(I wrote this over a decade ago, and think it's worth dusting off for today.)
My nextdoor neighbour for years was an elderly man named Guy. He was a World War Two veteran and an amazing sharpshooter full of numerous fascinating tales. Sometimes I would go outside after school and watch him doing target practice.
He really was amazing with his gun. He could hit the bullseye every time on a target I couldn't even see. One day, he missed his shot by half an inch, and he became very angry. He knew someone had been messing with his scope, and sure enough, one of his sons had used his rifle earlier that week.
As we lived deep within the forest, Guy's sharpshooting was a very useful skill. Every autumn, he would bag a deer to feed his family. He usually gifted us with a little bit of his venison. During the Depression, he used to hunt for all the local families and would bring home many deer, moose, bears, and rabbits. Game wardens turned a blind eye to his activities. He may very well have been feeding some of their families. He also used his gun to protect the people and their livestock.
Normally, the many bears which haunted the area kept to themselves. However, every now and then, one would begin stalking our horses.
Guy owned a vast amount of pasture, and he let us keep our horses there in the summer months. One day, the horses came galloping around the corner in mortal fear. Their eyes rolled in their heads, and their nostrils flared out to the size of pancakes. Something was after them.
Moments later, a single shot rang out.
From approximately one-half mile away, Guy had shot a running bear through the heart. It was an instant kill.
At some point during his travails in wartorn tropical countries, Guy had contracted malaria and become an alcoholic. Although he eventually kicked the booze habit, his past maladies, along with a heart condition and a penchant for chain-smoking and tobacco-chewing, had given him a worn-down look. Gin blossoms bloomed on his nose, his lips and teeth were stained black, his fingers were yellowed with nicotine, and great, phlegmy coughs constantly racked his frame. But he could sure spin a mean story....
I would often visit him after school and listen as he regaled whoever might be there with amazing war stories. Once, he noticed I was reading Farley Mowat's Owls in the Family, and he told me he'd served briefly with Mowat. He didn't have much to say about him, only that Mowat hadn't really been in the hotspots Guy had fought in.
Guy's favourite anecdote dealt with being trapped in a thinly-wooded coppice with other Allied troops. They had taken what cover they could, but seven or eight German planes were cutting them down with machine gun fire. He was certain they would all die, for they had nowhere else to go.
But then he heard a wonderful sound. It was the tacka-tacking engines of three Spitfires. They zoomed in and engaged in a dogfight, taking down every one of the enemy planes, saving the lives of all the ground troops. As they flew away, they dipped their wings in salute.
From that day on, Guy developed a fascination with Spitfire planes, and would hush everyone whenever one appeared on his constantly-blaring television.
Not all of Guy's stories had happy endings, though. Guy had also been involved in trench warfare, and, when he waxed maudlin, would lament his horrific experiences. When Guy was like this, any adults in the house shooed me away. These stories were too gory for a little girl to hear.
But I did hear one of these stories. Once, Guy and his fellow troops were under heavy artillery. The air was almost imperforate with bullets and mortar fire. Guy was terrified, but needed to cross a road. He made a break for it at the same time as another soldier. As they tore across the road, Guy glanced over his shoulder and noticed the soldier running beside him had no head. The soldier made it all the way across the road before collapsing into a trench.
Guy's voice shook as he told this story, and I didn't argue when I was ushered out of the house to play. The gory images of his story haunted me for days. Although I would still play wargames with other kids, I decided war was a terrible thing. John Wayne war movies no longer seemed terribly realistic, and the soldier's life no longer seemed so glamourous.
Of course, these feelings neatly reconciled with Jehovah's Witness theology. According to what I learned at the Kingdom Hall, war was evil and borne of Satan. I was wont to agree. Still, I felt awkward for not wearing a poppy around Remembrance Day. If nothing else, I thought it was good to remember the hell these people went through in order that it may never be repeated.
In 1989, Guy's chain-smoking wife Christine developed lung cancer. Neither of them quit smoking. They were both hardcore nicotine addicts. Christine's condition worsened, and she died that winter.
Guy became a very lonely man, and my father spent more and more time with him. They would sometimes go to wrestling events or watch old war movies together.
Nevertheless, about three months later, Guy died of a heart attack. Rumour has it he died of a broken heart, and I suppose that's quite possible. He certainly wasn't the same after his wife died.
Now, around Remembrance Day, I buy myself a cheesy little plastic poppy. And I remember.
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