I may never know my great uncles, but I can visit their names on war memorials in Europe

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Split up, we wander around searching for names, part of a developing scrum at the Menin Gate in Ypres, Belgium. This is an important stop on a First and Second World War battlefield tour after a bike ride along the Mosel Valley in Germany.

Originally a portal, a fortification and a way into the medieval city of Ypres, the gate is now a barrel-vaulted commemorative passage that recognizes more than 54,000 missing or dead Commonwealth soldiers, more than 6,000 of whom are Canadian. It was completed in 1927.

Names of the fallen are carved in stone inside the vaults, which extend to the arches seven meters overhead. Visitors hunt for names. All searches on the outer walls of the gates and on the parapets leading to the gates. Names everywhere, no end. The hapless fertilize the area’s lush rolling landscape, all of which at one point or another served as battlegrounds on a front that shifted with the speed of tectonic plates—each movement fueled by collective slaughter.

Francoise and I dodge groups of family chattering, “Did you see there? How about there?” And “Wait a minute, look up there, a little to the left. That’s it. I wish we could touch it.”

When a name is found, the family search chat stops. One group is silent, reflective attitudes—pilgrims at a shrine. Hands must touch the name carved in stone. A cold human connection is made with a great uncle or a distant cousin. Maybe there are tears for the loss, the futility or the absurd slaughter. Pictures are taken of the name, then people move on. Their journey ends. Today’s conflicts show us that humanity has not learned.

We find the search guide, organized by country and battalion, and quickly find Lorne V Frood, my grandfather’s youngest brother, who enlisted in September 1914 in the Eastern Ontario Regiment, 2nd Battalion. He was an early adopter, swept up in an adventure where the boys would be home for Christmas. His service record notes that he died around 4 April 1915 with the terse confirmation: “Formerly reported missing, now for official purposes presumed dead. Location: trenches near St. Julien.” He was still a teenager.

We find the carved name of Clarence Boyd Frood, slightly older than Lorne, in his early 20s. He joined the 4th Canadian Mounted Rifles in July 1915, shortly after hearing of Lorne’s death. Boyd died 13 months later “on or after an attack on June 2, 1916, near Mount Sorrel.” This was part of the Second Battle of the Somme. The Official History of the Canadian Expeditionary Force notes that there was an 89 percent casualty rate (of the battalion), with only 76 of 702 making it through the conflict unscathed. It was also one of the earliest gas attacks.

We stop, touch and reflect. Then we slowly retreat to a nearby bistro for dinner. We would return to the Menin Gate for the daily Last Post ceremony at 8 p.m.

The bright bistro served good food, but the experience was jarring. We ordered in French, but the servers answered us in English. Are we simply tagged as being from away, with a polite standard of English? Then I wondered, maybe this is a Flemish bistro. Perhaps the linguistic and cultural differences in Belgium play out through the service provided. French was not welcome – perhaps a microcosm of divisions that could escalate into brutal wars. But I’m not sure, I don’t understand the codes.

I’m glad we toured battlefields, museums and memorials in France and Belgium. It connected me to the struggles of my parents and grandparents generations. I also realized that the most important moments of the trip were the visits to the actual battlefields where my great uncles died. I was surprised at how I felt at St. Julien and Mount Sorrel – a sense of loss, a sense of sadness, a sense of life potential denied. In these places, the trees rustled with the breeze while the surrounding fields swayed to the rhythm of the occasional chirping, beeping and fluttering of birds. Nature thundered with the forces of renewal.

I can never know my great uncles. There is nothing about them in the family records. There was never any discussion about them. They did not live long enough to launch careers or create a public record of achievement. They are simply names in a genealogy book – and names, among other things, noted at memorial sites. The grief was absorbed and the Frood family moved on.

I now realize that my past participation in Remembrance Day ceremonies in Renfrew, Ont., are the most authentic acts of remembrance for me. The Frood family join six other families in Renfrew with two sons on the Cenotaph – the Bremner, Dempsey, Anderson, Wight, McGowan and Smith families. The McIntyres lost three. The splendor and circumstances are neighborly, local and personal. All these names, etched in stone, speak to the senseless loss in communities across Canada. When will we learn to reach across divides to reconcile and seek peace?

Peter Frood lives in Ottawa.

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