To be honest, I've always had a complex relationship with Remembrance Day.
In my head, in a purely intellectual sense, I know that it falls every year on November 11, the anniversary of the official end of WWI, and is meant to be a time of reflection and thankfulness for the servicemen and -women who have fought and died for our country. I also know it to be a time when we pause to reflect on the continued physical, emotional, social and financial needs of our veterans, the oldest of whom have been hit particularly hard by the COVID-19 pandemic.
However, if you were to ask me if that knowledge in my head ever made it down to my heart...hard to say. I suppose there were moments when it must have: like when I finally discovered, as a Grade 8 student, that Canadian forces were deployed in an attempt to defend Hong Kong from the Imperial Japanese during WWII; or when the brother of a close friend I had in university was a soldier who could potentially be deployed to Afghanistan. But while I do wear the red poppy wholeheartedly every year, it is more out of a deep sense of civic duty as a Canadian than out of any personal heartfelt sentiment.
I'm not entirely sure just why that is the case. As a child, I thought that my relative lack of feeling may have been because I saw Canada's military history as being separate from my own personal history: I was a Chinese immigrant from Hong Kong, and while some of my classmates could talk about grandparents or great-grandparents who fought in WWI or WWII, I could not. In fact, I still cannot: the only family history I could find on this was that my maternal grandparents sheltered in Macao during that time - so even the Imperial Japanese occupation of Hong Kong isn't a moment in history that I can truly consider to be mine.
Yet about ten years ago, I started to feel a slight shift in my feelings both toward Remembrance Day and the military service in general, and a lot of that can be traced back to the three-word motto from this post's title: Pro Patria Mori. More specifically, it's the shortened version of a line from one of the Roman poet, Horace's, Odes:
Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori
(It is sweet and fitting to die for one's country.)
Why this line stood out to me so much in particular has quite a long story, some parts of which I think are better left to my memory. However, on this Remembrance Day, I want to share at least a bit of it with you all. Specifically, using it as a jumping off point, I want to show you some of the museum artefacts, artworks and memorials I have encountered - both in-person and online - over the years that, in my opinion, help to both conceptualize and complicate the phrase and the concept of the fallen soldier as a patriotic martyr encapsulated within it.
(Note: while Remembrance Day is technically for conflicts from WWI onward, a number of these pieces are from earlier periods, simply due to where my own knowledge of history is strongest.)
Pro Patria Mori: The Pendant that Started it for Me
(Image (c) the Musée McCord in Montréal)
As I said earlier, this story starts about ten years ago. At the time, I was really just starting to get into my passion for relearning and re-exploring Canadian history: specifically, the 18th century. Part of it was because I knew the middle of that century marked a significant paradigm shift in Canada; the other part was that I was already interested in that time period to begin with as someone who grew up playing and listening to classical music.
At the time, I had also just discovered that many museums featured free online versions of their collections, and I loved to spend my spare time trawling through all of the artefacts, thinking that I might never get to see them in person and eternally thankful for the chance now. That is how, four years prior to my own visit there, I came across Montréal's Musée McCord and wound up making this chance discovery: a memorial pendant (shown above) from 1780.
A quick preface here: memorial jewellery (i.e. pendants, rings, etc. commissioned to commemorate deceased family members, friends or public figures) was commonplace throughout the 17th to 19th centuries. So in that sense, I was not surprised to stumble across this piece in the Musée McCord's online collection. I had also seen enough similar pieces to recognize some of the common symbols and motifs: the plinth with its inscription, the color palette, etc.
However, what did catch my eye was all the ways that this particular pendant has been stripped of any clues as to the identity of the mourner or their relationship with the deceased. Instead, the normal poignantly intimate imagery has been heavily modified for a military context. Thus, rather than the standard mourner, we see Britannia laying a laurel wreath upon a bust of the deceased, along with artillery and the halberd and spontoon carried by military officers at the time. And, of course, the motto, a variation of Horace's famous line, picked out in gold along the border: "Decus est pro patria mori" ("It is proper to die for one's country").
Something about that line, actually, really caught my eye. To be fair, it's not that I didn't know the concept before: how many times, for instance, have I heard people talking about the sacrifices that were made by soldiers in war? I mean, isn't that what Remembrance Day is all about? However, I think the difference this time around, with this particular memorial for this particular soldier, was this: I knew who he was, and that clued me in on something.
