We found ourselves without much to say as we waited for the train back to Paris. Our day had left us reflective, humbled, by our visit to Vimy Ridge.
Looking over my shoulder I took note of the small statue that stood in the center of town.
"What’s that?” I inquired.
“The statue? I noticed that too. The plaque said it was built as a dedication to the civilians who were injured or killed in the first world war.”
"I didn’t even notice it when we arrived. Why is it so chipped?”
"Those are bullet holes from when the area was reoccupied in the Second World War.”
As the train pulled away from the station, I tried to imagine how different this charming, french-countryside village would have been as the unwitting host of not one, but two invasions. It was difficult to picture anything other than the cooling pastries and warm faces that romanced us upon our arrival. But the reality of this entire region is a painful one still evident in the visible scars from two world wars, a constant reminder of both the horror, and grace, of mankind.
We awoke that morning at 4am full of anticipation to catch the train from Paris to Arras. Our destination was a small village on the outskirts of the Vimy Ridge Memorial - the site of the infamous World War I battle that took the lives of 3600 of the 100,000(1) Canadian soldiers whose triumphant sweep freed the hill from the relentless German hold.
We left Paris for the day to find the grave of my great great Uncle Hiram Stevenson of whom I had long heard the story of how his shady ways eventually caught up with him. From what I recall, the story goes that he left Chipman, NB in the early 1900’s to head West, where he later struck it rich in the goldmines.
Just as Hiram was staking his claim, he got into a brawl at a local watering hole. After the dust settled and he stood in front of the judge, he was given a choice - go to jail or go to war. He chose the latter becoming one of the oldest serving soldiers at Vimy Ridge at age 41.
Sadly, Hiram never returned to Canadian soil and now, 81 years later, we were on a mission to bring him greetings from home. Before leaving Halifax we found the details of his gravesite on the Veterans Affairs Canada website. Thelus Military Cemetery was where we would find him, 1km from Vimy Ridge.
The village was still sleepy when the train pulled up to the open-air station. The sun was just breaking from behind the clock tower casting cool, long shadows across the centre square. The early hour made our cobblestone footsteps particularly loud so with quiet care we followed our noses to freshly baked croissants. After washing two down with a leisurely cup of coffee, it was finally time to begin our adventure. I felt excited and anxious.
Entering the car rental office I greeted the gentleman standing behind the counter with my rusty French.
"Ah…you are Canadian, no?” he confirmed with a statement rather than a question.
"Oui. Yes. Nous sommes ici de trouver mon oncle. I have a relative buried at Vimy Ridge so we’re going to find his gravesite and then visit the memorial."
A large smile warmed his face. He came out from behind the counter to shake our hands.
"Bienvenue mes amis.” Welcome my friends, he said with a genuine grin.
Walking to the car I remarked on the enthusiastic greeting we had received. “It was almost as if he was expecting us.”
Perhaps he was.
And so we were off albeit naively as we soon realized this wasn’t going to be a simple task. Despite being just a few minutes from Vimy Ridge, we became disoriented by the number of war cemeteries outside Arras. At every turn, thousands of white markers stood at attention in perfect rows. Ornate gates and impeccable greenery welcomed visitors wishing to pay their respects.
After an hour of going around in circles, countless wrong turns and an unsuccessful discussion with two officers who didn’t speak English, we had started to lose hope.
“We must have passed it," I sighed heavily. "Are you sure we’re even going in the right direction? Maybe we should go back and ask again. Actually, never mind, maybe it’s not even here. Let’s just go to the…”
“Wait…there it is!” Richard exlaimed.
“Where?”
“In the field, on the left!”
Pulling the car to the side of the road, I spied the sign that pointed to 6 large maple trees surrounded by imaculately manicured hedges. Nestled far back in a cornfield, the Thelus Military Cemetery was significantly smaller than all the other sites we had seen. But there it sat, quiet, modest, without the need for any pomp or circumstance.
There it sat, so typically Canadian.
We jumped out of the car and for whatever reason, we both felt compelled to run through the field, possibly the pull of the proverbial needle in the haystack. Despite my haste I noticed two workers mowing the corn stalks who, when they saw us, turned off the machinery and got inside the white van parked just outside the entrance - perhaps a small gesture of respect for two familiar strangers.
Bursting through the entrance we immediately started searching and despite having the exact location of his plot, we couldn’t find it. My heart sank.
“But I don’t understand!” Panic raised in my voice as seconds passed. "Where is it? How can it not be here?"
My frantic search was finally broken by Richard's voice.
“Tammy."
I turned quickly to find him standing perfectly still on the other side of the cemetery.
"He's here. Hiram is right here,” he said softly.
I stared at him, unable to move.
“Come here,” he encouraged extending his hand in my direction.
Approaching the grave I was unexpectedly overwhelmed with emotion. Tears filled my eyes as I saw my own name come into focus. Bending down on one knee I traced the etched letters with my finger.
Stevenson.
I read the inscription out loud.
Private H. A. Stevenson
2nd Canadian Mounted Rifles
April 19, 1917
I felt Richard's hand on my shoulder. “I’ll give you a few moments alone."
