For Your Tomorrow (23 page)

J
ULY
8. At the entrance to the CFB Trenton airfield in southern Ontario, wreaths of red and white carnations hang from a chain-link fence. Six large Canadian flags sag from the ends of poles planted in the dry grass. On this hot, muggy afternoon, people line the fence, wearing red and white clothing and clasping Canadian flags. Reporters, cameras slung around their necks, are perched on stepladders, zoom lenses poised like cannons above the barbed wire, ready to shoot.

Inside the passenger terminal of the airport hangar, the families of the six soldiers are waiting. In a brightly lit room that smells of coffee, tables are covered in white cloths and heaped with platters of sandwiches and sweets—that no one appears to be eating. People with blank expressions sit
on the edges of the cushioned chairs that circle the edges of the room. Men in dark suits and women in black skirts and dresses stand in small clusters, looking lost—as if they’ve come to the wrong party and don’t know what to say, or how to leave. Russ wears his congenial face as he meets members of the other families, attempting to normalize what is totally abnormal. He can’t think about why he is here.

Mica stays close to Aaron, fidgeting with her bracelets and rings. She tries to smile when people shake her hand; her face rigid in a frozen mask when the Governor General’s representative says, sotto voce, “Thank you for your sacrifice.”
What does that mean?
Just four days ago, she was laughing in a boat on the edge of the Pacific. A second later she was flung overboard. She is still just treading water, knowing there’s no one to rescue her. This is her life now, merely trying to survive and support her parents. July 8—her thirty-second birthday.

Down the hall, in a narrow unlit room, Marion sits—alone. She stares out the window overlooking the runway, rebuffing the pressure to socialize, to make small talk with strangers while she awaits the body of her son.
Impossible
. The ache in her heart is all-consuming. The plane is late. They’ve been waiting for over an hour. Just as they waited all morning at the hotel in Toronto, waited and wondered how they would endure the hours. Waited and walked, pushing Ry in his stroller through the crowded city streets—streets full of young men, fathers holding the hands of toddling boys. They walked and cried, walked and wondered how they’d get through it, terrified.

The plane’s imminent arrival is announced. The families are directed to queue up in order of the soldiers’ seniority—the protocol of military hierarchy observed, even into death’s domain. Jeff’s family goes out first, out into the heavy humid greyness of low-hanging clouds. Twelve black limousines are parked, twelve black-suited chauffeurs beside them. In front, six hearses, sleek and black as sharks, wait. Assembled in parallel groupings, the families stand mute, tracking the grey Airbus as it touches down and taxis in. The cacophonous motors and whirring propellers shut down. They all fix their eyes on the cargo door, just behind the front wheels, anticipating the moment none of them wants to witness—when the hatch opens and the bodies of the men they love emerge, encased in aluminum. A young woman rocks a crying baby in her arms. A small golden-haired boy in a green plaid shirt holds his mother’s hand and waves a long-stemmed yellow rose. “Bye, Daddy,” he calls, staring at the airplane.

Sylvie snuggles Ry close in her arms. In a red-and-white Canada Day T-shirt, gurgling and grinning, he looks around at all the faces. Through her sunglasses, she scans the men in their tan uniforms, wondering where her soldier is, aching for Jeff’s arms around her. When she returned to her condo this morning to pick up some clothes, a dozen yellow roses lay on her back step—
All my love, Jeff
—wilting in the sun. And she felt a surge of strength—
he’s still here, somewhere
. But now she has to go through the motions of this ritual, gripping this yellow rose for him—for his coffin that’s about to come out of that plane. She doesn’t believe he can really be
in there. She wonders why this band is playing, and when she’ll wake up.

A bagpiper—in beaver hat, gold-braided navy jacket, green-black tartan kilt—pierces the still air:

Out of the dark cavity, the first flag-covered coffin comes into view; Captain Jeff Francis lowered to the ground, repatriated. Captain Scott Lang stands on guard. Eight soldiers in dark green dress uniforms march forward. With black-gloved hands, they lift the casket onto their shoulders. Their linked outstretched arms form a bridge for it to rest on, as they carry it to the open hatch of the hearse.

Marion knows that this is the moment they’re meant to walk across the tarmac. Numb, she puts one foot in front of the other, one black sandal following the other. She wades through dense waves of heat. Her gauzy black cotton skirt brushes her bare legs. Russ’s shiny black shoes follow in step beside hers. In a dark blue suit, he holds a yellow rose upright in one hand and clenches her arm with his other; his eyes set with the grim necessity of undergoing this surreal ceremony:
Be strong; guide and support Marion. Don’t think about what is actually happening here. Deal with the emotions later
. Their moist hands interlocked, they approach the rectangular box wrapped in red and white. Marion embraces it, the cotton
flag and aluminum casket cold against her cheek—
Jeff, you’ve come back
. Her physical closeness to her son’s body brings her relief and release—
you’re with us now. You’ve come home
.

This tableau unfolds five more times, for the families of

Three police cars, overhead lights flashing, lead the motorcade out of the airfield. The families in black limousines follow the six black hearses. The streets are packed with people, dressed in red and white, waving Canadian flags, holding up signs:

Veterans, in navy berets and medal-bedecked blazers, salute with knowing eyes—
there, but for the grace of God, go I
. Children in white T-shirts wave small plastic flags. Hands over their hearts, firefighters stand rigid on the roofs of their engines, huge Canadian flags flying from the tops of the extended ladders.

