Vimy Ridge
(June 11, 2007)
This story was entered in the 2007 CBC Short Story Contest

My friend Ham had spent the previous year preparing for his trip to the 90th anniversary of the battle of Vimy Ridge. He had seen archival footage, listened to first hand experiences and even read Pierre Berton’s “Vimy” book fifteen times. Ham planned ever detail of his trip – every detail but one.

Silly Ham forgot to brush up on his French!

“Suzy you took French in high school right?”
“Oui.”
“Great, you are coming with me to Vimy.”
“Yippy Skippy! I mean Yipp-ais, Skipp-ais!”

Of course I never told Ham that I hadn’t practised French since High School – that my French “n’est pas formidable”. Nevertheless, it didn’t matter as I was going to France!

In April I found myself at the Vimy train station. To my shock and horror, the train station was located a few kilometres outside of town – worse still was that the station was abandoned and covered with graffiti.

“What’s this?”
“Wait for it Suzy. Wait for it.”
“For what? We are in the middle of nowhere without a ride. I doubt a taxi is going to just pop up to pick us up!”
“Wait for it, wait for it.”
“There he is!” Ham pointed down the end of the old platform to a tall old man.
“What?”
“It’s the Grand Pere of Vimy.

”We walked to the old man.
“Canadien?.”
“And you must be the Grand Pere of Vimy” Ham replied.
“Oui. Je m’appelle Le Grand Pere. Et tu?”
“What is he saying Suzy?”
“I don’t know.”
“I thought you spoke French.”
“I do, but this isn’t French. I think it’s… Mexican or something.”

Le Grand Pere, realising my french was non-existent, talked with animation. From our handmotion chat we learned that he was offering us a ride into town.

As Le Grand Pere drove, Ham explained the importance of our driver.

“Every day a man stands at the Vimy train stop waiting for Canadians to step off the train. He chats with them, then gets them settled in town. Over the years, Canadians from throughout the country send him postcards and momentos from their home towns. Somewhere along the line, the Monument tour guides dubbed him “Le Grand Pere” and the name stuck.”

“There it is Suzy – the Vimy Memorial!”

I looked up to see two giant white pillars on a huge hill, standing proud in the twilight.

“Let us off here please.” Ham said as he made a stopping motion.

As we said good-bye to Le Grand Pere, Ham asked me “How do you say ‘thank-you’?”
“Mardi.”
“Mardi.”
Le Grand Pere gave Ham a weird look and replied “Dimanche”… and let us at the base of the Memorial Park.

“So where is our hotel?”
“We’re staying at the memorial.”
“Why?”
“First cause it’s free. Second because the memorial is technically Canadian soil. The French government ceded it to Canada in 1922. – and you know me I try to sleep on Canadian soil as much as possible. And three, I need to explore the Vimy tunnel system.”

“Are you allowed to explore the Vimy tunnel system?”
“No, but don’t worry – we aren’t allowed to camp here either.”

“Camping! You mean there is no hotel at the monument?”
Ham shook his head.

“No even a one-star hostel?”
“It’s a national monument Suzy, not a theme park.”
“Camping, my one true weakness!”

Immediately Ham went into stealth mode. He was concerned about the presence of extra security guards – guards hired to ensure nothing happened to the temporary ceremony stage and set-up - where the Prime Minister and the Queen would be giving their speeches the following morning. In order to be undetectable, we crawled until we reached a ditch. There, Ham scouted the terrain.

“Are you looking for a place to pitch the tent?”
“No, I’m looking for the tunnel entrance. We’re sleeping underground.”

The only thing worse than camping is camping underground!

“There it is! The entrance to the tunnel. One hundred metres to go.”
We scampered to the entrance.

“Now where’s my flashlight?” Ham said.
“Why not just light a candle or something?”
“Are you nuts? These things have been sealed for years. There could be poisonous gas down there. A simple spark could kill us both.”
“That reminds me, here…” he tossed me a hideous green rubber thing.
“It’s your gas mask, just in case.”

Ham jimmied the tunnel trap door open. With flashlight in hand, he led the way.
“Where does this take us?”
“To the exit point. You see the soldiers entered here, but in order to get closer to the German lines, they marched through the tunnels to there.” He pointed up the ridge.
“About a hundred metres or so.”
“One hundred metres! I’m not a marathon runner, I’m a human being!”

