NARRATIVE: A fire watched all day, a wind that turns, four soldiers who do not come home

The hour

It is about 4 p.m. Mountain time. Saturday, October 17.

The Wainwright base, in Alberta. A live-fire exercise. It is called Apollo Shooter.

A fire is already burning. For hours. On a firing range.

The soldiers know it. They watch it. They do not put it out. They cannot.

The wind turns. It strengthens. The fire leaps. Nearly a kilometre. In under a minute. Toward gathered soldiers.

Four of them will not come home. Thirty-nine are injured. Within minutes. The prime minister said so in the Commons. This Monday.

What this story will not do

This story invents nothing. No scream. No dash that nobody reported. The facts come from investigators, generals, the prime minister. Nothing else.

It does not judge the soldiers. It looks at the chain of decisions. A known fire. An exercise kept going. A wind. Four dead.

A fire watched for hours without being put out, on a range closed to firefighters, while shooting continues next door, is a decision.

That decision has an owner. The investigation must name it. We will wait. But we will not forget.

A watched fire, a wind, four soldiers.

The grenade launcher

The fire starts on an automatic grenade launcher range. Brigadier-General Vanessa Hanrahan confirmed it Thursday.

She is the Canadian Forces Provost Marshal. She leads the military police. She spoke Thursday evening.

“The investigation has confirmed that the fire originated as a result of a training event” on that range.

Routine activities. The word is hers. Plain routine.

The fire stays inside Permanent Danger Area 2. It is a fenced zone.

Unexploded ordnance may lie there. Under the grass. Under the boots.

Firefighters cannot go in. Even after the shooting ends. A round could explode. So they watch. All day. From a distance.

What “monitored” means

The military police statement uses the word.

The fire “was therefore monitored throughout the day.” Monitored, then. Not fought. Not put out.

Major-General Wade Rutland commands 1st Canadian Division.

He said officers had known for hours. That they believed it contained. That training continued. Next door.

Then “a change in wind direction and velocity” increased the intensity.

And the speed. The words are the military police’s. Not ours.

A fire you cannot put out and choose to watch burn is not under control, it is waiting for wind.

The wind came. Around 4 p.m. It took everything.

Two firing ranges

There are two zones that day. The first: the grenade launcher range.

That is where the fire is born. The second: a pair’s range. Farther away.

In pairs, two soldiers attack a target. One covers. The other advances. Then they switch. Radio-Canada describes the drill. It is basic infantry. The trade.

About 84 soldiers from Charlie Company train there. With reservists. A kilometre from the fire. More or less.

The fire is on the other side. It burns. They watch it. A kilometre seems far. In a dry prairie, it is nothing. One minute.

The leap

The wind changes. Direction and speed. The flames pass the fireguards.

The Canadian Press says they “bypassed” them. They race toward the pair’s range. Straight at it.

Then they overtake the unit’s administrative area. National Defence uses those words.

That is where the soldiers are gathered. All together. Nearly a kilometre. Under a minute.

Rutland asks the open question. Did the wind carry the flames over the fireguards?

Or did the fire run unseen through the vegetation? An invisible fire. To the end.

Then the fire leaves the base. It burns beyond. Civilian and military responders stop it. Side by side.

Nobody yet knows how long the leap took.

A fire that crosses a kilometre in under a minute leaves nobody time to decide, the decision had to be made before.

Before, there were hours. After, one minute. No more.

Three privates

Aidan Goulding. A private. 23 years old. From North Vancouver. He met every hardship with a joke.

When others struggled, he carried more than his share. Nobody asked him to.

Shaun Farrell. A private. Age 23. From Prince Albert, Saskatchewan.

His battalion called him the Grand Master of Chess. He wanted a career in the Forces. His whole life.

Hayden Lykkemark. A private. Age 19. From Langley, British Columbia. He knew how to lighten a hard day.

He dreamed of policing. He and Farrell were inseparable. Two friends.

Three privates. From the 3rd Battalion, Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry. Based in Edmonton.

The portraits are the prime minister’s. Read in the Commons. One by one.

A sergeant

Morgan Wong. A sergeant, he. Age 26. He comes from Edmonton. From the Loyal Edmonton Regiment.

A reserve regiment. He served with the 3rd Battalion. A reservist.

He had already served in Latvia. With NATO. He was preparing his second tour in Europe.

His family says he was always there. For anyone who needed him. Always there.

The oldest of the four is 26. The youngest, 19.

Two were best friends. They were training for Latvia. Next spring. Facing Russia.

Four young men learning to defend a NATO flank died in an Alberta prairie because of a wind and a decision.

Their names are here. They will stay here.

The count

Thirty-nine injured. On Friday, 27 are still in hospital. Twelve have been released. National Defence published the count. This Friday.

On Thursday, 13 were in critical condition. The Canadian Press holds the figure. Severe burns. Weeks of care. Then months. Perhaps years.