The procession winds onto the highway, a serpentine stream of headlights. Passing motorists honk their horns
and blink their lights. As the motorcade converges on the first overpass bridge, splotches of red and white stand out against the concrete and misty grey sky. Canadian flags drape the length of the bridge. Throngs of people clad in red and white line the railing and spill over onto the grassy edges. They stand, shoulder to shoulder, leaning on one another, wiping their eyes, waving flags, hats and hands—a sea of red and white.

At the second overpass bridge, the same ovation greets the motorcade—and at the third bridge, and at the fourth … past exits to Brighton, Grafton, Cobourg, Port Hope, Oshawa, Whitby, Ajax, Pickering—all the way to Toronto. As the fallen young men pass under the arches of fifty bridges, they are lauded by thousands of flags and thousands of people, young and old. They have stood for an hour on this sultry evening, watching for the headlights down the 401, waiting to pay their respects to the soldiers and their families. And between the bridges, all along the 172-kilometre route, police officers and firefighters in full-dress uniform, ambulance drivers and paramedics stand in salute beside their vehicles.

With every bridge they pass under, Marion, Russ, Sylvie, Mica and Aaron gaze in wonder. The sentiment emanating from the crowds penetrates the tinted windows of their limo. They grasp each other’s hands as tears of gratitude mingle with their tears of sorrow. They never expected such an outpouring—this benediction—during this interminable two-hour journey. It’s the first time such multitudes have inundated these fifty bridges—the route that would
soon be officially designated the “Highway of Heroes.” The weight of their grief—from the French word
gref
, meaning
heavy
—is lightened, as it’s borne on the shoulders of Canadians. Ordinary people acknowledging their debt, the price that these soldiers and their families have paid on their behalf:
The dove is never free
.

The setting sun paints rosy streaks in the saffron sky as the grey city towers rise up in the distance. On the outskirts of Toronto, the overpasses span a dozen lanes. They too are curtained with Canadian flags and teeming with people, red and white from end to end. The entourage turns off at the Don Valley Parkway, continues south to the Bloor Street exit and into the neon-lit streets of Toronto. Red Maple Leafs hang from the lampposts. People line the sidewalks, flourishing flags, all the way to the coroner’s office—the hearses’ final destination.

J
ULY
9. Captain Scott Lang sits alone at the front of an Air Canada Boeing 777. He boarded early, after the private ramp ceremony for the loading of Jeff’s casket. On the window seat beside him rests a kit bag, packed with Jeff’s beret and all the items Jeff carried in his pockets during his final operation. Beside the brown leather bag is a black wooden box with a glass face—the shadow box for the flag covering Jeff’s casket. He puts a protective arm across them, knowing that during takeoff he’ll have to stow them beneath the seat. As passengers begin to stream past him down the
aisle, he closes his eyes, breathes in the cool air whistling through the vent. He broods over the upcoming stage of his duty: accompanying the seventh and final ramp ceremony at the Halifax airport; securing Jeff’s casket at the Dartmouth funeral home; inspecting every detail of Jeff’s uniform before the family viewing—all the while remaining in the background, respecting the family’s privacy.

As the plane taxies down the runway, a bass voice sounds over the intercom: “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. I’d like to inform you of the special circumstances of our flight to Halifax today. As pilot, I have the honour of flying home the body of Captain Jeff Francis, killed in Afghanistan on July 4. The soldier seated at the front of the aircraft is Captain Scott Lang, serving as escort for Captain Francis.”

Escort
—such a benign term, Scott thinks as he shuts his eyes to the glances of passengers seated around him. He has grown accustomed to being treated like royalty with leprosy—
everyone knows you have an important role, but nobody really wants to talk to you
. He presumed this duty would be tough—bringing his dead friend home, seeing Jeff’s family broken with grief. But he couldn’t have imagined how tough: the accumulation of many small tasks, solidifying into the single hardest thing he’s ever done.

J
ULY
9, E
ASTERN
P
ASSAGE
. Just before noon, my sons and I arrive back from Malagash. The blue Atlantic spangles with
sunlight. But the house on Shore Road is cold, empty and lonely. The sorrow of its occupants has seeped into the walls and furniture, hangs in the flower-scented air. Luxuriant bouquets—white lilies, red roses, purple delphiniums, delicate baby’s breath—fill the living room, their fading blossoms scattered on the tables and floor.
The flowers of the forest are a’ wede away
.

Anticipating my family’s return from Trenton this evening, I clean the house upstairs and down, open all the windows to let the ocean breeze blow through, and water the wilting plants. I make a green salad and garlic bread, heat up Gerry’s chili and a seafood casserole brought over by a neighbour. As dusk creeps in, I light candles in the living room and dining room, turn on the outside lamps. The sun sets a fiery blaze in the sea and sky as their van pulls into the driveway.

I embrace my sister. Her body feels frail and hollow. “We got to hug Jeff’s coffin,” she sobs. “He’ll be home soon.” I shudder within, think of my own sons, and find that I’m unable to go there—to that place of horror. A curtain drops over the inconceivable.