Mark Zuehlke - Through Blood and Sweat: A Remembrance Trek across Sicilys World War II Battlegrounds

On August , 2006, Steve Gregory, a Montreal businessman, stands under a blazing sun before a tall stone cross at the centre of the Canadian War Cemetery in Agira, Sicily. He wears baggy khaki shorts, a red T -shirt with canada emblazoned across it in large white letters, and wraparound sunglasses. Set at the summit of a gentle hill, the cross has a long, bronze, downward-pointing sword mounted on either side of its face and seems to guard the orderly rows of pale marble headstones that extend from its base down either slope. Sixteen rows, eight to each side, containing 504 graves, 490 of which hold the remains of Canadians killed in World War II , and the rest from other Commonwealth countries. Thirteen are airmen who died serving in the Royal Canadian Air Force; the others are army. All died between July 10 and August 6, 1943, during the Allied invasion of Sicily, known as Operation Husky.

This is Steves first visit to a Commonwealth War Cemetery. He has been drawn to this small, isolated one to find the graves of two men he has read about, Lieutenant Colonel Bruce Sutcliffe and Captain Maurice Herbert Battle Cockin. He has come to pay his respects.

Locating the two graves takes twenty minutes. Each headstone, like those of all the Canadians, features a maple leaf set inside a circle. An inscription below provides the rank, name, and citations won. Both men had served with the Hastings and Prince Edward Regiment of Ontario, familiarly known as the Hasty Ps. Steve knows they suffered mortal wounds in the same moment on July 20. Sutcliffe had died instantly, but Cockin lingered until the next morning, so the dates given are one day apart. Sutcliffes family had provided no inscription for the headstone. The one on Cockins reads: Here my beloved England lives. Go tell the English why I died. Cockin had been born in Mortlake, Surrey, and educated at Cambridge before immigrating to Canada.

After photographing both headstones and spending a few minutes of silence before them, Steve wanders back toward the entrance. On his way out, he glances at the headstone of another soldier, a private. The mans name and regiment mean nothing to him; just another soldier killed in Sicily. Yet a small inner voice suddenly insists, Hey, why dont you say thanks to this guy? His eyes move to the adjacent headstone. Or this guy? When was the last time someone said thanks to these guys? You cant just stand there. The voice is rebuking him!

Approaching the privates grave, Steve rests a hand on the cool marble and offers what he considers a genuine thank you. Later, he would recount: Then I moved to the next. Each time, I read the headstone and said a variation of a thank you. I tried to do this slowly, so that each man received a genuine thank you. I didnt get through three graves before tears were streaming down my face. About three hours later, I left the cemetery, but before I did, I went to the spot where they have a guest book. There were very few names. I moved to the gate and stood for a moment. As I dried my face, I said aloud, I will be back and I will bring others. You will not be forgotten. Canadians will know.

Shaken by his unexpectedly strong response to this visit, Steve continues on his journey to honour the memories of Sutcliffe and Cockin. He drives to nearby Monte Assoro. It was this mountain that Lieutenant Colonel Sutcliffe and Captain Cockin, the Hasty Ps intelligence officer, had been discussing when they were hit and fatally wounded that day in July 1943. They had been planning how to wrest its summit from the Germans.

The two officers had died, but their plan survived, and its execution by the Hasty Ps that night had yielded a legendary victory. The Hasty Ps had scaled the slope, driven the surprised German defenders from the summit, and then held it until relieved two days later.

Having driven to Monte Assoros summit, Steve finds a plaque that recounts the tale. Standing beside the plaque, he looks over the cliff edge and realizes that it was right here that the Hasty Ps had swarmed onto the summit. This place where Canadians and Germans had both died was, he decides, as sacred as the cemetery. So he must bring people here as well. How he will do this, Steve has no idea. But the pledge had been made back at the Agira cemetery, and he reaffirms it now. And he will stake his honour on fulfilling it.

When the phone rang, I was looking out into our backyard from the kitchen window and not caring for the view. It was a dark, dreary day. The temperature hovered near freezing with little prospect of warming. A stiff westerly wind blew, and forecasters were warning that it might even snow. For Victoria, snowfall warnings are serious. A couple of centimetres can bring the city to a standstill because its always slippery, icy stuff. Cars spin out, drivers skid into intersections against the lights because they allow insufficient room to stop, and one accident follows another. It was December 13, 2008, and a Saturday. Christmas shoppers would be out in hordes. I had just decided it was a good day to stay home, maybe do some housecleaning. Keep clear of the chaos soon to reign. The ring interrupted those thoughts. I dont like taking calls on weekends, but this time I picked up.