At the going down of the sun and in the morning...we will remember them

I met Private Alan Sheldon last year on Remembrance Day over a cup of black coffee and bag of old war keepsakes.

I had arranged the interview with him ahead of time through my grandma, as he was one of the last of her friends from the Second World War she was still in contact with.

I was always under the impression that soldiers didn’t really like to tell their stories, that they had experienced too much and their ability to try to explain it to a third party had been turned off. Then I met Sheldon. I don’t know if it was because so much time had passed, because he had lost the majority of his old military buddies over the past few years, or because young people just don’t ask about it anymore.

When I had originally decided to get in touch with Sheldon again, it was to delve a bit deeper into a part of his story that we had barely skimmed last year. I wanted to hear more about the relationship between he and his girlfriend at the time (who passed away a few years ago after 68 years of marriage) who sent 408 letters to each other during the war.

I don’t know if its my prematurely jaded outlook on romance that causes me to feel disbelief towards his story, or the fact that I just can’t imagine living that way, being a child of the technology age in which communication is as easy as the click of a keyboard.

But this year, Sheldon had his own story he wanted to tell me.

“I don’t think we talked about my time in North Africa much last year. Did I tell you about that?”

After I agreed that we hadn’t spoken much about it, he went on to tell me about the nights he spent cramped in a tiny tram filled with about 35 people with no legroom.  He said he remembered waking up one night to an Arab trying to steal his large pack off him while he slept.

“I woke up and right away saw this Arab trying to be sneaky with my bag. So I fired two warning shots. I never hit him, but sent him off running. I’m glad I didn’t hit him though. In those days they told us, ‘if you hit an Arab and hurt him, you might as well just go back and kill him.’ You see, it costs more to take them to the hospital and get treatment than the $1 it costs to have them cremated.”

Hearing those words come out of this super sweet old man’s mouth was mind blowing to me. It actually BLEW my MIND that at one point, not that long ago people were taught to think that way about other people.

But, as awful as that story was, Sheldon also had some amusing stories to tell about his time in North Africa, particularly about being robbed by a group of Arabs.

“One night we’d been traveling for a few days on foot and we were really tired. So we set up tents and fell right asleep. A couple of us had figured we should be careful about the way we set up the tent because those Arabs sure were sneaky. So in the morning, when we woke up, one guy’s entire tent had been stolen from on top of him in the middle of the night. He didn’t even notice! We never let him forget it.”

I find talking to men, like Sheldon, fascinating. I know how privileged I am to have grown up where I have, but the sentiment is reinforced after hearing those stories.

But on top of that, just having the story told firsthand is proof that all of these things actually happened and to people who weren’t that much older or younger than myself. It definitely helps get the message across, in my opinion.

Sheldon ended this year’s conversation much the same way he ended our previous years: “I can’t imagine forgetting everything I’ve seen. For young people like you, it might seem like this didn’t really happen. But it did. And that’s why I kept all these things.”

                         Statue erected in 1922 in memory of fallen soldiers in WW1, WW2, and Korea in Stonewall