Four hospitals. Edmonton, Calgary, Red Deer, Wainwright. Liaison officers accompany the families. Chaplains too. Mental health teams. Four cities.

Pierre Poilievre is the member for Wainwright. The Conservative leader.

He said the lives of several injured soldiers might “never be the same.”

Those who ran toward the fire

Poilievre relays accounts. Soldiers who ran toward the flames. To help their comrades.

He speaks of “extraordinary acts of courage.” We will not describe them. We did not see them. We were not there.

He had met Goulding. On Canada Day. In July. On the base.

A group of young soldiers wanted a photo. Someone sent him the photo back. After the fire.

The fire also crossed the base boundary. It burned beyond. Across fields.

Military and civilian responders contained it. The base infrastructure is intact. The buildings stand.

Twenty-seven hospital beds for a firing exercise is the number that will long say what an October afternoon costs.

The beds empty slowly. The questions do not.

Twenty-seven beds, four names, no answer.

Before 10 a.m.

The base has standing orders for its ranges. The Canadian Press read them. All of them.

Between August and October, units must plan early-morning shoots. Not afternoon ones.

Fire risk is then “normally low enough to permit the firing of most ammunition natures.”

Before about 10 a.m. It is written. In black and white.

The fire was reported on the grenade launcher range. The exact time is not public. Not yet.

But soldiers were still firing at 4 p.m. Six hours after the window. At least.

A document that recommends firing before 10 a.m. and a tragedy at 4 p.m. raise a simple question.

Who decided on the afternoon? Who signed?

The safety officer

Military regulations are clear. The range safety officer decides whether the exercise continues.

And under what conditions. CBC recalls it. One person decides.

Rutland says those on the ground consider the weather. The dryness. The wind.

The type of munitions. That day, they considered. And they continued. Until 4 p.m.

The decision to hold live fire in peak fire season will be part of the investigation.

The Canadian Press writes it. It is the heart of the file. Everything else follows.

When the orders say “morning” and the exercise takes place in the afternoon, somebody signed off on a departure, and a departure has a name.

The name is in a file. Not yet public. One day.

Fire as realism

Jennie Carignan is chief of the defence staff. She spoke to CBC on Monday.

Her first interview. She said one thing. It deserves weighing. Slowly.

It is normal, she says, to keep training when a brush fire burns nearby.

It adds realistic conditions. Those of combat. There are limits. Safety comes first. She is the one saying it.

“The folks on the ground make a determination on how this could affect training, and mitigation measures are put in place.”

Her sentence. Word for word.

A fire beside the exercise is therefore not an anomaly. It is a practice. A doctrine.

Owned by the country’s highest-ranking officer. Three days later. With composure.

The broken heart

She also said she was “heartbroken.” She offered her condolences.

“I know that words cannot ease your grief.” We believe her. On that point.

She promises to make the board of inquiry’s findings public. Once completed. No date. None. On Monday, she was still drafting the mandate.

If new safety measures are needed, the Forces will apply them “immediately.” The Canadian Press reports the commitment. We keep it.

An army that treats a neighbouring fire as useful realism must explain where the line runs. Between realism and four coffins.

The general promised the truth. We note the promise. With the date.

The three

First investigation: the military police. Independent of the chain of command.

It asks whether the rules were followed. Or whether there was negligence. Thirty officers on the ground. As of Thursday.

Second: a board of inquiry. An administrative process. It asks whether the rules themselves are sound. It recommends. It does not punish. Not once.

Third: Alberta’s Office of the Chief Medical Examiner. A civilian inquiry.

It steps in for sudden or violent deaths. The RCMP assists it. At its request.

In all, 50 investigators. The prime minister said so Monday. The National Investigation Service leads. The RCMP supports. Fifty people.

The timeline

Rutland spoke of a month on Sunday. He corrected himself. It will take “at least a month.”

Perhaps more. The munitions will be examined. The safety measures too. The orders too.

Hanrahan rules nothing out. Not even a criminal angle. It “cannot yet be ruled out.” All leads remain open. All of them.

She also closed a door. No natural gas infrastructure was involved. Nor affected. The rumour died Thursday. Good riddance.

Fifty investigators for a prairie and an afternoon is a lot, and it is the minimum four families can demand.

The count of investigators is right. The count of answers begins.

The changed regulation

Rory Fowler is a retired colonel. A former military lawyer. He knows the system.

He explains something few people know. CBC interviewed him. He answered plainly. Straight out.

A board of inquiry is not built to find fault. A little over ten years ago, the regulation was amended.

The article directing it to name anyone at fault was removed. Struck from the text.

Fault, if there is any, will go through military justice. Or discipline. Later.

Not through the board. “Its purpose is the governance of the Forces,” Fowler says.

A board of inquiry that has lost the right to name a culprit delivers a nameless report, and the families read a nameless report.

What the families have a right to know

Michel Drapeau is also a retired colonel. A military law expert. Widely heard.

He calls Carignan’s promise “a first step.” Then he asks for more. Much more. Right now.

