In Chariots Of Iron
The personal adventures of a soldier in a Canadian Armoured Brigade during World War II from training to VE Day
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SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY: Ray W. Lane on Smashwords
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
I would like to acknowledge that the first chapter entitled “A Tribute to the Men with whom I Served” and part of the last chapter, “Love and Kisses to the Canadian Army” were first published in Voices, a column in The Edmonton Journal.
I would also like to acknowledge the encouragement and help I received from those who proof-read the text; namely my daughter Ruth Kanter, friends, Art Davison, Bud Liversidge, Cathy Welburn and professional editor, Gayl Veinotte.
I am deeply grateful to Vanessa Cordery for her many helpful suggestions and the added eye catching lettering and background she provided for the cover.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter 1. Training – Calgary, Nanimo
Chapter 2. Training – Dundurn, Borden
Chapter 3. Regiment Arrives in Britain
Chapter 7. The Mad Charge – Worst Day of my Life.
Chapter 8. Closing The Falaise Gap Days of Confusion
Chapter 9. Falaise to Nyjmegen
Chapter 10. Nyjmegen to the Rhine
Chapter 11. Crossing the Rhine
Chapter 12. Ijssel River to Deventer
Chapter 13. Deventer to the Causeway
Chapter 14. Causeway to the War’s End
Chapter 15. A show of Force and the Horror of Bergen Belson
My Sherman Chariot
Five passenger ATV—Good for hunting and shooting, both ways—500 Horses.
Weight about 30 tons—Speed about 28 MPH.
Can withstand attacks from bears or elephants but vulnerable to German Tiger tanks.
INTRODUCTION
On security grounds I was not permitted to keep a diary. I relied on my memory. There were a few vague recollections but events I describe here, burned themselves forever into my mind.
To make my personal experiences as accurate as possible, I used the regimental History of the First Hussars, newsletters of the Sherbrooke Fusiliers, the History of the South Alberta Regiment, General Montgomery’s writings, Denis Whitaker’s Victory at Falaise and other published historical war records. I also possess detailed maps of the areas in which I fought. They all helped to clear a fading memory.
Like other veterans, for many years I remained silent—not even my family knew of my experiences. In my later years I felt it wrong for people to be left ignorant, and forget the causes of war or the sacrifices of those who never returned.
After I retired at 65, I returned to my skills as a water color artist. I painted many of my war memories and took prints of my paintings to my Regimental reunion. I showed friends. The events I described in art revived their recollections of the war. Some who saw my paintings suggested I should also write my war stories. I decided to do just that. To that end, I enrolled in a creative writing class and surprised myself that I could write. More surprisingly, some even liked my writing.
Unlike many writers who feel it necessary to provide an ambience of foul language on every page, you will not find much of it in my story.
To achieve what writers imagine is reality, they overdo it. Actually, I think the most violent words I heard were in the parade square—there were somewhat less in combat. In the presence of real violence and the actual possibility of being blown to pieces at any moment, we didn’t scream, holler and argue with one another. We saved our fights for the enemy. There was often ominous silence. In a tank, when action was hot and heavy, we tried to keep calm and speak in a normal voice to one another.
The Edmonton Journal of September 23, 1999 quoted David Grimes from the Sarasota Herald Tribune: “Dirty words are flying out of the mouths of men, women and children at a furious rate and for no apparent reason.
The result is not only a coarsening of the culture, but a devaluation of swear words themselves.
Normally cuss words, to be effective, must be used sparingly; otherwise they lose their shock value.
Clearly, today’s swear words and insults have lost their punch.”
I must confess that I was always totally uncomfortable when in the constant environment of dirty words and profanity. It was something I endured just as did many others. However, to completely ignore it when writing the events of war would be untrue. On occasion therefore, I have included some colourful expressions where it added to the understanding, emotional impact or humour.
WAR IN THE MAKING
In 1934, I was 14 and beginning to comprehend and take an interest in what was happening in the world around me.
Two aggressive characters were making the news—Adolph Hitler of Germany and Mussolini of Italy. They both despised democracy and bullied their way to the top. By 1932 Hitler had complete control of Germany. He made no bones about his agenda. It was all there to read in his book Mein Kampf (My Struggle)—full of hatred of Jews, a belief in the superiority of the pure Germanic Aryan races, and his vision of Lebensraum (living space) for Germans. The book wasn’t a best seller outside Germany, but maybe it should have been, people might have reacted and the war wouldn’t have happened.
Hitler also organized massive gatherings where, with his extraordinary oratorical ability, he appealed to German racial pride, promoted the idea of German racial superiority, resurrected and increased the intensity of the historic anti-Semitism that had been rampant for centuries in all European countries, into a renewed murderous hatred of Jews.
His undisguised method for obtaining Lebensraum was to make war with nearby countries, take over, get rid of its inferior peoples and colonize it with the pure German races.
Top quality German couples were encouraged and rewarded for raising babies.
Germans considered mentally or physically unfit were sterilized. By 1945 around 400,000 had been sterilized and 200,000 handicapped Germans were euthanized. The purpose was to make Germans into a super race and remove the heavy burden of looking after the helpless and deformed.
