My dad, William L. Hayes, was a hero. I always knew that.
He drove our old International truck through 鈥渋mpassable鈥� muddy roads so we could go to a movie at the Falkon Theatre in Tisdale. He caught the wily old mare, Trixie, put a bridle on her and helped me aboard. When our pet dog, Tiny, developed milk fever after giving birth, he saved her life by dosing her with brandy every few hours. Although he was under pressure to fix a broken piece of machinery, he took time to rescue a piglet that had been injured. It would surely die because it was too weak to fight for its place setting on the sow.
He鈥檇 take us out on winter evenings and show us the constellations, the dippers, Cassiopeia and Orion, and tell us the story about each one. We learned to appreciate the silent beauty of the hoar frost and exuberance of the dancing Northern Lights. We鈥檇 admire the sunrises, the sunsets, the thrill of a lightning storm and the peace demonstrated by the rainbow that followed. When I needed help with arithmetic assignments he explained them so well I was soon assisting my classmates.
I knew he鈥檇 been in the army, a lieutenant in the First World War, but wasn鈥檛 everyone鈥檚 dad a soldier? He had medals and one in particular that he wore on Remembrance Day or at Legion functions. It was a military cross, not round like the others but shaped like a cross, and it was quite an honour, I was told.
As I grew up, I saw his frailties, his determination, his humor, his anger, and when he retired, his sudden fatal attraction to curling. He never backed down from any dispute when he felt he was right. He was there to stand up to any bully, small or large, local or country wide.
Yes, he was my hero.
And then in January 1959, he was admitted to the University Hospital in Saskatoon. Dr. Jackson examined him, and shortly after entered dad鈥檚 room, spoke briefly and said, 鈥淲ell, Bill, I guess you鈥檒l be setting up a new homestead soon.鈥� It was his way of telling my father he had incurable cancer.
By then I had a young family of my own and they helped to ease the sorrow. I felt content with the memories of a truly remarkable man. But there was more to come.
Time passed and a few years ago my brother, Bill, found a book that listed all the awards presented during the war and the Citation of each. My dad鈥檚 read:
鈥淎lthough himself wounded, he took command and when the advance was held up by an enemy machine gun post in a house, he crept forward alone and bombed the house, rushing the post and himself killing the entire garrison. He displayed splendid courage and his example inspired all his men.鈥�
This took place at a small town called Iwuy, in France on Oct. 11, 1918.
It wasn鈥檛 until mid-September, 2017, when my daughters, Margaret, Heidi, Maureen and Andrea and I travelled to Europe, 鈥渇ollowing my father鈥檚 footsteps鈥� that I was given the opportunity to truly understand. With a knowledgeable guide we spent four days visiting places like Vimy, Passchendaele, Somme and Ypres. Then on the last day in Europe, we travelled to that small town named Iwuy.
When we entered the library where the staff was to meet us, we were overwhelmed as we viewed a large poster, portraying photos of my father, his regiment and the citation for his military cross. We met a crowd of well-wishers, the mayor and his wife, and our guide there, Michel Lepagonel. My father appeared to be not only a hero in this place, but a legend. Even after one hundred years, he is still honoured.
And it was only after I returned home that I was able to consider my father鈥檚 actions. He was honoured as a hero. Why? For saving his men, for helping to hasten the end of the war. In doing so, he had 鈥渒illed the entire garrison.鈥� These were sons, fathers, and husbands just like those in his own force. I wondered how he had coped with what we today call PTSD, for it must have been with him.
Then I considered his lifestyle here in the lonesome Saskatchewan parkland and I understood the healing power of Nature. His interaction with the gifts of the Creator had guided him past the memories and throughout his life.
So when my friends ask me, 鈥淪o where is this place called Iwuy?鈥�, I go on to tell them the story of my father who came back to Canada after the First World War, returned to Germany to marry my mother and who then became, as my grandson, Damon, wrote, 鈥淛ust a farmer鈥ith a farm and a family鈥濃�� and yes, my hero.
