I don't know whether courage is an emotion or not. But it gives me a chance to talk about this:
My uncle (my father's little brother) died yesterday at 93 years of age. According to family legend, he was a hellraiser as a young man, standing out for it among 5 brothers who were no slouches themselves.
He didn't get along much with his father, my grandfather, and when the Spanish Civil War began he joined the MacKenzie-Papineau Brigade and went to fight for the Republicans. I suspect he did this more for the adventure than for political belief. He was there until the end, and saw the disaster at Barcelona when the Republicans were more interested in settling their internecine squabbles than fighting the enemy.
Like a lot of others, he made his way home by circuitous means, and with a contempt for both fascists and communists. He attempted to join the Canadian army when WW2 broke out, but was rejected as "undesireable, probable communist" for his Spanish experience. Not satisfied, he made his way to England, joined the British Army under a false name and was sent to North Africa. He survived two assaults by Rommel, was decorated at El Alamein, and was outed as a Canadian under false papers. Given his record, he was not punished, but allowed to transfer to the Canadian Army, which was then in Italy.
He was wounded and decorated again at the Battle of Ortona, and was recommended for officer school. Sent back to England for this, he washed out, and was reassigned to the 3rd Canadian Infantry in time to land in the second wave at Juno Beach on D-Day. Wounded again, he rejoined his unit in time for the Breskens Pocket.
He came back from the war with two things. A pretty Canadian Woman's Auxiliary worker as his bride, and alcoholism. He bought a farm with his demobilization money, raised a family, and became one of the more successful farmers in his area. A classic maintenance alcoholic, he started the day with a water glass of rye and continued throughout.
Following in his father's footsteps, he didn't get along well with his sons, and all three of them, (who were born in U.S. hospitals, just across the border from the farm) joined the U.S. forces and went to Vietnam. Two of them now farm, and one of them has his name on the fucking wall in Washington.
My uncle and I didn't see eye to eye on a lot of things, and I won't pretend he was an easy guy to get along with. But he had a hell of a lot of courage, not just in the war, but in his personal life, and a cynical but real concern for human rights. In the mid-seventies, the RCMP beat a young aboriginal man half to death outside a bar in the nearby town, for no evident reason. (Bear in mind that the RCMP's record with aboriginal Canadians is horrific.) The leaders of the local reserve protested, and when rebuffed announced that they would march through the town. The Mayor and council and the RCMP said that it would be an illegal assembly, and all participants would be subject to arrest. The reserve leaders wouldn't back down.
At the time scheduled for the march, a reinforced RCMP detachment took positions armed with shotguns and riot gear. The Mayor read the Riot Act. My uncle, wearing his Canadian Legion beret and his decorations, stepped out into the street and put his arms around the two primary reserve leaders, and said: "Let's take a walk" The three of them followed by a hundred or so others marched up towards the waiting RCMP and the Mayor. As they got close, my uncle, in his best parade ground voice, ordered the marchers to close ranks, and since many of them were veterans, they acted accordingly.
What happened next isn't entirely clear. According to family legend my uncle marched them to within a foot of the RCMP and said to the Sergeant commanding them. "Are you going to shoot me today, Jim? Or are we going for a beer tonight." Whatever did happen, violence did not occur. The march happened, the RCMP watched, and the Mayor and most of the council were defeated at the next election.
Slainte, Uncle Walter. May you be half an hour in heaven before the devil knows you're dead.
