Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs
This is the story of a family mystery.
My great-grandmother (AKA: Nan) married rather late in life, for her time. She was 28, and she met her husband in a very Florence Nightingale way by caring for him when he came home from WWI, blind, wounded, and suffering the aftereffects of being gassed. They had one child -- my Gram (AKA: the only member of the family to whom I bear any resemblance), and rarely spoke about anything that happened before they were married. Googie died before my mother was born, and in memory of him, she has the feminized form of his name.
Then who is this Walter fellow?
He's Nan's first fiance. While Nan didn't bother mentioning she was born, and spent her early childhood in Liverpool, somewhere along the way, she dropped the tidbit that she was engaged to another man. All we ever knew is that Walter died in the war. In fact, we didn't know a last name, or have a picture, until my Gram died.
I'm not going to relay how I came into possession of Nan's sewing box. Lets just say it wasn't deemed of value by other family members. Within it, was the locket from yesterday's post, and all the typical accouterments that come with a sewing box given to a fairly well-off young woman. There were some uniform buttons, some pictures, the locket, a service at the front medal, and my Nan's nurse's watch inside. It was a cool piece of history and one of the few items I decided I had to have from my Gram's apartment.
Two days later, I broke the box, or so I thought. It turns out the sewing box had a secret compartment. Within, were 17 postcards from WWI, all from the mysterious Walter. Some were from the front, and one had actual pieces of it cut out it to hide where he was at the time. Besides the postcards, there was one embroidered Christmas card, signed from Paris, France. The earliest postcard was dated in May, 1916, the last, May 1919.
Our mysterious Walter did not, as relayed by my Nan, die in the war. Not only did he survive, but his final postcard was written at Kinmel Park, a camp where Canadian soldiers were held after the war while awaiting a ship to carry them home. Yes, from what we can establish from his records, he was there for the Kinmel Park Riot.
Now we learned some details of Walter's life through his postcards. He was a music student who was upset to learn his professor passed away. He had a brother called Dean. He spoke French and included some sweet, romantic words at the end of a couple of postcards. One of his favourite things was to receive my Nan's care packages at the front, and that he really appreciated that she spent a great deal of time visiting his mother. Fortunately, we were given an address: 384, but not a street name.
In fact, we weren't even given his surname. He always signed his postcards "Walter" or "JWL."
Thus started an almost decade long search to find out more about Walter. It became my hobby.
There were a lot of Canadians who fought in the war with those initials. Going through the attestation papers, I couldn't be sure if he even used his middle name, and the initials were far too common. In fact, if it wasn't for seanchaidh , I don't think I would've found Walter at all. In her research, she collected information on her great-uncles. Fortunately, this gave us an approximate service number to look around, and, one night, while on the phone with her, we found him. As she knows how the Library and Archives of Canada work, she arranged for me to see his service file when I went to visit her in Ottawa. I read everything in it.
James Walter Laing was born on February 5, 1892 lived at 384 Manning Ave., in Toronto. He listed his next of kin as his mother, Catherine. He was docked pay several times for showing up late morning check-in. During the war, he was injured several times, including a gunshot wound to the head. While recovering, he described himself as "generally useless." Reading his file, it was pitiful. I am not saying his life was pitiful, but seeing, in his own words, how he thought about himself, how he was shuffled back and forth from hospital to hospital, how his diagnosis, Neurasthenia, was really just misdiagnosed shell-shock, made me infinitely sad.
I can understand why my Nan always said he died in the war. He didn't, and his service file recorded his death on November 10, 1928. Walter came home to 384 Manning, where he spent the rest of his life. Thanks to the archives of Ontario, I've learned some kind ME did not label his death what it was, a suicide, the day before Armistace Day, but did list "mental depression consequent upon war injuries" as a contributory factor. In short, Walter really did die in the war, as the person he was afterward was not the man who wrote that first postcard in 1916, or translated the bits he didn't want Nan's parents to read, to French.
He's buried in Prospect Cemetery. It's where some of the biggest Remembrance Day ceremonies are held in Toronto.
I could tell you how he killed himself, or you could look it up. The files are open for public view, online or in person, but that doesn't matter. This is Remembrance Day, and there are a variety of things I remember on this day. I take the time to remember the generalized veterans the adverts tell us to. I wear my poppy, and make my donation to the Legion. I have done presentations at school, and helped arrange others' presentations. In short, I do what we're told is the appropriate thing on Remembrance Day.
I remember other things. I remember not being disappointed when I learned about what happened to Walter. I remember hoping he had family who did remember him, as I have his postcards, his picture, and a lock of his hair, and would love to know he had a family history buff who is as curious about him as I am. He doesn't. I remember how sad it made me to think my Nan always told the polite lie.
I remember Walter because someone should. Now I've introduced him to you.
Note: The title of this post is taken from Wilfred Owen's "Anthem for Doomed Youth."
