Remembering Keats

In 2004, I had the honour of going over to the 60th anniversary of D-day events being held in Normandy. We set up an operations centre at Juno Beach and slogged our way through the millions of requests and phone calls from people trying to find out where everything was happening. The entire Normandy region was basically shut down by French military and police for fear of terrorist attacks.

On the day of a ceremony at one of the Canadian war cemeteries a chap showed up with his son. In a panic. he told me that his father, Keats, was supposed to be at this ceremony and had no means of getting there. Prince Charles was presiding over the event so there were roadblocks everywhere. I didn't have the mandate to wisk him around as I was supposed to be manning the ops centre for the ceremonies at Juno. "To hell with it! Let's go!", I said, and grabbed the keys.

Stepping out, I met Keats, a little old fellow in full-dress medic's uniform. We hopped in the car and started off to navigate the myriad roadblocks leading to the cemetery. Between stops, I was able to speak with him and get his autograph in my book. He wasn't the most talkative person. His replies were short and to the point, as if my questions were a distraction.

Every stop presented a new challenge. Every guard refused to let us through. I babbled in my broken Saskatchewan french about the need to get this fellow to the cemetery. The urgency in my voice and his son's panic were countered by Keats' reserve. Throughout it all, he sat calmly looking forward, never speaking to the guards nor even looking at them. He wasn't about to explain himself; didn't need to. This was my task now. Or maybe he simply knew that he was going to get there, with or without me.

One by one, the guards demurred, until all that remained was the final roadblock about a kilometer from the cemetery. As much as I tried, I knew that this was our last stop. Nobody was allowed past this point as the dignitaries had already arrived. I translated the guard's words and wondered what was next. I could see the disappointment in his son's and grandson's eyes. "Thanks for the lift.", was all Keats said. He opened the door and stepped out, adjusted his uniform, threw back his shoulders and began the long, hot walk to the cemetery.

I just sat there in the car and grinned, watching him go, this frail old man with the brisk, calculated step of a soldier. It was hot that day and father and son were worried about Grampa, but something in Keat's cadence told me he'd be just fine. I looked at the guard's incredulous expression and smiled. He knew he wouldn't stop the man.

It's a bit odd, when I consider the places that I've been, but I don't think I've ever felt such a sense of urgency or satisfaction as I did on that day. There was no danger; no lives on the line. No pomp and ceremony that is so often confused with greatness. Keats demonstrated the dignity that no dignitary could have. His last words to me were, "Thanks for the lift!" ... I could have said the same.