By Michael Major

I’ve always believed that there are four soldiers. Each one is unique and we citizens of this great land have a different level of exposure to each of them.

The first soldier is the one we all love to see. Spit and polished, this soldier stands tall, proud, and handsome. This soldier marches smartly to the beat of a marching band as we all clap and marvel at the stoic professionalism. This soldier has shiny medals, badges, pins, and other accoutrements whose meaning is lost on us. This is the soldier we think of when we think of our soldiers because this is the soldier that fills us with national pride.

The second soldier is the one we do not see. This soldier is covered in dirt, grime, and mud, and is dishevelled and filthy, wearing the dirt of warfare like a second skin. This soldier does the dirty deeds of war far away from our eyes and without our knowledge. No longer spit and polish but instead camouflaged with the tools of death at hand. This soldier fights on our behalf, enduring unimaginable suffering and asking nothing from us in return. We never meet this soldier and live in blissful ignorance as to how the horrific game of war is played. This second soldier is the tip of the spear that, like it or not, we all have a hand in holding.

The third soldier is one we do not want to think about but we pin on our poppies in remembrance of. This soldier lies on cold foreign soil, having been sacrificed upon the altar of freedom. Lifeless eyes staring into the abyss, the enemy claiming the spark of life that was once there. This soldier has a mother, father, family, friends, and a lifetime of potential. This soldier relinquishes the right to a long and peaceful life to give that gift to a nation. This soldier is the one inside the metal caskets that our aircraft return from far-away lands. This soldier dies without the chance to breathe fresh, clean, Canadian air one last time. A century ago this soldier would fall and be buried in mud of the the western front never to be unearthed or properly honoured.

The last soldier is the one who alone struggles with the monster within. This soldier battles a relentless enemy that is constantly renewing the atrocity of warfare. This soldier wants only to find peace but must fight the memory of war that robs the elusive peace daily. This soldier bears scars that are invisible to us and when the uniform is gone, this soldier is invisible to us too. This soldier is alone with the struggle because there is nothing we can say or do to alleviate the pain. This soldier endured wounds that cannot be seen or healed and plague the soul long after the guns fall silent.

These four soldiers are not separate individuals but one  and every soldier. All are spit and polish, all are ready to face the enemy, all know and accept their possible demise at our enemies' hands, and all have the spectre of PTSD lurking in the dark corners of their minds.

Every soldier wears different faces, each soldier I’ve described is a face our soldiers wear. When you watch the spit and polished soldiers marching during Remembrance Day ceremonies, remember the other faces as well, and know that these are the young Canadians that we send to do our fighting, these are the young Canadians that we send to die, and these are the young Canadians that suffer in silence with the memories of what we sent them to do.

Lest we forget who these young men and women are and may we always honour them, not just on the eleventh, but everyday.