We entered the tunnel.
“Look at the craftsmanship into digging these tunnels. Miners from Cape Breton dug them. For Vimy, Canada used all of our resources – this included coal miners digging tunnels. Other armies would have insisted zero experience engineers dig them but not us. The miners were the best so that’s who dug them – regardless of rank or social standing.”

We quietly walked along the tunnel system.
“It’s scary in here.”
“Imagine what it was like for the soldiers. They were sitting in here, knowing that within hours they would be sent into battle where many of them would not return. Now that’s scary.”

“Look at the artwork on the wall!”
“We’re getting close.” He said.

“Who made this?”
“Soldiers. While they were waiting to commence the battle, many used their bayonets to carve these chalk walls.”

The artwork was amazing. There were family crests, regiment logos but the majority were variations of the maple leaf. Oh the detail! Each vein carefully carved into the walls.

The artwork was amazing but it was the personal inscriptions that were far more emotional.
“Pte Harry Fitzpatrick, Rosedale, Manitoba”
“A.H. + M.M.”
“Tell Dotty I love her.”

“Ham, why such personal inscriptions on the wall?”
“It’s their immortality. You have to remember Suzy, that in 1917 the war was still an ongoing thing. They didn’t have the fancy war cemeteries that we see on TV today. Back then, they’d bury the dead but sometimes the cemetery would become the next battlefield and the make-shift wooden crosses and bodies would be blown to smithereens. Writing on this wall preserved their memory for generations to come. They created their own immortality with their bare hands.”

We spent hours looking at every piece of art and reading every inscription. As we approached the final ten metres, Ham noticed a door to the left.

“This must have been the officer’s mess. Let’s see what they wrote on the walls.”
We went into the dark little room.

Ham shone the flashlight along the walls.
“AHHHH!!!!” he screamed and dropped the flashlight.
“What? What? What is it Ham?”

“It’s me Beatrice.”
Beatrice had picked up the flashlight and shone it onto herself.

She was about 20 years old and spoke with a France French accent (as opposed to a Quebec French accent and my Toronto French accent).

“No need to fear me. Look at me. C’est vrai, I’m pregnant. No one needs to fear a pregnant woman.”
“What are you doing down here?” I asked.
“I’m having my baby in the tunnel.”
“Why?” Ham and I both said simultaneously.
“I want my baby to be born in Canada. And this is Canadian soil. Obviously, I wanted to have it outside but there are too many officials watching. Down here, I can have my baby in peace.”

“Why do you want your baby to be Canadian?”
“France, has a terrible immigration policy. I’m actually from Algeria but moved to France when I was 11. Although I’ve lived here for nine years, I’m still considered a second class citizen. Immigrants are treated so badly here in France. Finding a job here? Forget about it. Unemployment for immigrants runs around 30%. France has one of the biggest economies in the world – yet three out of ten of my friends cannot get a job.
No, I don’t want my baby to go through the hardships I have had to encounter here in France. Canada is the best place for her. Once she’s eighteen, she can sponsor me into Canada.”

“Why not immigrant to Canada now?”
“You need $10 000 cash in a bank account to immigrant to Canada. I can’t even get a job in France, let alone save $10 000.”

“Can’t you be a refugee?”
“No, Canada doesn’t consider France to be a dangerous place. I have no chance with the refugee board. Nope, the only way I’m getting to Canada is by having my baby here in this tunnel.”
“Sounds like you have thought everything out.”

“Yes, I even brought a canary down here with me.”
“Why?” I asked.
“That’s how soldiers knew there was gas in the tunnels. If the canary died, there was gas.”

“You mean like it is now?”
Ham and Beatrice turned to the canary cage to see the dead bird.
“Et-tu Beaker?” she cried.

“Suzy, there must be gas in here. Put on your gasmask.”
“That awful green thing you gave me? I left it in the trench. Green does not go well with this outfit.”

“I don’t suppose you are going to urinate on a cloth and put it to your nose.” Ham asked.
“Yeah, like that’s happening.”

Just then, I felt a warm liquid on my shoe.
“Ham, how dare you pee on my shoe!”
“It wasn’t him… and it's not pee.”