Resting on both knees to take a closer look I was struck by the moment. I knew nothing of this man other than a bit of folklore but as I sat there in the middle of a cornfield, in a land far removed from all things familiar, I felt incredibly close to home.
After a few reflective moments, I pulled an envelope from my pocket. In it were petals from the lilac bush that grew on the original Stevenson homestead, Hiram's home 100 years prior. Still fragrant, I sprinkled them on the smooth, white stone. Wishing to complete the circle, I cradled a maple leaf in my hands that had fallen next to his marker.
Richard rejoined me to pay our final respects. We finished our visit by reading the names of the other 300 Canadian soldiers who had also been laid to rest in the Thelus Military Cemetery.
Passing through the cemetery gates I paused to look back. I couldn't have imagined how touched I would be by this experience. There was so much I felt should be said, but I chose just two words to express my feelings.
“Thank you.” I whispered.
We spent the remainder of the afternoon visiting the Vimy Ridge Memorial. There are no words to describe the realization that Mother Nature didn't have any part in carving out the lush rolling landscape and grassy knolls.
Standing in the stone-lined trenches you try to imagine how the meager bunkers provided shelter from not only the cold, driving Easter rain but from the driving bullets that rained down on the cold, young men.
As you move deeper into the Park, you are immediately silenced by the grandeur and ominous presence of the 150 foot limestone Monument. Completed in 1936, it took eleven years to build and stands as a testament to the nearly 66,000 Canadian soldiers who paid the ultimate sacrifice in World War I.
During World War II when the Germans reoccupied the area, it is said that Hitler ordered the monument remain untouched. Perhaps even he could revere its beauty and appreciate the courage of the soldiers for whom it was erected.
As the sun sat lower in the sky, we reluctantly knew it was time to leave.
During the train ride back to Paris I reflected on our day and how it ended in such contrast to how it began. Our excitement had been replaced by solemn respect and humility. I felt ashamed of how little I knew about this place, about this formative part of Canadian history.
A week later, we were back in Chipman happily reminiscing about our trip with mom and dad and Les and Judy. We enjoyed the opportunity to relive our Parisian experiences but even when all the memories were shared, there was still one important task to be done.
“Grampa, I want to show you something.”
I greeted him with a kiss on the cheek, his skin smelled of Old Spice. I pulled up a chair to sit close to him. The September sun warmed the porch as it poured through the windows. He set the geranium on the freezer and used his hand to remove stray blooms off the small table so I could lay out my pictures of Vimy Ridge.
Wiping the red dust on his pants he checked to make sure his hands were clean. He sat down and began to examine the photographs, one by one.
I told him of our train ride from Paris and our misadventures finding the cemetery. I described the monument and how Richard had found a piece of shrapnel in the cornfield. He smiled when I told him that the cadette on duty in the information booth had grown up on the same street as we had. "It's a small world indeed," he chuckled.
Watching him linger over pictures of the gravesite, I sensed his comfort in knowing that his uncle was resting in such a beautiful place. Although he didn't say it, I imagine he had the same hope for his brother Charlie who died in Sicily while serving in World War II.
“Oh, I almost forgot Grampa.” Offering the maple leaf I suggested we take it back to the old homestead on the Stevenson road.
Without pause, he replied “No. I know where that belongs. Can you drive?”
His response was so quick and abrupt I thought perhaps I had offended him. I was a little confused but did as he asked. Turning down the road, he didn’t really say anything other than give directions to head toward town.
“Just pull in here."
I parked the car in the United cemetery by Stewart MacLeod Park. Helping him out of the car, he took my arm and guided me to a modest, black granite stone.
“This is where it should go," he said quietly.
Moving in closer, I read the inscription:
John Stevenson, 1833 - 1906
His wife Esther, 1843-1918
And as I read the words below their names, I understood why we were there. Blinking away the tears I continued aloud:
Pte Hiram A. Stevenson
Killed at Vimy Ridge
April 19, 1917
Age 41 years
Helping him kneel down in front of the gravesite of Hiram's parents, I watched his frail fingers dig a little hole into which he motioned me to place the leaf. Gently covering it over, he looked up at me with a knowing smile. “They will appreciate that,” he said. "Thank you."
Many say that Canada came of age as a country on that fateful Easter Monday, 1917. Infact Vimy has been described as the site of our country's first true Canadian moment. I could have never anticipated at the beginning of our day, over 8 decades later, it would also be mine.
As so many Canadians, I am deeply proud that I have relatives who served in World War I and World War II, both from my Father's and Mother's side. They, like all others who have and are serving, deserve our eternal respect and gratitude.
Here are a few photos and websites of interest.
Thelus Military Cemetery (note the white van):
In front of Hiram's grave.
The Letter of Attestation signed by Hiram when he joined the military in 1916. You can see his signature on the bottom right.
Websites to visit:
(1) http://www.veterans.gc.ca/eng/remembrance/history/first-world-war/fact_sheets/vimy
CBC: Vimy Ridge Remembered
Vimy Ridge Memorial
Thelus Military Cemetery
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