Avescope Memento Mori

By the time World War II began, my grandfather had
moved himself and his young family to Canada. Settling
on the west coast meant that it was important to keep at
least one eye permanently on the beach – in case the
Japs landed (Spoiler: They didn’t).
By all accounts, crippling psychological damage was the
common thread among veterans of the First World War,
perhaps more so than any other military campaign since.
That’s not to say that those who fought in World War II
(or any other war) didn’t suffer trauma. They just seemed
to come out of the experience tough as nails, rather than
visibly grappling with shell shock and unable to function.
In fact, my Second World War veteran relatives had the
most tenacity, pragmatism and balls of cast iron of
anyone I knew as a child. The opposite was true for the
generation that had endured World War I – what was left
of it, at least. It’s true that I didn’t ever know any of my
Great War elders while they were still alive, but
everything I’ve been able to learn about their post-war
lives suggests that they carried on under an unspeakable
pall.
I don’t agree with the idea that whatever doesn’t kill us
makes us stronger. Some damage is just that. No one is
any better or stronger for it. In fact, the trenches of World
War I simply broke those who survived. Sure, they were
tough – and also haunted by recollections they were too
ashamed to articulate. Remember, this was the military
that shot men for what was then considered cowardice.
Maybe World War I didn’t unite people behind a
common cause that felt just and righteous the way going
after Hitler did?
My World War II grandfather missed the feeling of doing
something vitally important when civilization itself
seemed to be threatened. He appeared strong and
practical to me, and also very calm and unflappable.
Similarly tenacious and stonily determined was an uncle
on my father’s side, who served in the Royal Air Force in
World War II and spent five years as a prisoner in a
German camp. Believe it or not, there are parts of his
story that are actually funny…
I knew him as ‘’Uncle Mick.’’
Manville Charles Fenn was a Royal Air Force nose gunner
and wireless operator in a Wellington Bomber that was
shot down in the Netherlands in December of 1940. Their
mission was the last one to depart before fog made any
further flights across the channel impossible. It was also
on account of the fog that when their bomber crash
landed, they weren’t entirely sure where they’d ended up.
The crew decided to take a look around, minus the pilot
whose injuries made it impossible for him to be moved
(He survived, by the way.). Eventually, they found a road
sign – in Dutch, of course.
‘’I think we’re in Wales,’’ one of them ventured. Hollywood
could not have devised a better line. What followed
would also have made for a good screenplay. I’ve
speculated on who was more surprised when the group
bumped into a German patrol. (My guess would be the
guys who thought they were in Wales.)
‘’For you, the war is over,’’ is another line I thought was
only ever uttered in movies. But no, it was real. My uncle
remained a prisoner of war for the next five years,
although not without some escape attempts (including
one in a latrine, which miraculously did not result in
dysentery).
Not surprisingly, no one could stand their ground quite
like Uncle Mick. But to call him stubborn would be
inadequate. ‘’Carved from granite,’’ would be more
appropriate. I don’t want to think that it takes a world war
to forge that kind of personal strength. Still, no
generation since has ever been quite the same. Maybe
the best form of remembrance is to try and cultivate our
own inner granite as best we can, to just do better. With
any luck, I will never discover how I’d handle myself
Avescope | 8