We turned to Beatrice who was lying on the ground in a puddle of her own doing.
“I think the baby is about to be born.”
Ham turned to me.
“What do we do?”

“How should I know? You think because I’m a girl I know how to deliver babies! Give me a break Ham.”
“Well, do you think because I’m a successful male that I know how to deliver babies!”
“I don’t think you’re successful.”

“Quick we need to think of something and there’s no stove for boiling water. Suzy I’ll work on getting the tunnel door open and you deliver the baby.”
Ham abandoned me with the pregnant French Algerian immigrant.

“Don’t worry, I know how to deliver the baby. Just follow my steps.” She said to me.
Before I knew it, I had a healthy baby girl in my hands. Upon the baby’s happy cry, Ham rushed into the room.
“We have to go now! We can’t have a newborn baby in a gas-filled tunnel.”
We followed Ham to the trap door.

“What! It’s not open yet! How are we going to get out?”
“We need to kick at it together, Suzy.”
We sat in front of the door and began to kick. Nothing moved but us… backwards.
“Suzy kick hard.”
“I am.”
“Then harder.”

Stupid Ham. Takes me all the way over to France and where do we spend the night? Not in Paris or even a hostel. No, I’m stuck in a stupid gas-filled tunnel system about to die. Did he even help to deliver the baby? NOOO! And now this dummy is telling me, Suzy TooToo, that I can’t kick hard. When I get out of here, I’m going to give him a swift kick all right – a swift kick to the head. Just like this!
With that, I kicked open the door by myself.

Ham grabbed the baby and climbed out of the tunnel system. Beatrice and I followed.
To our surprise, it was daylight. We had admired the tunnel artwork all through the night. To our further surprise, we were next to a giant stage. And to our greatest surprise, the Queen of England was standing in front of us.

“Zut galore!” I yelled.
We had stumbled into the middle of the official wreath laying ceremony of the 90th anniversary celebrations – just as the Queen was about to lay her wreath.

We (including the Queen) stared at each other. The police (and there were a lot them) were waiting for the official word from the Queen. One wave of her silk gloved hand and we were goners. I had to think quick.

“Your majesty, Helen Mirren doesn’t do you justice. You are much prettier than she will ever be.”
I curtsied to my clever comment. The police retreated and the Queen placed her wreath. Then she invited us onto the stage where we listened to Prime Minister Harper’s speech. After the speech, Ham leaned over to me.

“It was a good speech. Nothing he said was incorrect. It’s just that… he kept quoting people. The truly memorable speeches never have a quote from someone else in them because their words will become the quote. The speech should have been better.”

The Queen leaned over me to Ham.
“Then why don’t you finish it off for him?”
“Can I your majesty?”
A wave of the silk-gloved hand and Ham found himself on the podium.

“As Mr. Harper quoted, they say ninety years ago today on this land, Canada as a nation was born. Well today, ninety years later a Canadian was born on this land.”
Ham pointed to the baby.

There was a loud burst of applause. Ham continued his speech with a firery fist-pumping motivational voice.

“We had a year of preparation for this battle. Our planes scouted the ridge daily. For months, our miners dug the tunnel system. Our soliders trained relentlessly - knowing every bump and hole on this battlefield. The battle commenced with the most massive artillery offensive in the history of the world. The battle of Vimy Ridge is justly considered one of the greatest victories, not only of the Great War but of War itself.”

Then Ham's voice quickly quieted.
"Yet we still lost 3598 boys. Ponder that number for a moment. In one of the most prepared and successful battles of all time, there were still 3598 casualties.

3598.
Again, ponder that number for a moment.

3598.
I doubt there are 3598 people here today yet that's how many died right here where we are standing.

Of course, it did not look as it does today. There was no pretty sky or green grass or newborn babies. In fact it had snowed that morning and had quickly turned to cold mud by the afternoon.

Now look down at the ground. Can you see the snowy mud? Touch your lips. Can you feel the cold?
Look closer. Do you see it? One of our boys probably died right where you are staring.

Can you see him? Looking up at you with his last cold breaths from his soon to be cold body. Can you see the look in his eyes? The look that he will never see his beloved true-north-strong-and-free again. The look of never realising his potential. The look of 'why'? The look of knowing that he will never again see home.

And six more boys yesterday in Afghanistan."