Germany was not alone in this. Eugenics was all the rage at that time in the scientific communities of Britain, Europe and America. Sterilizing the unfit was practiced everywhere. It was when it came to deciding who was unfit that a good thing went wrong. Science became the moral arbiter of what was right and wrong and who was unfit.
In 1928, under the duress of many prominent political figures of all stripes, Alberta passed the most draconian sterilization act in the British Empire.
People who were considered candidates for sterilization were: feeble minded, mixed races, natives, certain nationalities, deaf mutes, the deformed, the poor and those with low IQ’s.
As in Germany the use of sterilization was open to questionable opinions, prejudices and abuse in determining who should be sterilized. In Alberta, a case came before the courts. A mother got rid of her daughter by putting her in the Provincial Training School in Red Deer. A dubious IQ test of 64 listed her as a moron and a candidate for sterilization. Her mother connived and without her daughter’s knowledge had her sterilized while having an appendectomy. A later test showed her to have an IQ of 89—quite acceptable. The woman sued the government and won.
This case demonstrated the possibilities of a good thing being misused.
In Germany, Hitler made the most of sterilization’s possibilities. A great way to get rid of his undesirables!
In Alberta the act was rescinded in 1972 and, eugenics fell into disrepute.
Hitler had a fourfold plan to achieve his dream of Lebensraum.
First to take over Czechoslovakia, Second: Russia, Third: Britain and France and finally the U.S.A..
It was sad that the leaders of other countries did not take his threat seriously—who could actually want war and do such things?
In spite of the fact that his evil agenda was not yet in full swing, concentration camps were already doing the nefarious business of getting rid of Jews, and political enemies in Germany.
His ruthless ambition required a massive military construction program. Hitler had already won over a large portion of the German people to an exaggerated idea of their racial superiority over other races. He revived pride in German values and convinced them the only way to rescue them from the deep poverty and depression into which they had fallen after the first Great War was a dictatorship with him at the head—The Fuhrer.
There is an honourable kind of patriotic pride, but this was pure arrogance.
The total capacity of Germany’s colossal industry was put to work rearming to make Germany into the mightiest military nation on earth. Unemployment became a thing of the past. People had jobs and money to spend. Hitler’s image was enhanced immensely.
It is doubtful that Hitler had any deep understanding of economics but he did hit upon the paradoxical crazy solution to economic depression that works—make war!
Meanwhile, what was happening in France, Britain and the U.S.?
What was happening here in Canada?
Unbelievable! Disarmament was the catch word.
University students paraded, shouting “No more war! No more war!” and signed pledges not to fight should there be another war no matter what the reason.
It was much the same in all the other western nations. It was counter productive to the peace they sought.
Hitler must have laughed! This mind-set made it so much easier for him to fulfill his lethal ambitions.
One after another we saw countries in Eastern Europe fall before him. In most cases Hitler’s armies simply marched in and took over.
I don’t understand what took so long for people and governments to realize that Hitler was doing exactly what he said he would do—his intentions were not hidden. His future agenda was there for all to read.
I couldn’t understand the German people. I was sure not every German agreed with him. In Canada we had German neighbours. Many were extremely flattered by Hitler’s boast of German superiority, believed it and dared to flaunt it. Stroking the ego does strange things to people. This race pride and admiration of Hitler led many to boldly express their anti-Semitic views. It angered many people.
This wasn’t like the Germans I personally knew as a boy. I thought of the sweet little German widow, Mrs Peterson who lived next door—always going out of her way to do kind things for our family and others. She was particularly fond of me. How could I think ill of her? There was also my best friend Henry Snyder—you couldn’t ask for a nicer guy! There was the Merchant Taylor who had been a high ranking officer in Germany before World War I. He left Germany because of its military posture. There were many others too, who weren’t like that. But Hitler, along with his eager followers, was a different breed.
By the time he invaded Czechoslovakia people were just beginning to wake up and worry about what he might do next. Many still clung to the notion that Hitler wasn’t such a bad boy and there would be no war—who wanted war?
Hitler’s next move was not long in coming. On September 1st the German Army invaded Poland. So began a global conflict as described by Encarta Encyclopaedia, “that in terms of lives lost and material destruction would be the most devastating in human history.”
REMEMBERING
A TRIBUTE TO THE MEN WITH WHOM I SERVED
When I was discharged, along with many others, I received a number of medals. It was often joked that they were issued with the rations (I think they were). They were certainly bestowed upon us without ceremony. Mine sat in a dresser drawer, oxidising and turning black because they were never worn.
I avoided going places where wearing them might be expected. It was difficult to explain that these medals simply described places where I served and actions in which I had participated—none for special acts of valour. I did my duty, obeyed orders and did the things every other soldier did—nothing above and beyond the call of duty. The risks which I suffered, so did the others.
When a friend asked another veteran and me to honour her husband, a First World War veteran, by wearing our medals at his funeral, I got a new perspective for wearing them. In particular I realised I had been neglecting to remember those fine men with whom I had served.
I was reinforcement, sent to replace someone who had been killed. I was proud to join the men in the two regiments with which I saw combat—the First Hussars and later the Sherbrooke Fusiliers. They bore the brunt of the fighting on the Normandy beaches. It was an honour, and an inspiration to become one of them.