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| (Image (c) the Yale University Gallery) |
To the best of my knowledge, Major John André (1750-1780) had only a very slight connection to Canadian history; instead, he was a British officer who was captured and executed as a spy by the Continental Army (i.e. the Americans) during the American Revolutionary War (1775-1783).
I won't go into the details here (although they are worth looking up - the man seems to have had a rather colourful life). Instead the point I want to emphasize is that despite living at a point in history where espionage was seen to contravene all the ethics of war - a time when there would have been nothing "decus" ("proper") about it - André wound up becoming something of a martyr on both sides.
I don't know for a fact why that was. Part of it must have been because everyone knew he was acting out of loyalty to his own side, and no-one could really blame him for that (unlike his accomplice, Benedict Arnold - but that's a story for another day). But I also think that part of it must have been because there was something almost inherently tragic about André's situation: he was young, handsome, artistically talented (see his 1780 self-portrait above), highly intelligent...and just generally likeable in terms of personality, by all accounts.
In other words, I think that everyone involved - friend and foe - was able to see him as a person first, and a soldier second. Somewhere along the way, they must have come to the realization that, the politics of war aside, the world had lost a vibrant young man who, under slightly different circumstances, would have still had an entire lifetime's worth of potential ahead of him. But not anymore.
And oddly enough, stumbling across this pendant from the Musée McCord really made this click into place for me. It's a bit ironic, actually. What could arguably be the most impersonal piece of memorial jewellery I've seen could also be the most personal war memorial at the same time - because the pendant's small size and scale means that whoever commissioned and owned it wanted to keep John André's story, and maybe even the man himself, close to their heart.
The ROM's Wolfe Portraits: "As much as a Son as a Soldier"
Until the COVID-19 pandemic led me to stop, for reasons that I would rather not disclose here, one of the most rewarding experiences in my life has been the years that I spent on-and-off as
a volunteer at Toronto's Royal Ontario Museum. In the time that I was there, I both worked in and visited the Canadian gallery a great deal, and that gave me the opportunity to really study and get to know the artworks featured there.
This painting shown above is one of the ROM's must-see pieces: one of five(!) original copies of Benjamin West's
The Death of General Wolfe, which depicts a highly mythologized version of the Battle of the Plains of Abraham in 1759: the battle where, as mentioned in a
previous blog post, the British scored a significant victory over the French in Québec, thus paving the way for Canada to become a British colony; but where neither of the two main commanders -
Major General James Wolfe (1727-1759; British) and
Louis-Joseph, Marquis de Montcalm (1712-1759; French) - survived.
It's not an accurate depiction of events, by any measure. Wolfe was mortally wounded in the middle of the action, so the officers surrounding him in this painting were probably actually busy seeing to their respective parts of the battle, and the eyewitnesses actually present were common soldiers unlikely to be immortalized in art.
But nor was it meant to be.
West painted the first version of this in 1770: eleven years after the Battle itself, at a time of heightened British nationalism and, yes, imperialism. The ROM's copy, believed to be the last of the set, was painted in 1776. Together, then, we can situate this painting's immense popularity in a time of growing tensions within the rapidly expanding British Empire, as it struggled to maintain control of the Thirteen Colonies in the years leading up to the American Revolutionary War. The British government and public were both looking for a hero and Wolfe - the fallen general from what was Britain's most significant military victory in recent memory - became the most fitting candidate.
Perhaps it's because of that that patriotic martyrdom -
Pro Patria Mori - is quite literally front and centre here (see image left). Despite being one of several mid-18th century artists to shock the establishment by depicting historical events like this in their actual real-time contexts, as opposed to in mythologized or Classical Greco-Roman settings, West does draw heavily off Christian iconography that his audience would have immediately recognized. The painting's composition unapologetically echoes the classic
Lamentation at the Cross: Wolfe, the sacrificial lamb who died for the good of the Empire. It's a highly romanticized image that would have resonated deeply with West's audience, especially as the Empire seemed set to come under threat once again - this time from within.
Yet even so, as with the memorial pendant I discussed above, I do see something more intimate, more personal - more human - here. West, as I have noted already, went against the artistic convention of his time and chose to depict the key figures in his painting in the actual military uniforms of the period. And it's Wolfe's that I want to focus on here.
