For Your Tomorrow (28 page)

“It’s the emptiness that’s so heavy,” he says, rising from his chair. “I’ll be right back.”

In a few minutes he returns, holding a large grey rock in his hands. “Your grief is like this stone,” he says, “weighing you down as you carry it around all day. When you go out,
you can make a decision to set it aside; leave it by the door, then pick it up again when you get home.”

The group teaches them such strategies for making their sorrow livable. And as they focus on ways of continuing their relationship with their lost child, Marion begins to envision. What does she envision? Jeff’s garden—a Zen garden on his granny’s land by the sea.

Marion digs in the red earth, plants hostas, ferns and ornamental grasses. She and Russ lug flat sandstones up from the beach for pathways, and shovel pea gravel into beds. They rake the pearl-grey pebbles into a pattern of waves, outlined with sea glass—translucent shards of blue, white and green. In the circular plot, they erect granite standing stones; arrange Japanese solar lanterns and pagodas. Marion is most at peace when she’s working in the garden. She feels connected to her son, as if she’s caring for him, nurturing his spirit, keeping him alive in this ever-growing, ever-changing entity. Near the entrance, they place a stone meditation bench and a bronzed statue of the Buddha. In a nook formed by three spruce trees, they set a chiselled stone marker:
Jeff’s Way
.

T
HE HIGHWAY LEADING
to CFB Shilo in southern Manitoba is like none other in Canada. Yellow ribbons as tall as a man festoon the weathered grey fence posts and telephone poles that line the road, mile after mile. They usher us—Marion, Russ, Mica, Aaron, Sylvie, Ry and me—to the Home Station of the First Royal Canadian Horse Artillery. We are driving to the base for the ceremonial dedication of a trig point in Jeff’s name. A fixed survey marker positioned on a hill in the military training area, a trig point helps soldiers to orient themselves during field exercises.

The gravel road into the training zone cuts through fields of reddish-yellow grass and birch trees, amber leaves quivering against the bluest widest sky imaginable. We drive in silence, each of us immersed in our separate spheres of thought. On this sun-drenched September morning, it feels like the most peaceful place on earth; this place where
soldiers learn to fire weapons and engage in combat, soldiers committing their lives so we can live in this peaceable land. I imagine Jeff directing his LAV along this track, preparing for the mission of his life: leaving his name in a faraway desert, so a young Afghan girl can write hers for the first time. His samurai sword sharpened her pencil, cut the small square of paper that a veiled woman slips into a ballot box in a remote desert polling station; it fanned a quavering flame of democracy—Afghanistan’s only hope for deliverance. Jeff and scores of his comrades relinquishing their today for humanity’s tomorrow.

I stroke the “Void” tattoo on my forearm
—When your spirit is not in the least clouded, when the clouds of bewilderment clear away
. “Look over there,” Russ says, pointing out his window on the other side of the van. Above the margin of white birches, a hawk is circling, riding the wind ever forward along the road, as if it’s showing us the way.

We arrive at a hillock, the only rise of land for miles, and clamber over the rough ground, fragrant with juniper and sage. On the other side of the hill, the C Battery troops stand in rows. Folding metal chairs are lined up for us in front of a wooden podium bracketed by the Canadian flag, the blue-red RCHA flag and large speakers.

“Jeff was a somewhat reserved person who didn’t like a lot of fuss,” says Major Fortin, the battery commander, “but Jeff—I know you’re looking down on this ceremony and blushing—please indulge us for a few moments while we talk about you here.” Minutes later, the PA system cuts out. We are sitting close enough to hear without the microphone
being used, but the sound waves are lost in the open prairie, drifting up and over the ears of the helmeted soldiers positioned behind the speaker.

The base padre, in a flowing black robe, takes the podium. “Holy places can happen whenever an encounter with the divine occurs,” he says. “This trig point will be a place of remembrance, a place of honour in our training field. Let it always remind us of the principles Captain Francis stood for, the expertise and compassion he brought to his work as an artillery officer. May this dedication help us to follow his example of leadership and courage throughout our lives.”

Our eyes turn to the crown of a grassy hill where two soldiers unveil a two-metre tripod of blue and red steel, a white-lettered sign on top:
FRANCIS
. “Trig Francis will always remain in this location, serving as a navigational aid,” says Major Chris Henderson, Jeff’s commanding officer in Afghanistan. “Each time we pass it on exercise or during training, we will be reminded of Jeff’s commitment to his comrades and country.”

“Take post!” shouts Major Fortin. The soldiers sprint en masse down the firing range to four Howitzers, cannon-like guns. Restless in his stroller, Ry thrusts his legs excitedly. “Kick, kick,” he says, thinking these men are surely running out to play soccer. Jeff’s G 1-3 FOO party bellows the call for fire. Four gunshots thunder through the still air. After each round of fire all is starkly silent, but for Ry calling out, “Boom, boom … Da-dee.” A sixteen-gun salute, Jeff’s final round of fire.

