He didn't gain weight as he got older, or lose his hair, worry about taxes, discuss politics or sports or the weather, go to his regular pub or church, or join any civic organisations. He didn't read the newspaper and comment to no one in particular.

He never got dressed up to go courting, never lost one love only to find another, never looked at his rumpled morning face in the mirror as he shaved to go to the plant, never yelled at the kids for quiet because he hadn't had enough sleep the night before. He was never promoted at the office, never got asked to join a union, never worked late, never took a day off sick. He was never the object of admiration, envy or gossip among his neighbours. He never answered back.

He never struck his wife. He never tried to tell her how to vote. He never lay beside a lover in amazement, or wondered where the magic had gone. He never worried about feeding another mouth, or about impotence.

He was never amazed by the talkies, never heard Jolson, never admired Lindberg, or followed the search for his son, never wondered what happened to Amelia Earhart. He was never tempted to travel to North Bay to gawk at the Dionne quintuplets, felt no pride when Banting won the Nobel Prize, never expressed an opinion on the legal struggles of Nellie McClung, or spoke out against immigration, or feared the Yellow peril.

He never insulted another human being, no matter their race, creed, colour or preferences.

He never taught his son to skate, or his daughter to build a snowman. He never sat up all night while his wife gave birth, or waited in terror beside a sick child. He never bought a car, a house, a sofa, or went picnicking in the country with his family. He never worried about the suitability of his children's friends, or their futures. He never handed out a punishment or a reward, or talked to his son about his dreams.

He was not caught unprepared by the Depression, did not have his wages cut, never lost his job, or the farm. He had no opinion on the League of Nations or German re-armament, was not anti-Semitic, he never blamed the arms merchants, the capitalists or the communists for provoking wars. He never gave a speech.

He never heard a Swing orchestra or a Bob Hope one-liner, never saw a Bette Davis of John Wayne film or a Fred Astaire dance number. He never sang along with Bing Crosby or Frank Sinatra. He never voted for Mackenzie King. He did not see the Second War coming from afar. He never wrote a letter to his M.P.

He never went to the Legion with old comrades, never tried to tell younger men about his war experiences, or worried about a son or nephew going overseas. His daughter never brought home a British or American airman. He never stood in dull grief staring at a telegram while his wife wept. He did not celebrate V-E day.

He did not grow more conservative with age. He did not rail against rock and roll or miniskirts or hippies. He never laughed at Lucille Ball or cried over Red Skelton's Old Soldier. He never knew about the Americans' war in Viet Nam, never ranted against Pierre Trudeau, never heard the name of Levesque.

His wife did not leave him, his children never argued with his opinions, or sneered at him behind his back. No one ever called him an old fogey, or stupid, or out-of-date. His time was never past, and he never reminisced about his glory days, or regretted his mistakes. He never revisited the past.

He never saw inflation destroy his savings, never developed arthritis or heart problems or cancer. He never became querulous or incontinent, did not gradually lose interest in the present, muddle the names of his children, or have to go into a home.

He did die. Far away, among thousands of others, in the mud, broken into so many pieces that he could never be identified. When it was all over, we left him there for years, to remind others that he had died for them.

What did he lose that was so much compared to the veneration of nations? Isn't there something ineffable about dying in youth? Isn't it preferable never to have known the pain, the struggle, the mediocrity and loss, the slow slide into the grave?

Perhaps, when we reburied him, within a meter or two of his monument, with its heroic soldiers guarded by their leggy angels of Victory, we should have left the coffin open. But, that would expose forever the reality that the coffin is empty.

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