Compared to those of the other officers in the painting, the simple red uniform, completely devoid of decoration, might look unusually plain. And while it is justifiable as a form of visual contrast, it is also true to fact. Wolfe was known for his tendency
not to wear insignia and
to carry the same weapons as the rank and file whilst on campaign. He most likely did it for
purely practical reasons (officers, with their distinctive uniforms, were particularly susceptible to snipers), but West's nod to that detail in this painting does have the added effect, in my opinion, of recasting Wolfe as a sort of everyman. At a time when most British military officers came from the upper class, and the sons of aristocratic families would
literally purchase their positions of command, Wolfe was a rare middle-class exception: someone the common soldier or the average citizen would have been far more likely to see themselves in.
However, for me, West's painting is not the strongest reflection of that. I did mention "portraits" in the heading, and that is because the ROM does have multiple depictions of Wolfe in its collection. He really was elevated as a patriotic martyr in the aftermath of his victory and death, and his public reputation and legend far exceeded the human being that he really was, with all the foibles, follies and failings that come with it. I did discuss this in the past (see my comments about "great man history"
here), but right now, my focus is on where I
did get a glimpse, however brief, of that humanity.
Honestly, it wasn't so much a matter of the image itself as it was one of my experience with it. While West's painting is prominently displayed on a feature wall in the ROM's Canadian gallery, this second portrait (see image right), painted in 1768 by Nathaniel Hone, changed location a few times over the years. What I do remember, though, was the first time I saw it: tucked away on the back side of a wall panel beneath a matching portrait of Montcalm.
I don't remember what I thought or felt when I first saw the two portraits together. I know I photographed them, but more because I recognized the moment in Canadian history they referred to than because I was particularly drawn to the sight. However, that changed pretty soon afterwards when, after I had already started to leave, I found myself turning around and walking right back to this second Wolfe portrait.
And this time I looked. Really looked.
I don't know how to explain what it feels like to be haunted by an image: to have it immediately impress itself into my mind and just stay there for all eternity. Nor, to be frank, can I reasonably explain why it happens with the specific pieces it does. All I know, really, is that this smaller portrait, far more than West's grand monumental image, made me feel like I was, once again, looking at a person.
From an artistic perspective, I don't know how Hone did it; maybe it's the slight sense of movement in the pose, or maybe it's the openness and tiny bit of mischief in the expression. And if I am completely frank, I don't see Wolfe in this painting. There's almost none of the common iconographic features that West incorporated into his piece, and Hone's admittedly post-mortem depiction bears little resemblance to
how Wolfe actually looked in life.
But maybe, that's why it works. Although Hone's painting predates West's, it too came at a point when Wolfe's legendary status was at its peak. Yet, rather than playing into that, Hone chose to create an image that, title aside, really could have been anyone. Not only that, but the unguarded quality of this portrait means that the viewer is seeing this anyone - this person - through the eyes of someone he loves and trusts.
Or, as the ROM's own curators put it: "Wolfe comes across as much as a son as a soldier."
Honestly, I couldn't put it any better than that.
(Trigger Warning: The next section contains graphic descriptions and depictions of violence due to an in-depth discussion of war atrocities. It also contains mild profanity in the context of a historical quote and features potentially religiously sacrilegious themes and images. Therefore, if you are uncomfortable about any of these, or may find them triggering, feel free to skip it.)
The Crucified Soldier: Atrocity Propaganda and the Dark Side of Patriotic Martyrdom
Leaving the 18th century behind, this next take on
Pro Patria Mori finally brings us to the original context for Remembrance Day: WWI (1914-1918). And this, in my opinion, is also when the concept of the patriotic martyr takes several dark turns that are well worth investigating.
My goal here is not to discuss WWI as a major paradigm shift in the history of warfare in general: plenty of scholars and enthusiasts have done this already, with far greater levels of understanding than I could ever hope to achieve. However, what does matter for me here is the fact that people really were starting to question the point of war. More specifically, they wondered at the extreme loss of life over what, all things told, was a relatively small tract of land.
Meanwhile, Canada was in a particularly awkward position internationally during WWI. On the one hand, many citizens resented - and rightly so - the fact that their own government had no say over whether they were at war. No longer a colony, but not yet a fully independent nation, Canada was
a dominion: self-governing and autonomous in its domestic affairs, but still part of the British Empire in terms of foreign policy. In short, when Britain declared war in 1914, Canada and its fellow dominions were automatically at war as well, regardless of what each country's government or people might think on the matter. Yet, on the other hand, many Canadians were also eager to assert their country's worth as a valuable part of the British Empire: when the parent calls, of course the child should answer.
