“They didn’t die in a blaze of glory. They drowned—on dry land.”
This episode of Memory and Valour exposes the gas attacks of the First World War: chlorine, phosgene, mustard gas, and what it did to the men who had no masks, no warning, and no escape.
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Four moments from Canada’s experience in the Great War reveal how memory, leadership, courage, and identity took shape amid unprecedented violence.
First, there is Levi Cottage Cemetery—once a modest burial ground on the slopes of Passchendaele, later absorbed and buried beneath the immense expanse of Tyne Cot, the largest Commonwealth cemetery in the world. Its disappearance beneath orderly rows of Portland‑stone headstones and the great Cross of Sacrifice mirrors the way countless small stories of suffering were folded into a single monumental landscape of loss.
Then comes Sir Arthur Currie, Canada’s first homegrown corps commander, whose ascent to knighthood was anything but smooth. Haunted by accusations of incompetence after the cost of the 1917 attack at Passchendaele and dogged by political infighting, Currie fought not only the Germans but also for his own reputation. His eventual recognition as one of the most innovative commanders of the war stands as a testament to both his strategic acumen and his stubborn resolve.
Threaded through the chaos are the CEF’s runners—the young men who carried vital messages across cratered ground when telegraph lines were cut and wireless sets failed. Their work demanded silence, speed, and a willingness to sprint through machine‑gun fire or bombardment with nothing but a dispatch satchel and hope. Many never returned, yet their invisible labour held entire battalions together when battle turned fluid and communication faltered.
Finally, we meet the 107th Battalion, the Timberwolves, a unit with a strong Indigenous presence that carved its identity in the mud and timber of the Western Front. From road‑building and railway work to front‑line fighting, they brought skills honed in the Canadian wilderness to some of the harshest conditions of the war, forging camaraderie and pride even as the battalion’s cultural diversity set it apart within the CEF.
Together, these four snapshots form a brief episode heavy with the weight of a century—fragments of a larger story about how a young nation endured, adapted, and remembered.
Our new episode is here: “Beaumont‑Hamel: Courage, Loss & the Newfoundland Regiment.”
https://open.spotify.com/episode/7brLFFHBd47Z7rMOOh5nx4?si=efb1eBajRZyj2AmFTEVVJw
A story of bravery, heartbreak, and the day that changed Newfoundland forever. Listen now and step into one of the most defining moments of the First World War.
The disaster that befell the Newfoundland Regiment did not occur on its own. It was the result of choices made far from the front, of misjudgments that proved deadly, and of an operation that had already unraveled before the Newfoundlanders even advanced.
At the heart of those choices stood General Douglas Haig.
Beaumont‑Hamel marked one of the darkest moments in Newfoundland’s history. On the morning of July 1, 1916, the Newfoundland Regiment advanced across open ground during the first day of the Battle of the Somme—straight into unbroken German fire. Within minutes, the unit was devastated, suffering catastrophic losses that echoed across every community back home. Beaumont‑Hamel became a symbol of extraordinary courage, profound sacrifice, and a tragedy that shaped Newfoundland’s identity for generations.
On Christmas Eve and Christmas Day of 1914, something extraordinary happened along the Western Front. After months of brutal trench warfare, soldiers from Britain, Germany, and France stepped out of their trenches and into No Man’s Land to share a brief, unofficial ceasefire. What began with carols drifting across the frozen air soon grew into handshakes, conversations, and the exchange of small gifts. In some sectors, men even held joint burial ceremonies and played impromptu games of football on the churned, icy ground.
This moment of humanity unfolded across large stretches of the British‑held line—nearly two‑thirds of a 30‑mile front saw the guns fall silent. The soldiers who met between the trenches were exhausted, cold, and far from home, yet for a few hours they recognized one another not as enemies, but as men living the same misery. They shared food, tobacco, souvenirs, and stories, creating a fragile warmth in the midst of a bitter winter.
