A thousand men in eight days. A parade square turned into a suburb with four little lakes. A bronze general on a horse that nobody who lives there can name.

His name was Griesbach. Edmonton's youngest-ever mayor, son of Canada's first Mountie, and the officer who raised the 49th Battalion in a single frozen week of 1915.

The north-Edmonton neighbourhood built on his old army base is now one of the city's most sought-after addresses, and almost nobody there knows what's buried beneath the front porches.

So we dig.

Down through bison country and Treaty 6 homeland; through the Forty-Niners who bled at the Somme and Passchendaele; among them Alex Decoteau, the Cree Olympic runner and Canada's first Indigenous police officer, killed carrying a message through the mud; through the Canadian Airborne Regiment, born on this very ground; the detention barracks nobody put in the brochure; and the village that now remembers its dead one street sign at a time.

Who was the man on the horse? And what does it mean to build your kitchen on a parade square?

Free self-guided walking tour + full sources: www.memoryandvalour.ca

In 1916, a German soldier watched the first tank loom out of the fog and ran for his life, screaming that a crocodile was crawling into the trenches.

This is the story of the tank on the Western Front, and it's a Canadian story from beginning to end. Canadians were there at the machine's terrifying combat debut at Courcelette in September 1916; the day before Chip Kerr of the 49th Battalion won his VC on the same ground, and Canadians were the spearhead at Amiens in August 1918, the "black day of the German Army," where the tank finally succeeded.

We climb inside the steel oven the crews actually fought in, sort the legend from the record, and hear from the men who were there, from the first British tank crews to a private of the 24th Battalion who rode the tanks forward at Amiens.

Memory and Valour — Where Memory Endures, Valour Lives On.

One wounded man. Sixty-two prisoners. A quarter-mile of enemy trench. Here's how an Edmonton farmer pulled it off, and why it was genius, not luck.

On 16 September 1916, on the Somme, Private John Chipman "Chip" Kerr of Edmonton's 49th Battalion was clearing a German trench with a bombing party that was running out of grenades.

So, with a finger freshly blown off, he climbed out onto the parados, ran along the open ground above the enemy, and opened fire from behind them. Believing themselves surrounded, sixty-two Germans surrendered. It earned him the Victoria Cross.

We rebuild the deed from the ground up: who Kerr really was, how the 49th was raised in Edmonton (and gutted at Mount Sorrel), how trench fighting actually worked and why Kerr's move wasn't just brave, it was brilliant.

Much of the research behind this episode lives in the building that carries the 49th Battalion's lineage: the Loyal Edmonton Regiment Military Museum, inside the historic Prince of Wales Armouries in Edmonton.

Walk through the Griesbach Gallery, stand in front of Cecil Kinross's miniature Victoria Cross, and see everything we talked about today in the cases and on the walls. I'm currently doing my university practicum there, so if you're in Edmonton, come and find me. Let's talk history.

Canada entered the First World War without an air force; not a small one, not a token one; none.

Yet, somehow produced some of the most extraordinary fighter pilots of the entire conflict.

This episode tells the stories of five of them: Billy Bishop, whose Victoria Cross action may have been embellished; Raymond Collishaw, who outscored almost everyone and came home almost unknown; William Barker, Canada's most decorated serviceman, now largely forgotten; Wop May, the rookie from Edmonton who accidentally outran the Red Baron; and Alan McLeod, who climbed onto the wing of a burning aircraft at five thousand feet to save his observer's life.

Featuring archival audio from actual veterans of the air war, recorded while they were still around to tell their stories.

On July 30th, 1915, at a ruined château called Hooge, the German Army turned flamethrowers on British troops for the first time. Within minutes, a battalion broke. Not from shells or gas: from fire.

In Episode 27, we trace the full arc of the flamethrower in the First World War — from Hooge to the mud of Passchendaele and the German Spring Offensive of 1918. At the centre of the story is the Canadian Corps, which faced German flamethrower teams in some of the most brutal engagements of the war, and had to learn fast how to fight back.

It's a story about a weapon. But more than that, it's a story about adaptation, primal fear, and how even the most terrifying technology eventually meets its ceiling.

At Vimy Ridge, one man’s actions helped secure the line and cost him his life.

Lance Sergeant Ellis Sifton’s Victoria Cross is often reduced to a single moment of heroism. In this episode, I’m joined by historian Blair Ferguson to place that moment back into its full context: Sifton's life pre-war, what was happening on the ground, what the records actually show, and why Sifton’s story still matters.

If you value history that goes beyond the headlines, follow Memory and Valour and listen now.

They saved lives, but they didn’t always leave the dead alone.

In the First World War, the Canadian Army Medical Corps stood between life and death, pulling wounded men from the battlefield and fighting to keep them alive against impossible odds.

But behind that story lies a lesser-known truth.

Drawing on the work of Dr. Tim Cook, this episode explores the hidden side of Canada’s medical war, where the dead were sometimes used in the name of science, training, and survival.

It’s a story of innovation, necessity… and uncomfortable questions about dignity, consent, and the true cost of saving lives.

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Because where memory endures, valour lives on.

They joked about dying.

Not because it was funny, but because it was the only way to survive it.

In the trenches of the First World War, soldiers turned fear into sarcasm and horror into humour. Shellfire became “just a bit of a strafe.” Terror was softened into “the wind up.” And sometimes, a wound meant a darkly joked-about “ticket home.”

But it went further than that.
They wrote parody songs, shared lewd jokes, printed trench newspapers, and even composed poetic odes to rum; small acts of defiance against a world coming apart.

This episode explores the humour that lived alongside the mud, the fear, and the constant threat of death, and what it reveals about the men who endured it.

Because in the trenches, humour wasn’t about laughter.
It was about survival.

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