Public hearings. Where families can sit. And listen. “National security is not at stake here.

The family has a right to know, and the Canadian public has a right to know.”

He has long called for an inspector general. An independent post. Fowler half agrees.

There is “merit” in wanting a true public inquiry mechanism.

Two retired colonels say the same thing. That is a signal. The current system protects the institution. Not the truth. Not the families.

The families want a name. The system offers a report. With no name.

The minute of silence

On Monday, the House of Commons fell silent. One minute. Then Mark Carney spoke.

The opposition leaders too. No partisanship that day. Not a word.

“A fire was burning in the training area.” “Driven by ferocious winds, the fire jumped nearly a kilometre in less than a minute.” His words.

“The original cause of the fire is not yet known.” On Monday, that was true. On Thursday, Hanrahan gave it. The grenade launcher. Three days.

He read the four portraits. Goulding’s joke. Farrell’s chess. Lykkemark’s dream. Wong’s Latvia. Four lives.

What the country owes

“They were training to defend Canada. To serve Canada. Now, Canada serves them.” The sentence is Carney’s. Said Sunday. Said again Monday.

Flags are at half-mast. Across the country. The Peace Tower included. Until further notice. Still today.

He promises answers “as expeditiously and transparently as necessary.” And every resource for the military. To investigate. No limit.

A prime minister who promises transparency before a board that names no culprit promises what the system cannot deliver.

The promise is sincere. The mechanism, for its part, is limited.

The memorial

Wainwright has a war memorial. A century old. A stone tower.

With a clock. It honours soldiers who died in other wars. Far from here.

Flowers have been laid there. This week. By the town.

The tower survived a fire. The one that swept through downtown. In 1929.

The town lies east of Edmonton. It lives with the base. Day to day.

One of the most active in the country, Rutland says. Soldiers are part of the streets. Familiar faces.

A tower that came through the fire of 1929 receives the flowers of 2026, and the town recounts its soldiers.

Training has resumed

Training has resumed on the base. In the days that followed.

Rutland insists: a “completely different” type of training. No live fire of the same kind. Not yet.

The army knows it must review its rules. It admits it. He says so. In his own words.

“If they reveal that our procedures, our training, our equipment or our policies must change, they will change.”

And this sentence: the risk of the trade “does not remove the responsibility to understand what happened and to learn every possible lesson.”

The sentence is right. It commits. It binds. We will keep it. For the day of the report. It will come.

The base still fires. In another way. For now.

The gaps

What time was the fire reported in the morning? Who decided to carry on?

What mitigation measures? How many firefighters on site? What equipment? Where exactly?

Was the fire pushed by the wind over the fireguards?

Or did it run under the vegetation, unseen? Rutland asks the question himself. He has no answer.

Why live fire at 4 p.m. in October, when the orders say morning? The answer does not yet exist. Not in public.

Hanrahan says it plainly.

“Every other aspect of what happened” between the start of the fire and the tragedy “is still under investigation.” All the rest.

What this story keeps

A fire known for hours. A range closed to firefighters.

An exercise that continues. A wind that turns. A kilometre in a minute. Four names. Thirty-nine injured.

The chain has five links. Only one was unpredictable. The wind. The other four were choices. Human choices.

Four links out of five are human decisions, the tragedy is not an accident, it is a sequence of choices revealed by the wind.

The wind has no name. The choices do. Every time.

Three things

A public report. A complete report. With the times. With the decisions.

With the names of the positions that decided. Not just recommendations. Hard facts.

Public hearings. Where families can sit. As Drapeau asks. As Fowler concedes.

Nothing in this file touches national security. A firing range. A wind. A decision. Nothing secret.

A clear rule. In fire season, an active fire in a zone closed to firefighters stops the neighbouring live fire.

Full stop. Let realism wait. It will wait.

We support the army. We support Latvia. With conviction.

That is why we demand the truth. An army you respect is an army you hold to account. Every time.

For the four

Goulding, 23. Farrell, 23. Lykkemark, 19. Wong, 26.

They were leaving for Latvia in the spring. To hold a NATO line. Facing Russia. Four fewer.

They died in an Alberta prairie. A Saturday at 4 p.m. While the fire, watched for hours, waited for its wind.

A watched fire, a wind, four soldiers.

A fire watched all day, a wind that turns, four soldiers who do not come home.

And you, would you accept a report with no name as the only answer given to the families of these four soldiers?

By Maxime Marquette, columnist

Editorial stance

I am not a journalist but a columnist and analyst. My expertise lies in observing and analysing the geopolitical, economic and strategic dynamics that shape our world. My work is to take political strategies apart, to understand global economic movements, to put the decisions of international actors in context and to offer analytical perspectives on the changes that are redefining our societies.

I do not claim the cold objectivity of traditional journalism, which stops at reporting facts. I claim analytical clarity, rigorous interpretation and a deep understanding of the complex issues that concern us all. My role is to give meaning to the facts, to place them in their historical and strategic context, and to offer a critical reading of events.

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