The history of Canada's shifting national identity throughout WWI is an interesting topic for study in and of itself, but suffice it to say that when asked to deliver, Canadian soldiers did in spades. Over the course of the conflict, Canada earned a reputation for creating fierce soldiers who were dogged, determined, and always up for a challenge.
However, this is only one part of the story - and, as I said before, things are about to take a decidedly darker and more cynical turn in this post.
(Image (c) Royal Ontario Museum)
This image, Rex Woods's The Vision of the Crosses, was painted in 1935 before subsequently being printed in an edition of The Canadian Home Journal. Coming in the years between WWI and WWII, it is far more macabre than anything else I have shown so far here. On the one hand, it taps into what was already becoming standard Remembrance Day-related iconography: the red poppies and rows of crosses harkening back to the famous Canadian memorial poem In Flanders Fields ("In Flanders fields, the poppies blow; Between the crosses, row on row...."). Yet, on the other hand, these are not just empty crosses: there are people on them.
I do not know what Woods's intent was here: whether he simply wanted to remind his audience that each grave represented a real human life lost. However, I also think that his imagery here was meant to echo one of the strangest - and most disturbing - stories ever to come out of Canada's experiences in WWI:
the Crucified Soldier.
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| (Image (c) Library of Congress) |
And, as with all rumours, hearsay and speculation as to what actually happened led to the emergence of several conflicting variations: the soldier was already dead at the time of the crucifixion, and German troops only sought to desecrate the body; the soldier was a sergeant captured along with his men who was crucified before being either stabbed or shot to death; the soldier was actually British; there were actually multiple Canadian soldiers killed....
It should come to no surprise, then, that British and Canadian authorities struggled to find any substantial conclusive evidence to prove the incident. There were moments where the investigation came close, but those leads quickly proved fruitless. For instance, one Thomas Elliott from Brantford, Ontario was identified as the victim, but was, in fact, still alive. And to this day, despite the emergence of several more compelling leads, historians are still divided as to whether the rumours were a true recounting of a real incident; an exaggeration of a real incident à la "broken telephone"; or a complete or partial fabrication meant to demonize the German forces.
However, one of my personal adages when examining history is that "It's not what really happened that matters; it's what people think happened." Regardless of the truth of the situation - I, too, am still on the fence on that point, to be honest - the fact that the Allies believed the story of the Crucified Soldier (see the American propaganda poster above) meant that the damage was already done.
Atrocity propaganda, the act of disseminating stories of extreme cruelty and war crimes to stir up anger against the enemy, is nothing new, and it is easy to see how rumours of the Crucified Soldier, true or not, fit into that trope. However, I personally think that, more than
other similar stories from WWI, the Crucified Soldier resonated particularly with the Allies because of the way it turned the Christ-like concept of the patriotic martyr on its head.
(Image (c) Canadian War Museum)
Honestly, it is the religious aspect of the Crucified Soldier story more than anything else that makes me question whether it really happened: I simply cannot fathom how anyone in their right mind living in a still-predominantly-Christian Europe would commit such a blatantly sacrilegious act. Yet, be that as it were, it comes as no surprise to me that it is that same sense of offence and blasphemy that wound up elevating this unknown (and possibly non-existent) soldier to the same Christ-like status that I have already argued was common to the concept of the patriotic martyr who exemplifies Pro Patria Mori.
For instance, the 1918 sculpture shown above,
Canada's Golgotha by British artist Francis Derwent Wood, strongly echoes historical depictions of Christ's crucifixion, to the extent that it was even once included
in an exhibition of religious artwork in 2000 held in Gatineau (then Hull), Québec. There is certainly some element of exaggeration here - the positioning of the figures is rather unrealistic for an actual incident from the war front, for instance - but as with West's
The Death of General Wolfe from before, the goal here seems to be impact and resonance rather than accuracy. However, whereas the allusion to the Lamentation in West's painting places the emphasis wholly on the fallen soldier, the focus on the moment of crucifixion itself in Wood's sculpture entails the inclusion of a second key figure:
the perpetrator.
We no longer just have the martyr, but also a villain upon whom we can cast the blame...and seek revenge.
