I am pretty sure the term “Bucket List” is a creation of the Baby Boomer Generation. I know my parents never mentioned a Bucket List in their retirement. They were happy to be paying the bills and going south for the winter. But among my Baby Boomers peers, the phrase “That’s on my Bucket List” is heard often in our conversations. And so, in the summer of 2019, my husband and I decided to tick a few items off our lists.
His choice was fairly easy. Being an avid golfer, he had always wanted to attend a British Open Golf Tournament and that summer it was held at Royal Portrush in Northern Ireland – his birthplace. Apart from having to purchase the tickets a year in advance, we were able to put the trip together easily.
The item on my list, however, was years coming to fruition. It started with listening to stories of my family history and included attending Remembrance Day ceremonies which always moved me to tears, especially seeing the Silver Cross Mothers.
Finally, with the advent of the internet, more detailed information and government documents became readily available. I was determined to lay flowers on the grave of my uncle, James Frank Steer, my father’s eldest sibling, killed in 1916 at the Battle of the Somme, age 20, and buried somewhere in the middle of France. No one in the family had ever visited.
After our time in Northern Ireland, we arrived in Paris at the height of the tourist season and with temperatures hovering around 40 degrees. We studied maps and investigated train routes trying to zero in on the small Regina Trench Cemetery, which was not on the regular war monument tours. We discovered it was in the area of three small villages north of Paris and Amiens – Courcelette, Grandcourt and Miraumont, 1.5 kilometres off the main road, up a single-track lane not accessible by car. One would need to get a taxi to the sight.
Early one beautiful, very hot morning we took the one-hour train trip North from Paris to the town of Amiens. From there, we took another train to the village of Miraumont. We arrived at midday and got off the train where there was no station and just a small dirt path down to a street.
There was an eerie quiet in the village and no people in sight. I stopped a solitary villager and asked for a taxi in my lapsed and not understood French. He seemed confused so we wandered the streets and eventually came across a pharmacy that was open. We explained to a customer why we were there, and she said, “There are no taxis here, this is the middle of nowhere.”
Inside the pharmacy, my stress and disappointment must have been visible because immediately a staff member started going through some phone directories to see if there might be taxis available in neighbouring villages, with no luck. At the same time, another one was checking Google Maps and found the Cemetery but said it would be a few hours away on foot. We were speechless, imagining a walk in the heat of the day both there and back.
That is when the “angel” appeared in the disguise of a young man picking up a prescription. With a glance at the map, he said he knew the cemetery because it was near his village, and he offered to drive us. He was in his 20s, neatly dressed and well-groomed, and must have taken pity on this old couple who was obviously frantic. We did not hesitate and nonchalantly hopped in his car.
It was a pleasant drive, and we were enjoying the scenery when he made a sudden stop and pointed to some trees in a field in the distance. We were thrilled and offered him compensation, which he declined. But we eventually made a deal, even with our language problems, that he would accept payment and return later to drive us back to the station. With our Euros in pocket, he drove off and we realized we were in the middle of nowhere and we might never see him again.
As I started my walk up the rugged dirt path to the farmer’s field, I realized that in the chaos and stress I had forgotten flowers. But there were some bright orange wild poppies at the side of the track, and I began to pick them.
The Regina Trench Cemetery is small, compact and beautiful, an oasis in an empty landscape that was once riddled with violence, despair and death. The grass is a verdant green and neatly mowed, and perennials, trees and bushes grow among the graves. I entered the gate to a monument with the inscription “Their Names Liveth For Evermore,” and started my search for Plot #1, Row G, Grave #2, with a simple map found online.
Suddenly, there it was! The stone with my family name engraved on it, J. F. STEER, AGE 20, with a Maple Leaf on the heading and his Regiment Details and Date of Death. I broke down weeping and repeating the words “Thank You” over and over again. My husband joined in as well. I placed my wilted poppies on the plants already there, sat, touched his name and was overcome with grief. I thought about what his final days must have included. Maybe there was a letter home. I wondered if he had made friends with other soldiers and maybe did not die alone. I hope some of them were buried here beside him in the middle of nowhere in France. I spent some time with him, this man I had never known and began to feel some peace after the anxieties of the day. But there were also thoughts of the futility of war, so many lives lost, so many Silver Cross Mothers.
Eventually, we knew we should leave thinking of the trip ahead of us. We discovered a guest book at the Entrance Gate that I signed, and I was surprised that there were two entries for that week, someone from Stockholm and another from Oregon. I wondered what their stories might be.
Then, scanning the distance, we could see that our “angel” had returned. Not only did he return us to the train station, but he had also checked online the time of the next train to Amiens. As I sat waiting for the train, reflecting on the events of the day, an elderly gentleman arrived who said in French that he was going to the next village and asked who we were. So again, using my somewhat bungled French, I attempted to explain why we were there. He was fascinated and explained in his broken English that one of his friends volunteered as a gardener at the cemetery. I was astounded to think that someone, in the middle of nowhere, with no connection to those buried there, would give so unselfishly of his time. There must be more “angels” in the world. He asked for the name on the grave so maybe my Uncle Frank will have another visitor some day.
When hearing my story some have said to me that I never knew James Frank Steer. True. But I knew his parents, my grandparents who lost their eldest son. I knew his five siblings, all now deceased, none of whom had the privilege of visiting his final resting place. I am the youngest of the four remaining nieces and nephews. There may be no more visitors. And I have slowly learned of the horrors of a war, which I never had to live through. My visit was the least I could do for him, for my family, and for those buried alongside him.
My “bucket” is empty now. I hope to continue to travel but this will be the most important trip I have ever taken. After receiving my email of the events of the long day, my daughter was appalled that I would get in a car with a total stranger in France. I never considered him anything but an “angel.” I will continue to weep on Remembrance Day but now shake hands with those in uniform and say, “Thank You.” And I will always remember a quiet visit, with someone I wish I had known, on a beautiful, peaceful day in the middle of nowhere in France. It was a privilege to have visited the final resting place of those who fought so bravely and gave us their most precious gift – their lives.
They will not grow old, as we that are left grow old.
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun, and in the morning
We will remember them.
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