopefulness at being able to have their six and pick them up when they fall. Hoping that they will come to me when the darkness starts to creep in; that they won’t disappear into the silence like so many before them.
Also, inside my silence, there are memories of comrades I've lost. One, on the job and one who, like far too many others, succumbed to that darkness. Thoughts of all of the calls I attended, where my assistance was requested, as a result of these monsters and the darkness they reside in; in the far recesses of each soldier’s mind. Calls, where I was asked to use first aid of some kind; either on their bodies or their minds. Just long enough to get them to a place that could apply more than just a Band-Aid.
Some calls that still haunt me to this day. Calls that I cannot help but recall in those two minutes of silence; for the ones that I couldn’t get through to. For the ones that I could not save or help. Who’s faces I cannot help but recall within those two minutes of silence. Two minutes, that feels like two years, some years.
The CAF family has lost, yet another brother. For the sake of his family, friends and comrades, I won’t dare speculate as to the reasons behind this loss but will say this; we feel it. We feel it every single time we lose a brother or sister. We feel it, because we are forever tied to one another, through the sense of duty and family-like responsibility to and for each other. Even those of us who didn’t know you well, or at all. Or, those of us who didn’t serve directly alongside you. We feel the loss. We feel the failure to protect you. The sense of longing to have known that you were struggling.
We wish we had reached out more often. Wish we had seen that you needed us. We long for the chance to go back and do it all over again. We feel the sense of longing to belong and longing to tell you we’ve got your six and prove to you that you belong, in the same way. We wish to have, somehow pulled you out of that darkness and broken into your silence before you disappeared, within it.
We all know what’s inside the silence for us. We all have our own series of thoughts and emotions that we experience throughout. And, we all wish someone would break into our silence, and that we could break into one another’s silence, as well.
Regardless of how long we have served, where we have served and with whom we have served, we are all brothers and sisters in a larger family. Regardless of what that looks like to each of us, or what we take away from that experience; that service, we are all connected and we all need to be there for one another. Most importantly, we need to reach out to one another and allow one another to break into that silence and help guide us back out when we start to disappear.
When I say, I’ve got your six, I mean it with every fiber of my being; I mean that I don’t want you to suffer in silence or to disappear within it.
I've got your six. Please don't disappear inside the silence.
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