My Great Grandfather fought in the first World War.  His last name was Graham, and he was born near Grahams Dyke in Scotland before immigrating to Canada.  During the war, his platoon had made him somewhat of a good luck charm because it seemed that nothing bad happened to them as long as he was around.  Unfortunately his luck almost ran out when on a reconnaissance run, he and a few of his mates were mortar bombed and then mustard gassed.  Grandad was apparently buried up to his neck in debris when his platoon found him and mistook him for dead, and his face blacker then charcoal.  They dug him out, and carried him back to camp and laid him on a gurney with his hands folded on his chest and put a tulip in them.  This was a very honourable way to be given the last rights, however, you can imagine poor Grandpa Grahams surprise when he awoke during his own yulege.  From that day he had to wear heavy knit sweaters to avoid getting pnuemonia from the damage to his lungs from the Mustard gas.  His platoon still thought he was the luckiest man alive. They did however label him with a new nickname from his charcoal like appearence: They named him "The Black Scot."

I wear the Ancient Graham of Montrose Tartan with a horse hair Sporan to honour my Father, and Grandfathers who to the best of my knowledge were all in military service of one form or another.  I myself am in the recruitment stages to become a Police officer in Calgary.  I raise a toast to all those who have gone bravely before me.

 

Joe Hebert

Calgary Alberta Canada.

jhebert@manpower.ca