I know what they’re saying son
There goes old man Joe again
Well I may be mad at that I’ve seen enough
To make a man go out his brains
Well do they know what it’s like
To have a graveyard as a friend
‘Cause that’s where they are boy, all of them
Don’t seem likely I’ll get friends like that again.
– Talking Old Soldiers (Elton John/Bernie Taupin)
An obituary serves its purpose well, providing a snapshot of a life lived.
In but a few words, we learn not only of one’s passing but also as many details as the writer is willing to share — family lineage, professional and personal milestones and, often, a few descriptors that speak to character.
As an obituary, the listing for Joseph (Joe) Cornelius Sullivan does its job, praising the “proud” Second World War veteran as “a selfless leader, mentor and advocate” who has left behind a “legacy of strength, courage, honour, generosity and love.” If the objective here is to make those who never crossed paths with Joe sense they have missed out, mission accomplished.
When I learned Sunday (November 1) of Joe’s passing at age 100, my first thought — that I didn’t miss out — was admittedly totally selfish. I offer no apology for that. Rather our meeting and spending time was a privilege in every sense of the word.
On two occasions — first in November 2012 and in the same month in 2018 — I made the trip to Peterborough’s Fairhaven Long-Term Care Home and was wholly welcomed into the fourth-floor “home” of one of the then just two surviving members of the 1st Battalion of the 9th Infantry Brigade of the 3rd Canadian Division that waded ashore in Normandy, France in June 1944.
Just 23 years old when French soil first muddied the soles of his army issue boots, the radio operator — a carpenter by trade — spent the next 56 days on the front line as his battalion advanced into Holland. Finding himself in the German port city of Emden when the guns fell silent in May 1945, Joe had accomplished the first objective of all who have gone to war — he was alive.
Joe returned to Holland in 2005 for the 60th anniversary of that country’s liberation from Nazi occupation but never returned to France. However, 10 years later, France came to Joe, awarding him the rank of Knight of the French National Order of the Legion of Honour established in 1802 by Napoleon Bonaporte. Among the Canadians so honoured are First World War air ace Billy Bishop and singer Céline Dion — pretty good company.
Upon coming home in December 1945, Joe returned to work as a carpenter before embarking on a new career in 1967, selling real estate for Bowes and Cocks. Retiring in 1978, he was gifted with more time very well spent with his wife Ella (English). They were residing together at Fairhaven when Ella passed in February 2015 — the parents of four daughters and a son, and grandparents and great-grandparents many times over.
There you have it. The Cole’s Notes version of the life of Joseph (Joe) Cornelius Sullivan. Allow me to now tell you about the man I met on two occasions and came away full of respect for and grateful I didn’t miss out.
For all their chest-swelling pride in their service, most veterans long gone and those still with us share another trait — silence. The assault on the senses they experienced is too painful, too fresh even after all these years. We respect their silence as we should. They’ve more than earned that.
But there are exceptions to that and, as each passing year sees us more removed from their service, we need to hear their voices. They speak to the very core of lest we forget.
With remarkable clarity, Joe remembered it all, not hesitating to talk of what he saw, what he heard, and what he felt without glorifying the experience but always, always, honouring the sacrifice and courage of his battalion mates.
Settled in his easy chair, his many framed wall-mounted medals and citations looking down upon him, Joe admitted to being “always scared” before adding “But we knew we had a job to do.”
In that moment, Joe was in France circa the summer of 1944 and I was there with him. No, Joe didn’t have me at hello but he had me with every word that followed.
Remembrance Day 2020 has fallen victim to the scourge of COVID-19 and its associated restrictions. Annual ceremonies held at cenotaphs across the country, including the beautiful Walter Allward-designed tribute in Peterborough’s Confederation Park, will be brief and much toned down with residents urged not to attend — a dramatic departure from the you-must-attend invitation that has always been extended.
I hope that by sharing here my experience of sitting down with Joe, and my lasting admiration for his service and open recollections, I can help fill a void. We don’t have to be present to remember. We simply have to remember their presence.
A twist of fate, a wrong step in any one of a number of directions, and Joe might not have come home. His would be a name long-chiseled on the cenotaph; a reminder that there once was a man who was scared but did the job he had to do.
But Joe came home — “I consider myself lucky” he said — and his gift to me, and through me to you, was his willingness to talk about that which many have refused to speak of with a singular purpose in mind: that we never forget.
A funeral mass for Joseph Sullivan will be held at St. John The Baptist Catholic Church (300 Wilson St., Peterborough) at 11 a.m. on Thursday, November 5, 2020, followed by internment at Highland Park Cemetery. COVID-19 restrictions are in place, space is limited, and face coverings are required.
As expressions of sympathy, memorial donations may be made to Fairhaven Long-Term Care. Online condolences may be made at www.highlandparkfuneralcentre.com.