I do not know the extent to which the story of the Crucified Soldier had a direct impact on Canadian attitudes towards German soldiers over the course of WWI, but suffice it to say that it is one oft-cited reason for why both sides were soon locked in a downward spiral of revenge killings and extreme violence. I said at the beginning of this section that the Canadian soldiers fought hard, and developed a reputation for being among the best in the war; however, upon reading between the lines, we also find a tendency
to show no mercy or quarter to the opposing side. The Canadian forces were known for their lack of respect for truces; their preternatural skill in stealth trench raids where the goal was simply to kill as many enemy soldiers as possible; and their preference for summarily executing surrendered foes over taking them prisoner.
While many of the atrocities committed on the Canadians' part during WWI could be explained as necessary actions within the moment - and, in their defence, their brutality towards the enemy was matched by an equal reputation for kindness towards civilians - they also show, in horrifying clarity, a quote (adapted from a statement by US general George Patton) that has haunted me ever since I first heard it in high school: "The object of war is not to die for your country, but to make the other bastard die for his."
In the end, once the dust has settled and the initial chaos has passed, it seems that war is simply ugly, no matter which side you're on. And unfortunately, it is impossible to claim a martyr for your country without making one for another.
(Note: for those who have chosen to skip the previous section, we're going back into safer territory now.)
Memorials to War - and to Peace
Honestly, I cannot end a post about how fallen soldiers are memorialized as patriotic martyrs without touching upon the form that Canadians are the most likely to encounter on a daily basis: the numerous monuments scattered across the country commemorating military conflicts from throughout our history.
I do not have an official count for all of them, but I will say that in my travels to several major Canadian cities over the past ten years, I have seen quite a number of these.
Occasionally, I will even stumble across an impromptu or spontaneous moment of remembrance. For instance, the image with the three flags at half mast was taken in Montréal in October 2014, when Canada was in official mourning for
Corporal Nathan Cirillo, who was killed in a terrorist attack in Ottawa.
Most of these monuments invite passersby to pause and reflect upon the sacrifices of those who have died for our country. If you are idealistic, you may say that they also died for values such as freedom and democracy; if you are more cynical, you may counter that they died for imperialism. Either way, the fault lies not with the individual soldiers, but with the governments and powers that be who have the authority to start and end conflicts in the first place.
Given that, I think there are two key moments that stand out to me as being particularly poignant comments on
Pro Patria Mori. One, which I have already discussed in
an earlier post, is when I came upon the Cross of Sacrifice in Québec City in 2014 and discovered that someone had left behind a bouquet of flowers bearing a hand-written dedication to Cirillo. In this case, I don't think anyone would dispute his being remembered as a patriotic martyr: after all, he was killed whilst guarding the National War Memorial in Ottawa, simply because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time as a ready representative of our country.
However, it is a second such moment that I want to focus on this time. It happened prior to the incident in Québec, when I was visiting Victoria, British Columbia in May 2011. Once again, as with many provincial capitals, I came across a war memorial. However, this time, I also saw something different: a small demonstration by peace activists at its base.
2011. Ten years ago. I don't think it's a coincidence that I came upon this scene at around the same time that I learned of Pro Patria Mori as a concept. Because for me, right now, I'm drawn to the poster in the centre in particular: "Support the Troops. Bring Them Home."
In other words, wanting, praying and pushing for peace is not about denying or downplaying all the sacrifices made by those who have already risked their lives. Nor is it about vilifying them: either as individuals or as a group. Rather, it's about interrogating the whole concept of the patriotic martyr. Why devote so much to mourning those who have died when we could instead devote ourselves to ensuring no-one else has to die again in the future? Why encourage citizens to die for their country when we can encourage them to live for it instead?
And for me, I think that this way of thinking is only possible if we truly learn to understand that all those who fight in a war - no matter which side they're on - are people first, soldiers second. Or, to put my own spin on the ROM's words, to see our military personnel, past and present, as much as sons and daughters as soldiers.
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("The Homecoming": a sculpture by Nathan Scott in Victoria, BC
showing a child greeting her father after his return from the Navy.) |
The above blog post is part of the ongoing series Memorializing History, which focuses on the different ways history is remembered and discussed in the present day. To access a master list for this and other series, click here.
Image Credits
All images, unless otherwise noted in captions, (c) Kitty Na
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