A LIFE-SIZE World War I trench exhibit at the new Canadian War Museum. The museum officially opens to the public today. — Photos by Jason Ransom, Sun Media

Ninety years ago, Major John McCrae sat on the back of an ambulance and began to pen the poem that would one day be known around the world.

The Canadian medic had lost a dear 22-year-old friend that morning. He'd been killed instantly by a German shell at Ypres after he left his dugout. With no chaplain in the area, McCrae performed the funeral in a field where blazing red poppies grew.

In Flanders Fields is a lasting and poignant testament to the cost of war. At the time, McCrae couldn't have predicted that three decades later, the world would once again be at war.

How many of those young soldiers ever made it back home?

That was the thought I had over and over recently as I made my way through the new Canadian War Museum in Ottawa, passing their young faces captured in war art and photos.

Some hung from train windows, reaching out to children and wives standing on the platform, while others paraded proudly through the streets in uniform.

Some marched onto ships with their belongings slung over their shoulders, while others dug graves for comrades or tried to steal a few moments of sleep in the back of a truck.

Their faces hide secrets, yet tell stories without uttering a word. The museum is home to more than a million lives and stories. By 1945, that's how many Canadians had served this country, which then had a population of 11 million.

Within the 160,000 words on the museum's walls are the individual stories of the people who have shaped our country. Within that two-volume book's worth is also the story of how conflict has shaped us a nation.

Whether it's directly or through our parents or grandparents, we've all been affected, says Dr. Victor Rabinovitch, CEO of the Canadian Museum of Civilization Corp., of which the War Museum is a part.

Education. Preservation. Remembrance. These are the three mandates of the new museum, which officially opens this weekend. It's a powerful setting and an eloquent living memorial to all Canadians who've served our country in war and peacekeeping.

Here, things aren't in a box to be looked at. They're to be experienced, to force you to walk in others' shoes.

As I stood alone in the darkened trench, I wondered how anyone survived under the combat conditions. Around me in this muddied hole, the feeling of something to come was palpable. Footsteps broke the silence, but anxiety hung heavy in the air.

Soon, voices of troops filled the darkness. Their officer whispered orders as squealing rats scurried around their feet.

That's when it happened. The night was shattered by the cracking of gunfire. Grenades rained down amid the yells of those manning the trench.

Later, as I walked on wooden planks through a field obliterated by battle at Passchendaele, I came across the dead body of a man face down in the mud. Around him are footprints, and nearby, his water canister and gun stick out of the mud. I reached down and touched the back of his jacket.

"It's horrific," says Rabinovitch. "I've seen him now in that position 15 times and knew about him in preparations. But you still look at this and say to yourself, 'That is a human being. And there but for the grace of God, that could have been my grandfather.' And that's the point.

When the first veterans visited Regeneration Hall -- an expansive area that provides a glimpse of the Peace Tower -- construction was ongoing and the steel had not been clad. As the wind blew, a haunting melancholy wail filled the room. Architect Jason Moriyama says the veterans became emotional, convinced the building was speaking to them.

And it does. The sound was recorded and now plays continuously in the hall. But it's more than that. This museum is very much alive. It's powerful and it's moving, and its work is clearly unfinished.

At the end of the exhibits a multimedia montage begins with sounds of the Berlin Wall being chipped away. A child's voice reminds us we're still not free from war.

Rwanda, Bosnia, Somalia, Haiti, Afghanistan. Sept. 11. The sounds of a camera shutter echo through the room as modern victims of war bombard you on three screens. Images of conflict. Faces distorted in pain. Streaming tears of anguish.

Powerful doesn't adequately describe the impact of these images. They're there to remind us armed conflict is not something we can dismiss to the past. As I rounded a corner, one smiling face was a stark reminder of the price we're still paying for our freedoms -- the face of Cpl. Jamie Murphy, whose life was taken by a suicide bomber in Afghanistan in 2004. He was a dear friend of a friend of mine and his death devastated those who loved him.

There's nothing more real than the fact those who serve sometimes still don't come home.

"It's only if you're prepared to stand up for human rights and values that they will be defended," Rabinovitch says.

This museum is a tribute to those who have protected us in the past. They stood up. Here, their faces won't let you forget that. Nor will they let you leave unchanged.

For more information contact 800-555-5621 or warmuseum.ca.