Now you ask, “What goes through your mind as you stand with others at the cenotaph on Remembrance Day?”
My thoughts are probably much the same as those standing beside me.
What exactly do I remember?
I remember all the men who lost their lives on that very first day in action and never got the chance to wear these medals though earn them they did indeed! I wear mine vicariously for them.
I wear them to remember the first wounded man I saw coming from the front. He was on a jeep ambulance, which brushed by us as we moved up into action. Through the narrow slit of the periscope on my tank, I saw the unforgettable pallor and agony on the face of a horribly wounded man. I often wondered if he survived.
I wear them to remember Corporal Hannon, our driver, who had a shrapnel wound in the head that left him paralysed for life. How could I forget him? I wore his blood on my uniform for two weeks before I could get a change of clothes.
I wear them to remember Captain Oerton and Trooper Reg Burns, who stood out on our tank while still under fire to lift the wounded Corporal Hannon to safety.
I wear them to remember the brave, unselfish Sergeant Lilley, our troop sergeant, who, when his tank was hit and burning, ordered the crew to bail out and then re-entered to traverse the gun from over the front hatch enabling the co-driver to escape. He did not survive. He, along with some eleven others from the regiment who perished on that fateful day, lies buried in the Canadian cemetery at Bretville-sur-Laize.
I wear them to remember the valiant men of our Regimental Aid Post, kneeling on the ground, working unceasingly on the wounded, seemingly oblivious to the small arms fire with which they were harassed. I saw it all as I sat in relative safety inside the tank, watching through the periscope and listening to the ricochets from the pot shots we were receiving.
I wear them to remember the horrible spectacular sight of three of our tanks burning. It was an awesome, unparalleled display of fireworks, with explosions that shook the tanks and shot showers of sparks and burning objects skyrocketing, high into the air. My real horror was thinking of the possible five men trapped inside receiving an instant fiery cremation.
I’ve asked myself many times, “Why was it them and not me?”
I wear them to remember the youth who said he had watched the Normandy landing on a newsreel in Toronto while still attending high school in June. He graduated the end of that month and was with us at the beginning of August—just one month of training. He was young—so very young! After I left the regiment (the First Hussars) I often wondered what became of him.
I wear them to remember Sergeant Atkinson (Acky) at a later time, from a different regiment—the Sherbrooke Fusiliers. He had been my sergeant. He saved my life once when we came under heavy shellfire, risking his own to do it. I replaced him later as crew commander when a sniper got him in the head. He was so well liked the entire squadron suffered a trauma that took days to get over. He never got his medals.
I wear them to remember my gunner, who, only a few days later, saved me from a similar fate by taking me by the collar and pulling me down into the turret.
To my shame, I don’t remember his name.
I wear them to remember a Dutch family, the Isings of Soest Dyke, who later became good friends of mine. They aided in the escape of several Jews, who had been scheduled to be used as human guinea pigs for medical research at the University of Utrecht.
Isings were betrayed by a Nazi neighbour and were, in turn, hunted by the Gestapo.
Finally, I wear them to remind me of the one concentration camp I witnessed. I have seen it many times again on television, but the impact cannot compare to being there in person, smelling it and seeing the live, naked skeletons walking about. It was hard to say which looked the most unreal, the moving skeletons pacing back and forth, or those piled like cordwood around the buildings.
For health reasons, the bodies had to be buried quickly. Thousands of human beings, their names known to God alone, were bulldozed into a common grave. Remembering the scene still gives me sleepless nights. It reminded me at the time that this was why we were there: to put an end to Hitler’s evil agenda of exterminating Jews, uncooperative Germans, Europeans and others of unpopular racial origins.(1)
I often hear the voices of ignorance saying, “The war effort was all such a waste” but I hear other voice, loud and clear—thousands upon thousands of liberated voices, snatched from the gas chambers saying, “It was NOT in vain.”
It would be better to say of those who gave their lives for other’s freedom, “What an enormous sacrifice!”
I worked hard to get my medals shining once again and have kept them that way to remember and honour my many comrades who were killed or wounded. I take great pride in wearing these medals as a proxy for the real heroes who didn’t come back.
As a grateful survivor of war I see no reason to seek honours for myself just for having experienced it.
I honour those unknown to me from other regiments and other branches of the service—equally deserving of honour for giving their all.
We will remember them.
1. From Kamp Westerbork in Holland alone, 107,074 persons, mainly Dutch Jews, were sent to their death.
WAR DECLARED
The date was September 1939. I was working in a forestry camp in Banff National Park, in a remote area south of Johnson’s Canyon, on the Red Earth Creek. We had one small battery operated radio in the kitchen tent and one in the rec tent. On September 1st, the German Army marched into Poland. We wondered if Britain’s timid Neville Chamberlain would actually declare war.
On September 2nd we heard nothing all day but our night was Britain’s day—seven hours difference.
I was on night duty to keep the fires going and promised to wake everyone if war was declared.
In the very early morning hours of September 3rd the announcement came. It was preceded by the ‘Beer Barrel Polka.’ I believe the radio station didn’t have a recording of the Polish national anthem, so anything sounding Polish would do. It alerted me that important news of the Polish situation was about to come. I woke everyone. Together we listened to Chamberlain’s announcement.
There was an immediate reaction of some workers to hitch a ride to Calgary and join up.
Canada didn’t declare war until September 10th. There seemed to be no hurry by the government. There was a notice that a recruiting office was set up and volunteers would be accepted—that was all. There seemed to be neither action nor reaction to the threat of war. The excitement quickly died down.
This lack of urgency from government was contagious. Nothing was happening on the western front. Nothing was happening here. It was rightly called the ‘Phoney War’.
For myself, I could see nothing ahead, but years of uncertainty. On my part I wanted to earn enough money to complete my education. My mother died two years before and our family was breaking up. I had no support. I had managed successfully to squeeze in some grade 12 subjects with my grade 11 exams—math, literature, history and art before leaving high school, but it was not enough for me to graduate. I was lucky to get this job in the forestry.
I had my eyes on going to university and Knox Presbyterian College in Ontario.
In the depression days that lingered on, it was an impossible dream. It was far beyond my pocket book. With the threat that the war would soon become personal I would not have time to earn enough. I had no family support. I had to think of earning both living expenses and tuition. I knew of a bible college in Three Hills which was affordable.
A friend said, “The big thing in education and life is the ability to communicate. You will certainly learn it there and as a Christian you will get a better knowledge of the Bible, public speaking, writing essays and music. Who knows, you might even become a preacher or missionary.” He laughed.
I replied, “Well maybe that’s what mom had in mind when she gave me the middle name of Whitfield after the great British Methodist minister—George Whitfield. But it isn’t something you do because mom wanted it; one should have a special calling to go into the ministry.”
I had great admiration for people who could speak well. This included politicians, preachers and people with noble causes who felt strongly and spoke convincingly. I did feel strongly about my faith in Jesus Christ.
I had saved enough money, so by the end of October I made application, was accepted, and started in November.
For several months nothing of great consequence happened in Europe that would lead me to think that I would ever be needed in the war.
Germany continued its dramatic invasions of Denmark and Norway and for a while it even looked like Britain was doing well there, but when the Germans began to attack France through Holland, Belgium and the Ardennes, things began to look very bad indeed. Britain had to abandon its effort in Norway to concentrate in France.
By the end of May, Dunkerque fell to the mighty German Blitzkrieg. While many British and allied soldiers were miraculously rescued, many were left behind with all of Britain’s military equipment. By October, Germany held sway over all of France. Britain would be next. It was at this point that Canada made its first conscription draft. My name was on it.
Thus I started my military career at Red Deer. It lasted only a little over a month and a half for me. I was a bit physically run down and not equipped for the severe cold of that early winter and contracted strep throat. The Army was ill equipped at this early stage of the war to look after the sick. It was easier for them to simply discharge me and let me look after my medical problems at my own expense.
I spent a week with my father in Calgary where the old family doctor gave me some medication in the form of a very powerful swab for my throat.
By this time the Great Depression of the 30s was on its way out and my father had an excellent job as a civilian instructor to the Air Force, teaching air frame mechanics. The pay was good. It was all part of the British Commonwealth Air Training Program. I didn’t ask or receive anything from him and he didn’t offer. I was on my own.
I then went back to the college in Three Hills to continue my studies. Under the care of the college nurse and TLC I eventually recovered completely.
When my third year at the college began I wrote to the Canadian Defence Department to inform them of my recovery and ask if they would let me finish my semester at the college. They must have been too busy to respond, so when that term ended I went down to Calgary to join the RCAF.
I had a lingering cold at the time which prevented me passing the medical for air crew. I could join ground crew but if I was determined to be air crew, go home and return when the cold was gone.
The recruiting station for the Army was only a few blocks away. I wasn’t keen on Army but thought I would check.
To my surprise, I was greeted with enthusiasm. A brand new armoured unit called a ‘Reconnaissance Regiment’ was about to be formed—“Far more exciting than the Air Force.” They told me, “We work behind enemy lines.” I don’t know whether that scared me more than it excited me, but I joined up.
I was told it would take about a month to gather enough experienced officers and NCOs—they would call me when everything was ready. I spent a month with my oldest sister helping out on the farm until the call came.
War is not about wearing a uniform and marching on a parade square; it’s about killing and being killed. Many suggested joining branches of the service that were less risky. There were degrees of risk, from almost no risk at all, to extreme peril. It was said that in the services only one in seven saw front line service.
Support people are certainly needed but to actually win a war you need men who will aggressively carry the fight to the enemy and take the risks involved in doing so. It’s a job for the most physically fit—hey! They’re talking about me now—ha!
Because of a near death experience I once had, I can honestly say I had no fear of death. I discovered it was actually quite pleasant. What I did fear was pain, losing body parts or being taken prisoner.
There were many conscientious objectors in the college. As a Christian I did some soul searching.
To go to war “because it was the thing to do,” or “for King and country” was a bit of jingoism to my mind. What if King and country did it for the wrong reason? But at this stage of the war I saw Adolph Hitler as a monster that had to be stopped. He and his followers should be treated the same as you would treat any bully.
Two of the men who joined up with me from the college, were German—one was even a Mennonite—a pacifist. They thought as I did—they loathed and feared Hitler’s actions and evil intentions.
31ST RECONNAISSANCE REGIMENT
(15TH Alberta Light Horse)
CHAPTER 1. TRAINING WITH THE 31ST RECONNAISSANCE
AT CALGARY, NANIMO AND SOOKE
I joined the 31st Reconnaissance Regiment on May 1942 and started basic training at Sarcee Camp in Calgary.
The 31st Reconnaissance Regiment was formed from elements of the 19th Alberta Dragoons from Edmonton and the 15th Light Horse from Calgary. My father had been a trooper with the 15th Light Horse as a part time soldier around 1905. At that time they wore a dress uniform so similar to the RNWMP (Royal Northwest Mounted Police), one could hardly tell the difference. On very special public occasions, they wore brass helmets and even performed a cavalry version of the musical ride.
Apart from doing military drill on horseback, the only dangerous activity my father engaged in was to participate with a posse led by the RNWMP to recapture an American desperado, gunslinger, and horse thief named Ernest Cashel. Cashel had escaped from prison in Calgary where he was waiting to be hanged for murder. Since he was a crack shot with a six-shooter, the Mounties took no chances; they overwhelmed him with numbers. The abandoned farm building near Calgary, in which he was hiding, was set ablaze. With twenty or thirty rifles pointed at him as he emerged, he had no choice but to surrender.
The hat badge of this 15th Light Horse became the hat badge for the 31st Reconnaissance Regiment.
It was in the first few days of my Army career that I learned a most valuable lesson—never volunteer for anything, especially when you don’t know for what you’re volunteering.
We were hard at work on the parade square, learning how to march. The sergeant major approached. He appeared to have something very important to say. The drill sergeant called us to a halt and brought us to attention.
“We are looking for someone who can play the piano,” the sergeant major offered. “Have we anyone here? Raise your hand. Don’t worry if you think you’re not good enough. We’ll try out up to six people. How many hands do I see?”
Sounded like a good thing to me—might escape all the dirty KP duties. I wondered if my playing was good enough. As I made indecisive movements with my hand, I heard a discrete but firm voice behind me. “Don’t do it! Don’t be a damn fool!”
He must know something. Reluctantly, I dropped my hand.
There were six volunteers. The sergeant major marched them off. I supposed it was to test their musical skills. Stupid, lucky me! They needed six strong men to move the piano from the Sergeants’ Mess to the Officers’ Mess.
Talk about KP—short for Kitchen Police, it also included other kinds of duties, such as latrine duty. Now that was dirty! Especially after the boys had a night on the town and came back loaded to the gills with beer. Latrine duty required dumping the ‘honey buckets’ into the sewer system, if there was one. Every honey bucket was full to overflowing. Beer and urine are a lethal combination—over exposure can turn a man off beer forever.
We made rapid progress at becoming soldiers, except for one of our number who just couldn’t get his arms and legs working together properly. I can’t remember his name. He had red hair—we called him Red!
Red insisted on swinging his left arm with his left leg, and his right arm with his right leg. It was such an unnatural way to march; I found it hard to believe anyone could do it without making an exceptional effort to do that way.
Every day, a corporal was assigned to give him individual instruction. Nothing worked!
Then one day the corporal took over the drilling duties for the rest of us, while the sergeant became special tutor for Red. We watched from the distance as he tried to teach Red the basics of marching. When it didn’t work, the sergeant looked as though he was about to have a violent fit. We saw him remove a scrap of paper from his pocket and shove it in Red’s face. Suddenly we heard him bark out the order, “By the left, quick march. Left! Right! Left! Right!”
Red came marching back to join us with arms and legs swinging in perfect unison. It was a magical transformation. The sheepish grin on his face told us the sergeant had shown him something on that paper that did the trick.
Red thought that if he could establish it was impossible for him to march like any normal human being he would be booted out of the Army. That piece of paper was a record of Red’s previous military training and that he had been a drill sergeant himself in the pre-war militia.
Before our training was over, we would see many other such laughable stunts by those trying to get out of the Army.
After only three months of training, the day arrived when, without warning, we were all completely confined to Sarcee Camp. No one was allowed to communicate with the outside world. Even our families couldn’t be contacted. We were told nothing, and were put to work taking down all the tents.
“Hey! Where we gonna to sleep tonight?”
The tents, weapons, ammunition, tools, equipment from kitchens and orderly rooms were loaded onto trucks.
“Are we going someplace?”
What a miserable day! It rained continuously the whole time. It was evident we were moving house but we were told nothing.
That night, I was supposed to attend a wedding. In fact, I was to be best man. There was no way of telling anyone I would not be there. A guard was posted by the one public telephone booth in the camp. No one was allowed to use it. I tried to tell my special predicament to the troop officer. He was completely heartless. The answer was, “No! Nothing and no one is special in this man’s Army!”
O yeah! Our enterprising trooper, Red, went about collecting telephone numbers of families, and said he would see that they were all informed. He had a motor bike stashed in trees near a hole in the fence. Cowardly me! I was too chicken to give him a phone number, in case he was caught, and my name fell into the hands of the enemy—the regimental brass.
Red was a kind of Corporal Klinger, who didn’t worry much about military discipline or the consequences of being caught. He had found that hole in the fence from the first day we enrolled, and was AWOL every night and never caught.
All unit equipment was packed and gone by late afternoon. They informed us that, at any moment, trucks would arrive to take us to our destination. We kept our packs on our backs, held on to our duffel bags and rifles and wore gas capes and steel helmets to keep the rain off. It didn’t help much—there we stood, getting well soaked before someone relented and permitted us to take turns in the canteen for shelter.
It wasn’t ’til midnight the trucks finally arrived to pick us up.
We were not taken to the railway station in Calgary, but to a point about five miles west of the city—out of sight of everyone. There, in the darkness of night, we boarded a troop train—destination unknown.
It headed west.
We later discovered that in spite of all precautions, rumour of our departure had spread throughout the city—no doubt initiated by Red’s telephone calls. Parents and friends had gathered at the Canadian Pacific Railway station to see us off, only to be foiled, all in the name of security.
Our destination was Nanaimo on Vancouver Island. They sent us because of the presence of Japanese submarines off the coast of the island. There was talk of a lighthouse being fired upon.
Another little known story was the attempted sinking of a freighter near Sooke by a submarine. Because the freighter was loaded with plywood, it remained afloat and when the sub surfaced to finish the freighter off, the gun on the freighter sank the sub instead.
“O, so!”
At Nanaimo, our basic and advanced training continued. Up to now we had no armoured vehicles so were treated as infantry. It was here we exchanged the ancient, heavy, and defective Ross rifles, for equally ancient but more effective Lee Enfields of World War I vintage. The Enfields were safer and lighter to use.
We participated in many route marches and practised our orienteering skills with maps and compasses. On one occasion, we crossed a part of the island through dense forest using map and compass only. Our aim was a designated goal. I was proud that our troop was first to arrive.
One troop got completely lost and came out at an entirely different location. They were eventually found.
One event of personal importance happened to me while at Nanaimo. A joint Canadian, British, and American camp was set up to train paratroopers. I believe it was to be in Georgia. Those who trained would become the nucleus for creating an airborne formation. Every unit was asked to send a man. I was selected from our regiment. It can’t be said that I volunteered, but on the other hand I never said no. I had mixed feelings about it. There was both excitement and a wee bit of foreboding. I spent an entire ghastly night dreaming my parachute wouldn’t open. I kept falling, falling, falling—didn’t scream though!
I had all my gear ready and set to go, when Major MacDougall called me to the orderly room. “I have a request from another trooper who is eager to take this assignment” he said, “His qualifications are significantly more than yours, but since I offered this to you first, if you feel strongly about having it, it’s yours but if you don’t care one way or the other, I’ll let him have it.” My foreboding was stronger than my excitement.
“If he wants it that badly let him have it,” I said.
It turned out to be one of the best decisions I ever made. The poor chap was back in two weeks pretty well banged up, with a brace around his neck, broken ribs and some other serious problems. It happened on his very first jump. He was discharged and never made it back into the Army.
Another move was in store for us, on foot all the way—a three-day, forced march to Sooke over the Malahat—a test of our endurance carrying full gear and rifles. Only about a third of us made it all the way. Not withstanding blistered feet, I was mighty proud of that achievement.
From the dusty tent camps we had endured since May, we moved into an old broken down Relief Camp from the depression era. The buildings were made of logs with great gaps between the timbers. It was, in some ways, worse than being in tents. Indeed some of the buildings were so bad they could not be used at all; consequently many of us remained in tents well into November.
It was around this time that we endured one of those mammoth Pacific Ocean storms.
We were located high on a cliff overlooking the Strait of Juan de Fuca—only yards from the edge. We felt secure from any misbehaviour from the sea. Who could imagine waves reaching this high?
Our tents were the large marquee types that could hold twenty men in double-deck beds. Around midnight, the storm began. Above the howling wind, we heard the shouts and curses of men from the next tent. We jumped from our beds and ran to see what it was all about.
A rather hilarious sight greeted our eyes. An updraft of wind from the sea yanked the marquee tent next to ours from its moorings, hurtled it skyward like a giant parachute going the wrong way. It looked rather daft with its uprooted wooden pegs still dangling from the ropes.
Funniest of all was to see the double-deck beds sitting there on the bare ground, naked and exposed to the elements. Some men were up and running about. Others, lying in bed with wet blankets pulled over their heads, doing their best to believe it wasn’t happening. The space heater upset and scattered burning hot coals all over the place. Some of the clothing caught fire.
Above everything, over the cacophony of men cursing and the storm raging was the bellow of the sergeant major’s shouts—trying to restore order.
At that moment, a mighty Pacific wave smashed itself against the cliff and sent a spout of water high into the air and over the cliff. It came crashing down upon this already miserable collection of humanity soaking everyone to the hide. Nor did it show respect for the sergeant major, who stood sputtering like the partner in a comedy act who had just received a custard pie in the face.
That rude Pacific Ocean, thumbed its nose at good order and military discipline.
The tentless troop was allowed to sleep on the canteen floor. The rest of us spent the better part of the night pounding bigger stakes into the ground to secure our tent from a similar fate. We got little sleep.
The next day, the ocean was unbelievably calm. The freighter that had been shot by the Japanese submarine had broken up. The lumber and sheets of plywood, which had kept it afloat, now drifted to shore. The plywood sheets were eight by sixteen feet and one inch thick. The seawater warped many of them, but there were a surprising number still in good shape.
We pulled them up on the beach and set them on skids to dry. Some of our men went to work, using them to line the ceilings, walls, and floors of the log buildings. The outside didn’t look like much, but it was elegant and cosy inside.
Alas! Just as we got things comfortable, we had to move again.
At this stage in the war, newly formed regiments consisted of both volunteers and draftees. The draftees were called Zombies. Our regiment was about half and half. So, too, was a regiment from Windsor, Ontario.
At that time in the war, the Mackenzie-King government would not allow draftees to be sent overseas. Therefore, it was decided to send the Zombies from the Ontario regiment to our regiment, and all the volunteers from Alberta, to the Ontario regiment so that it might proceed overseas.
I was sorry to see this happen, for I believed that this Alberta regiment would have done itself proud in action. I remember it as a well disciplined unit, with excellent officers and NCOs.
30TH RECONNAISSANCE REGIMENT
(Essex Tank Regiment)
CHAPTER 2. TRAINING WITH 30TH RECCE
AT DUNDURN, CAMP BORDEN, ALDERSHOT AND OVERSEAS
We joined the Ontario regiment at Dundurn, Saskatchewan. During my career in the Army, I was in five different regiments: two from Alberta, two from Ontario, and one from Quebec. In my opinion, this regiment—The 30th Reconnaissance from Windsor, was the worst in which I had the misfortune to serve.
Our arrival in Dundurn was just before Christmas. We had been in the service long enough to have a furlough. Actually, we were a month overdue. A furlough was supposed to be of seven days’ duration. We were promised one before we left for Dundurn. The furlough would have been for Christmas week.
To our dismay, as we were detraining, loaded down with our gear at Dundurn, other uniformed men were climbing aboard the very same train to head east to Ontario. They were not in full gear, as were we, but in dress uniforms to go on leave. These were the volunteers from the Windsor regiment we were to join.
Though short of entitlement to a furlough, their commanding officer managed to pull strings. After all, had they not suffered the extreme hardship of being in the western boondocks? He, too, was going with them on his way home for Christmas and was not about to be put off by protests from any hick Alberta officers about fair play. With an impatient look and a wave of his hand, he simply ignored them and climbed aboard.
There was a lot of bitterness on our part when we were informed our promised furlough was cancelled. In place of a 7-day pass, half of us could have a 72-hour pass at Christmas. The other half could have a 72-hour pass at the New Year. We were told the demands of the military would not permit the unit strength to go below that level. It was a take-it-or-leave-it offer.
I chose the New Year option.
I carefully checked the train schedules to make sure I could go to Edmonton to see my girlfriend, then to Calgary to see my family, and still get back in time. Unfortunately, on the return, due to a severe winter blizzard, the train was one hour late arriving in Saskatoon. I missed the Army bus from the station.
I was not the only one. It was an ungodly hour of the morning, bitterly cold and blowing snow. We finally did manage to get a taxi, but were a few hours late. We were AWOL, arrested and brought to trial. No excuse was acceptable. The sentence was three days’ pay and thirty days confined to barracks. The officer, who was supposed to represent our defence, advised us it was best to plead guilty. He cautioned that appealing the sentence was useless and would only result in a greater penalty.
“Good grief! I’m a hardened criminal!”
When the Windsor furlough bunch returned from the Ontario furlough, training began again.
It was one of the coldest Januarys ever experienced and much of our time was spent outdoors. There were lots of frostbites. Many came down with the flu. Some went to a civilian hospital in Saskatoon. I rather envied them. For some reason, I had now built up such immunity I couldn’t catch a cold if I was inoculate with it.
After listening to those who returned from hospital, it sounded more like a holiday. They bragged of a wonderful time with all the pretty nurses, the good food and being treated like kings. I could have wept! “Please God let me catch the flu.”
On with the training! We had to earn our ‘standing orders’ (Army word for driving license) to drive both track and wheeled vehicles. We also had to pass a Saskatchewan government driver’s test.
We became experts at driving on ice. When learning to drive Bren gun carriers, recklessness was encouraged. We were sent onto an icy racing oval, and taught to put the carrier into a skid on the corners. Then, by giving it the gas at just the right moment we would come out of the skid and head off in the right direction. In other words, on ice, you steered with the gas pedal more than with the steering wheel. Many a time, due to the rigorous beating the carriers took the tracks came off. It was all part of the training to put them back on again.
When June arrived, we moved to Camp Borden. This was a stop-over before going overseas. It would have made sense to grant an embarkation leave to those of us from Alberta before leaving Dundurn. It was not to be.
Again, embarkation leave was designed to fit the needs of those from Windsor.
Taking travelling time into consideration, it would only give us, at best, two or three days at home, providing all went well. It just wasn’t worth it. They cheered us up with the words, “Who wants to go to that God forsaken part of the country when you can enjoy Christmas in Ontario?” They really thought they were doing us a favour.