The Lucky 13 crew invites us to drive back to the base with them, so Russ, Mica, Aaron, Sylvie and I put on the heavy helmets and climb inside the gloomy interior of the LAV. Rolling along the dirt road in windowless confinement, I envision travelling in this steel encasement across a desert, knowing it could explode beneath me at any second. I take a turn standing up through the hatch, the sun and wind on my face, breathing in the austere beauty of the prairie. Beside me, signaller David Fradette stares off into the distance, pensive, perhaps assimilating the strangeness of transporting Jeff’s family. Just a short time ago, Jeff sat in the commander’s seat of their Lucky 13 LAV, leading them on.

At the luncheon reception back at the base, the men in Jeff’s crew—Clay Cochrane, Adam Wierenga, Carlo Lajoie and David Fradette—chuckle about the sound system malfunctioning during the dedication ceremony. “It had Jeff’s signature all over it,” says Clay, grinning with reminiscence.

“Yeah,” Adam says, “so often Jeff’s headphones wouldn’t work.”

“And remember the two-way radio?” Carlo says. “How it was always cutting out while he was using it?”

I ask them how they’ve been doing since returning from Afghanistan, and they become subdued, look down at their dusty boots. “You’re so busy over there that you just carry on,” Clay says. “It’s later that it sinks in. Arriving back home was bittersweet. I think of Jeff every day.” He glances at the Lucky 13 tattoo on his forearm. “I’ve had to go to counsellors … I haven’t been myself. Jeff’s death and Afghanistan have changed me.”

Russ moves up beside me and takes my arm. “There’s one other person we must talk to before we leave,” he says, steering me towards Major Henderson, Jeff’s commanding officer in the July fourth operation. “I need to hear it from the horse’s mouth.”

“Was Jeff performing his normal role as FOO that day?” Russ asks. “Why was he in that vehicle? I’m asking this because one Halifax newspaper reported that he’d volunteered to help out when a sixth person was needed.”

“I heard about that article,” Major Henderson says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Let me set it straight. Jeff was doing the job he was paid to do.” As he explains about Jeff coming to him the night before, and about the fog, he talks at a rapid-fire pace, like someone fuelled by caffeine—or anxiety. “So that’s why Jeff ended up in Matt Dawe’s vehicle. It was a total fluke—there happened to be an empty seat.”

“One more question,” Russ says, eyes watery. “When you opened up the hatch … anybody alive?”

The Major shakes his head. “Jeff was the first to be recovered. He was sitting right by the door.”

An unassuming mound of earth in the Canadian prairie is sacred ground. Trig Francis shows the way.

I
SIT DOWN WITH
a large white box packed with sympathy cards and letters that Marion and Russ have received. As I peruse them, I’m astounded by the web of relationships woven around Jeff, and the impact of his life and death on
people I’ve never met. One of longest and most reflective letters is from his friend at Carleton University, Joselyn Morley:

Jeff helped me learn that people transcend the boxes that others put them in. He could be different things at the same time, and somehow the different parts still complemented each other. People write that he was a soldier’s soldier, but not just a soldier.… or he was really smart, but not a snob. The soldiers had to reconcile that part of Jeff that enjoyed the intellectual pursuits, and the intellectuals had to reconcile the part of Jeff that was a great soldier. I find it easier to reconcile all my own parts when I think of him. I can be a pacifist that understands and appreciates the Armed Forces
.

I needed to understand why Jeff enlisted, so I did a lot of research about the Canadian military. Then I encouraged my partner, Marty, to enlist. He had college diplomas in computer technology and programming, but had been either under-employed or unemployed for a long time. I’m not sure we would have survived as a couple without Marty joining the army. He’s a changed man—confident, challenged, and rewarded for his initiative
.

Jeff’s search for meaning—ultimately leaving Carleton and joining the Army—reminds me what determination is. Looking for integrity. Looking for honesty. Looking inside like he did
.

Another letter is from a woman that neither Jeff nor anyone in our family has ever met—Renee Naimon, regional director for Canadian Blood Services in central Ontario:

Your son gave his life to the fragile dream of peace and for the security of others. His life had this richness of commitment and a huge, yet
unknown, effect on others. I am, myself, a product of those brave souls that fight for freedom as my parents survived the holocaust of World War II by being liberated by soldiers like your son. Because of soldiers like him, they were reborn when they settled in Canada. My brother and I owe our own lives to soldiers who assist those in need of protection. Your son’s life was large and very important. Without people like him and parents like yourself, who must soldier the pain of loss, our way of life and freedom would not exist
.

Jeff kept a reading journal while he was a soldier, a black hardcover notebook in which he recorded quotations from books he was reading. Titles such as
Comprehensive Asian Fighting Arts, Gilles Deleuze and the Philosophy of Difference, The End of History and the Last Man, Postmodern War: The New Politics of Conflict
. The last entry in the notebook comes from the German philosopher G.W.F. Hegel,
The Phenomenology of Mind: