The horrors of war

My father, Jake Hagel, was part of the Canadian forces cleanup crew during WW2 in Europe.

It was a horrific job that haunted the man for the rest of his life. He was like a homicide detective in that he’d never forget the endless sea of faces of those slaughtered. The terror and pain etched in their features during their last moments of life was something my dad couldn’t unsee. That’s if they still had a face.

Though Dad seldom spoke of it, he told me about pulling bodies out of cellars in Holland. The Jews had been in hiding, waiting to be rescued by the Dutch resistance but starved or froze to death before that could happen. Then there were the Allied troops killed in battle, which I read about on Reddit. The clean-up crew members removed one dog tag to register the fallen soldier with the army and to notify their next-of-kin, leaving the other tag on the body for burial. Nazi personnel rigged dog tags with explosives, which would detonate if someone tried to take them off. The Germans also concealed land mines within the garments of the corpses.

A large proportion of them looked like boys because of many being teenagers who had misrepresented their age to serve their nation. Their lives were cut tragically short.

Often the cleaners had to roll a bloated cadaver on its front and press on the lower spine to release the gases, making it easier to remove and transport the body with the rest of the slain. To make matters worse, they sometimes encountered soldiers who were still alive but mortally wounded and begged to be euthanized, a request they granted. Afterwards, they had to return to camp and cook dinner for the troops.

When the war ended, the men returned home and tried to resume some semblance of normalcy. They all, including my dad, had PTSD, but it wasn’t a known phenomenon in those days. Instead, it was called “shell shock.” The veterans suffered in silence.

As a kid, I watched as Dad paced back and forth, restless as a caged lion. Hot ashes dropped from the cigarette dangling between his lips and were ground under his immaculately polished boots. In a trance-like state, he stared blankly ahead, his wide eyes seeming to see ghosts of his past. The flashbacks were likely filled with the sound of the military bugle playing Reveille, alongside the noises of war, and the lingering smell of death.

Mom came out in her nightgown and yelled at him for damaging the new flooring, but he just stared blankly. It was as though she was invisible.

With his piercing eyes, he scrutinized you, searching for any pretense or weakness, as if his gaze could penetrate your very soul. He learned that trait during his military training, essential for survival and to counter German spies. It was something that stuck with him.

He had a softer side, and I, being the youngest, revelled in it. Being a girl helped too, as he was much harder on his boys. However, he didn’t always treat me with kid gloves. After using corporal- punishment on me once, he came into my room and apologized. His eyes welled up and his voice wavered. I couldn’t help but respect and forgive him. Tears rolled down my face as I typed this.

He could not give what he didn’t have, but did remarkably well considering his lot in life. Like many European immigrants in the early 20th century, his father governed with an iron fist.

His parents, both German Russians, left Russia for Canada separately, eventually meeting and marrying here. The trauma of the two world wars poisoned generations before and after each conflict.

Every year as Remembrance Day draws closer, I pull out the photo collage my sister Pat Anderson made and display it proudly. It is a solemn reminder of Dad’s part in freeing us from Hitler’s diabolical scheme for world domination.

Had his generation not fought back, I would not be writing this piece now. In fact, most of us would not exist. He had 83 descendants, ranging from children to great-grandchildren and the number keeps growing.

Dad passed away in 1997 following a nine-year struggle with Alzheimer's and Parkinson's disease. That double whammy illness robbed Dad of both his mind and his physical strength, bit by bit.

During the graveside service on a cold and overcast windy spring day, we shivered and huddled together. As the priest stepped forward and spoke, the sun broke through the clouds and a vast flock of snow buntings soared overhead, the little birds singing nearly drown out his voice as they spiralled up towards the heavens and suddenly shot northbound, headed towards the nesting grounds in Antarctica.

I knew then Dad was OK.

Oh death, where is your sting? (1 Corinthians 15:54-56)

This article is written by or on behalf of an outsourced columnist and does not necessarily reflect the views of Castanet.