My great-grandmother (AKA: Nan) married rather late in life, for her time. She was 28, and she met her husband in a very Florence Nightingale way by caring for him when he came home from WWI, blind, wounded, and suffering the aftereffects of being gassed. They had one child -- my Gram (AKA: the only member of the family to whom I bear any resemblance), and rarely spoke about anything that happened before they were married. Googie died before my mother was born, and in memory of him, she has the feminized form of his name.
Then who is this Walter fellow?
He's Nan's first fiance. While Nan didn't bother mentioning she was born, and spent her early childhood in Liverpool, somewhere along the way, she dropped the tidbit that she was engaged to another man. All we ever knew is that Walter died in the war. In fact, we didn't know a last name, or have a picture, until my Gram died.
I'm not going to relay how I came into possession of Nan's sewing box. Lets just say it wasn't deemed of value by other family members. Within it, was the locket from yesterday's post, and all the typical accouterments that come with a sewing box given to a fairly well-off young woman. There were some uniform buttons, some pictures, the locket, a service at the front medal, and my Nan's nurse's watch inside. It was a cool piece of history and one of the few items I decided I had to have from my Gram's apartment.
Two days later, I broke the box, or so I thought. It turns out the sewing box had a secret compartment. Within, were 17 postcards from WWI, all from the mysterious Walter. Some were from the front, and one had actual pieces of it cut out it to hide where he was at the time. Besides the postcards, there was one embroidered Christmas card, signed from Paris, France. The earliest postcard was dated in May, 1916, the last, May 1919.
Our mysterious Walter did not, as relayed by my Nan, die in the war. Not only did he survive, but his final postcard was written at Kinmel Park, a camp where Canadian soldiers were held after the war while awaiting a ship to carry them home. Yes, from what we can establish from his records, he was there for the Kinmel Park Riot.
Now we learned some details of Walter's life through his postcards. He was a music student who was upset to learn his professor passed away. He had a brother called Dean. He spoke French and included some sweet, romantic words at the end of a couple of postcards. One of his favourite things was to receive my Nan's care packages at the front, and that he really appreciated that she spent a great deal of time visiting his mother. Fortunately, we were given an address: 384, but not a street name.
In fact, we weren't even given his surname. He always signed his postcards "Walter" or "JWL."
Thus started an almost decade long search to find out more about Walter. It became my hobby.
There were a lot of Canadians who fought in the war with those initials. Going through the attestation papers, I couldn't be sure if he even used his middle name, and the initials were far too common. In fact, if it wasn't for seanchaidh , I don't think I would've found Walter at all. In her research, she collected information on her great-uncles. Fortunately, this gave us an approximate service number to look around, and, one night, while on the phone with her, we found him. As she knows how the Library and Archives of Canada work, she arranged for me to see his service file when I went to visit her in Ottawa. I read everything in it.
James Walter Laing was born on February 5, 1892 lived at 384 Manning Ave., in Toronto. He listed his next of kin as his mother, Catherine. He was docked pay several times for showing up late morning check-in. During the war, he was injured several times, including a gunshot wound to the head. While recovering, he described himself as "generally useless." Reading his file, it was pitiful. I am not saying his life was pitiful, but seeing, in his own words, how he thought about himself, how he was shuffled back and forth from hospital to hospital, how his diagnosis, Neurasthenia, was really just misdiagnosed shell-shock, made me infinitely sad.
I can understand why my Nan always said he died in the war. He didn't, and his service file recorded his death on November 10, 1928. Walter came home to 384 Manning, where he spent the rest of his life. Thanks to the archives of Ontario, I've learned some kind ME did not label his death what it was, a suicide, the day before Armistace Day, but did list "mental depression consequent upon war injuries" as a contributory factor. In short, Walter really did die in the war, as the person he was afterward was not the man who wrote that first postcard in 1916, or translated the bits he didn't want Nan's parents to read, to French.
He's buried in Prospect Cemetery. It's where some of the biggest Remembrance Day ceremonies are held in Toronto.
I could tell you how he killed himself, or you could look it up. The files are open for public view, online or in person, but that doesn't matter. This is Remembrance Day, and there are a variety of things I remember on this day. I take the time to remember the generalized veterans the adverts tell us to. I wear my poppy, and make my donation to the Legion. I have done presentations at school, and helped arrange others' presentations. In short, I do what we're told is the appropriate thing on Remembrance Day.
I remember other things. I remember not being disappointed when I learned about what happened to Walter. I remember hoping he had family who did remember him, as I have his postcards, his picture, and a lock of his hair, and would love to know he had a family history buff who is as curious about him as I am. He doesn't. I remember how sad it made me to think my Nan always told the polite lie.
I remember Walter because someone should. Now I've introduced him to you.
Note: The title of this post is taken from Wilfred Owen's "Anthem for Doomed Youth."