The art of war
March 8
I am at Pearson International Airport in Toronto, waiting to board a plane and then another that will ultimately take me to Kandahar. After a frantic month of preparations, I finally have time to think.
I am a 55-year-old grandma. I am also a war artist, the first children's writer to hold the title. I got the gig because of my novels Charlie Wilcox, Charlie Wilcox's Great War and War Brothers, a book about child soldiers. I also know from conflict: I spent six summers in a house between two warring areas in Belfast, Northern Ireland, in a nasty skirmish dubbed the Troubles. In the words of Leon Trotsky, "You may not be interested in war, but war is interested in you." So it would seem.
War artists go to war; it's in the job description. I'm on the heels of a long line of artists, most of whom are visual: Alan Sorrell, A.R. Thompson, Arthur Lismer, Alex Colville and my personal fave, Gertrude Kearns. More recently, the list boasts a cartoonist, and the current lineup includes a choreographer and poet. There's not a propagandist in the bunch—no flag-waving, blank-eyed soldiers or pre-approved narratives. Canadian war artists interpret war; they don't have to support it. No one has asked me what I think of our role in Afghanistan. No one has told me what to write or requested to preview my material, and no money has changed hands. How Canadian.
March 10
Today, we are in Camp Mirage, Canada's staging area, located in a coalition-friendly country. It's the leaping off point to Kandahar Airfield (KAF). The security is tight, accommodations are comfortable, movies are alfresco, and we dine under sand-colour tarps. But just as the whole experience starts to feel like an exotic vacation, the war intervenes. A soldier approaches and says, "There's a ramp ceremony at O200 hours. You're invited."
Hours later, as bagpipes whine through the still air, I stand on an airfield in the shadow of massive planes and watch as soldiers hoist a flag-draped case onto their shoulders. There is the body of a young man in there. My sons are 19 and 26. I can't help but think of this young soldier's mother. All those thousands of diapers changed, bedtime stories, years of sitting in freezing hockey arenas, nights standing in front of the window waiting for his return from a school dance, a game, a party—all given up for a war that our prime minister says we cannot win. How did we get here? When did we blink?
The padre's prayer is muffled, but I hear the command, "Soldiers, salute your comrade." Two hundred hands cut the air, with not a swish, but a snap. I will remember that sound forever.
Later, I discover that every Canadian casualty can receive four such ceremonies. When I ask soldiers, "What do you think of them?" the reply is often a shake of the head followed by a sad, "But I would never miss one."
March 11
I have been issued body armour, a helmet, gloves and eyewear for my time on the ground. It's midnight and I've just boarded a troop ship. Destination: KAF.
I sit with my back to the windows, strapped in, facing soldiers. They all carry guns the size of nine-year-olds. It's too loud to talk but steady enough to write. Four women dressed in full battle gear sit across from me. One might be 20, the rest look to be in their forties. The "females" (their word, not mine) eventually doze off, heads resting on the nozzles of their guns. The Forces take women seriously. Ten per cent of the Canadian soldiers on the ground, or "in theatre," are female and 15 per cent make up the Forces. We now have the right to die alongside men in battle.
