Groundhog Day, February 2, 2026, is my sixty-fifth birthday, and I have mixed feelings. On the one hand, I am thankful to be alive and for all the good things I have. I have lived longer than many of the people I have known, and despite the hardship I experienced along the way, things are generally good. At the same time, I am feeling bummed because I learned of the senseless and untimely death of a young man in Ukraine whose name was Kirill. He was killed in action serving in the Ukrainian Army in the ongoing war with Russia. He was twenty-four years old. He was conscripted into military service at nineteen and survived many battles before his luck ran out. I only knew him remotely through my fishing buddy Colin, who was one of many of Kirill’s friends. I learned about Kirill, his background, and character through conversations with Colin and the photos and videos he shared with me. Kirill was a fine young man who withstood the privations and stresses of compulsory military service in a useless war over a territorial dispute. What bothers me about his death, beyond the fact that he was so young and had his whole life ahead of him, is that looking back on my life, I served as a volunteer in the Canadian Army at his age. At the time, I thought military service would be an adventure. My grandfathers and great-uncles served in the Canadian Army and the Royal Canadian Navy during the Second World War. They had a sense of duty and volunteered. One of my great-uncles was killed in France during the battle for Caen. He is buried in the Commonwealth War Cemetery in Calais. I also had a sense of duty. I served for 4 years as a reservist from 1978 to 1982, and I was free to leave the service at any time. I was mustered out after 4 years, and that completed my brief, undistinguished stint of military service.

Yes, I thought that military service would be glamourous, but the reality was anything but. No, what I found was a series of dull routines, a whole lot of “hurry up and wait,” and taking orders from people who were often stupid and unreasonable. Even though I never went into action, there were injuries and fatalities during exercises. No one said that military service was safe. During my last year of service in the Canadian Army, the Falklands War broke out between Great Britain and Argentina. How I yearned to be a part of the British force that reclaimed the Falkland Islands. What a glorious adventure it seemed to me at the time. Having matured and taken the time to view documentaries on the conflict, I understand that it was an exhausting, filthy, cold and deadly slog for the British. Many young men on both sides were killed in the fighting. No, I know better. War is something to avoid if at all possible. Kirill’s death weighs heavily on me, especially because he was not given a choice. Some will likely try to find meaning in his death. He was a patriot. He died defending his society. We will honour his sacrifice and remember him. Those are noble sentiments, and I agree, he and all the other young men who died in the service of Ukraine in this bloody, useless war will be remembered. I have lived long enough and seen enough to tell my younger self, “Boy, you sure were naive.” I remember one afternoon during Canada’s involvement in Afghanistan following the 9/11 terror attacks on the United States. I was out running my dog, Hera, and I met a young man on the trail. I stopped to chat with the young man and learned that he was a Lieutenant in a reserve regiment and had volunteered for service in Afghanistan. I immediately gave him a hearty handshake and thanked him for defending our society. One valuable thing I learned from military service is that soldiers who go to fight need confidence and the knowledge that they have the support of those on the home front. I do not know whether the young officer survived his tour. I hope he made it home safely. I know that many Canadian servicemen and women did not.

I do not mean to sound oversentimental, but I am feeling a little survivor’s guilt. I served in the Canadian Army from seventeen to twenty-two years old during peacetime. Here I am, sixty-five years old, and wiser. I have lived a long life that Kirill will not. Even though I did not know him, we never met or talked, his death has affected me deeply. He leaves behind his family and friends, who mourn his loss. I am reminded of a young friend and hunting buddy of mine, James. He is serving in a reserve infantry regiment in the Canadian Army. He is good at his job, and his career as a non-commissioned officer is on track. He has the confidence and wherewithal required for military service. I am sure he accepts and understands the risks of being a soldier, and unlike Kirill, he had a choice. When I was nine years old, my grandmother took my brother and me to see the fountain with the eternal flame in front of the parliament buildings. She gave each of us a coin and said we could toss it into the fountain and make a wish. I wished that there would never be another war. That wish has yet to come to pass. Kirill is gone, and I can only keep and honour him in my memory as I live out my days and fully appreciate my good fortune. May he rest in peace.

Posted by Geoffrey