The truce was never sanctioned by military leaders, and many officers worried it would undermine the fighting spirit of their troops. By the following year, strict orders were issued to prevent anything like it from happening again, and the war soon descended into far greater horrors. But the memory of that day endured—in letters, diaries, and the collective imagination—because it revealed something profound: even in the darkest moments of war, humanity can still break through.
Today, the Christmas Truce stands as one of the most remarkable and symbolic events of the First World War—a reminder of the shared humanity that exists even across the lines of conflict, and of the peace that briefly flickered in a world consumed by war.
My upcoming episode on my podcast Memory and Valour takes a look at these aspects of trench life in WW1. Some things will surprise you.
As the years pass, I find myself comparing Sir Arthur Currie to Sir Winston Churchill. Not in all ways, but militarily and definitely intellectually.
They had tough decisions to make and both had some pretty awful opinions. Churchill loved his drink and loathed anyone who wasn’t “white”. But, he was brilliant, as was Currie, and both men’s intellectual gift for strategic planning in battle did much to contribute to Allied victory in both world wars.
It’s important that we remember that the personal habits, racial opinions and decisions made were a reflection of what was collectively and socially acceptable at that time. Before we blame or criticize these Commanders for their (now shocking) decisions, let’s reflect on what social opinions and expectations were in 1915, 1944, and all the way up to 1970.
I was born in 1974, (vive le Generation X!), and I can tell you that A LOT has changed since I was a kid, in terms of what is socially acceptable and what is not.
From The Times Colonist; Opinion, 14 December 2025:
Currie was an imperfect man; however, he was also an outstanding leader.
Eunice ter MorsDec 11, 2025 5:30 AM
Listen to this article00:03:17
A commentary by a Saanich resident.
I have read with interest the recent letters from those who praised Sir Arthur Currie and others critical of him.
The recent feature about Currie and Pierre Berton’s book Vimy are both excellent references detailing the facts of the controversies surrounding his life and his career.
Currie was an imperfect man; however, he was also an outstanding leader.
I am reminded of another imperfect man: Sir Winston Churchill.
I was 10 years old in 1965, when I watched Churchill’s state funeral on a small black and white TV with my maternal grandfather, Albert E. Smith.
Tears were streaming down his cheeks as he was no doubt recalling the Great War in which he had served, just as Churchill had served.
Churchill was greatly criticized for his failed leadership in the First World War, but as prime minister of the United Kingdom during the Second World War, his leadership was outstanding.
My grandpa arrived in Victoria from Yorkshire, England, in the early 1900s with his family. His father, Thomas, established the family foundry, Smith and Sons, on Pembroke Street.
Grandpa’s war records note he signed up in February 1916 in Edmonton. His two older brothers joined the war effort at other times.
Grandpa stormed Vimy Ridge in April 1917 and suffered lifelong wounds during that mighty battle.
All the details of the mustard gas poisonings and multiple gunshot wounds; the ambulance trips from the battlefields to the field hospitals, then back to the various fronts, are all carefully recorded.
What he endured is unimaginable.
A few years ago, my husband and I visited Vimy Ridge. It is a breathtaking site of great beauty and solemnity.
The first person we spoke to there was a visitor from Germany, and I told him that my father’s family had arrived in Canada from Germany.
This conversation was a startling reminder of all who had fought on Vimy Ridge.
The Smith foundry was commissioned after the Great War and the Second World War to cast the plaques, listing the names of the residents who died, for the Esquimalt War Memorial.
Other memorial plaques were added over the years. My father was a prairie boy who had fought in the Second World War and stormed Juno Beach. He suffered wounds he held for a lifetime.
After his return home to Esquimalt, he also worked at the family foundry. It is humbling and remarkable that the foundry did not have to cast the name of any of their own family members onto a war memorial plaque.
Currie and my grandpa both spent their formative years in Victoria, and I wondered if they had spent any time, perhaps in the trenches on the battlefields, discussing their lives back home.
What they and their fellow soldiers accomplished was an incredible military feat. They were two young men from Victoria who bravely fought together and survived.
If he had heard that the armoury was to be renamed in Currie’s honour, I am certain that my grandpa would have said: “Currie is deserving of the honour.”