One good thing came about at this time. We had in our regiment several with serious criminal backgrounds from the U.S.. Windsor was just across the river from Detroit. These ‘no-good-niks’ often boasted openly of their association with well known gangsters of that era such as Baby Face Nelson, Machine Gun Kelly, John Dillinger, and other assorted scumbags from across the border. Our western men were no angels, but, compared to these animals, our worst would be entitled to wear halos.
When it came time to face the prospect of crossing submarine infected waters these brave gangster types from Windsor decided embarkation leave was a good time to take a permanent AWOL.
Good riddance! (2)
From Camp Borden, we made a short stop at Aldershot, Nova Scotia. We were once more in tents, waiting our turn to embark for overseas.
In nearby barracks, French Canadian Zombies were billeted. I think, because of the contrast of their luxurious accommodation, the freedom and the better treatment they were receiving, feelings were running high. There were rumours that their barracks had been stormed by men from another volunteer regiment a few days before or arrival. During this attack it was said, Zombies had killed a man by slamming a window down on his neck.
Our guys were inflamed with ideas of revenge. The brass was determined not to let it happen. The result was the strictest discipline ever imposed. Security was so tight we were not allowed to cross from one tent line to another to chat with a friend. We could only parade from place to place in groups, accompanied by an NCO.
Henceforth, all our mail was severely censored. The procedure here was the worst I ever saw. We were to turn over our letters, unsealed, to our immediate troop officer who was to check them personally, seal them, and put them in the mail. It is one thing to have your letters read by an unknown checker in a remote censor’s office; it is quite another to have one’s letters read by someone you associate with every day.
This particular officer not only had the bad grace to read it aloud standing in front of me, but referred to personal things in it that were really none of his business. It had nothing to do with security. I was so incensed; I risked telling him as much.
When enough troops were assembled in the Halifax area to fill a ship, trains were arranged to speed us all to the docks.
We were astonished at the size of the vessel that was to take us across the Atlantic. It towered out of the water like a skyscraper. “I believe it’s the ‘Lizzy’ (the Queen Elizabeth)”, someone whispered in reverent awe. We were all deeply impressed.
It took three days to load her. Our regiment was first to go aboard. We boarded her in July 1943. Then, both day and night, a steady stream of men mounted the gangplanks. Not just men and military equipment—vast stores of food for England were loaded into the holds of the ship as well.
It took a great many tugboats to manoeuvre this behemoth out of the narrow confines of Halifax harbour and aim it towards the open sea.
The captain’s voice came over the PA system to inform us the ship’s motors would now be turned to full power. “Due to submarines in the area” he said, “there will be no turning back to rescue anyone who falls overboard.”
We were all completely taken by surprise at the immense burst of power the ship’s motors generated. It was like standing up on the back of a truck when it suddenly speeds up. Even with the warning we had been given, it was all I could do to keep my balance. The speed was such that the front of the boat lifted like a small racing boat does.
Our regiment was quartered in what was designed to be a theatre in peacetime. The bunks, or hammocks as they were called, were four tiers high. They were the standard width of Army cots and consisted of canvas stretched across steel frames. They were to hold not only men, but all their gear as well.
As was usual in barracks, the faster and more aggressive took the bottom bunks. This time it backfired. When seasickness overtook some of those residing in the upper bunks, the lower residents were on the receiving end. I was slow and courteous enough to have my bunk on the very top.
Sometimes I’m just plain lucky.
Compared to other units, we lived in relative luxury. The passenger cabins were even more crowded. Every inch of floor space, as well as bunks, were occupied. Worst off were the poor chaps who slept on the floor along the aisles on the many decks of the ship.
These luxurious lodgings were ours only because we were to take turns manning the anti-aircraft guns on the upper deck. We served shifts of two hours on and six hours off.
The ship’s armament was impressive. There were banks of rockets amidships whose aim was controlled by radar. Bofors, Oerlikons, and double 50 calibre electrically operated machine guns were alternately arranged around the perimeter of the ship. Besides that, there were large calibre naval guns, like you would find on a battleship mounted fore and aft. Had there been any threat to the ‘Queen’, I’m sure the firepower would have been truly devastating.
I have to admit that being on gun duty was not at all arduous. It was really the most pleasant part of the trip. The weather was good and except for a large swell the sea was calm. Our duty was to keep watch for any possible danger from air or from sea.
As it turned out, radar spotted the only aircraft that was seen on the entire trip, long before it was seen by the naked eye—it was one of our own flying patrol boats.
From the sea we encountered no subs.
One of the things that made the voyage interesting was being entertained by the antics of several schools of porpoises whose path we crossed from time to time.
When not on the upper deck on gun duty, things were extremely unpleasant. After the first day, all the toilets were running over. The supply of drinking water was strictly rationed. Water from the taps for washing and shaving was seawater. Many of us discovered for the first time how shaving cream turns into a sticky substance like chewing gum when combined with sea water. It remained on our faces the entire journey. Special salt-water soap was not all that great either. To solve this problem we learned to use our small mess tin for food, fill the large mess tin and our mug with tea, drink some of the tea and save the rest for ablutions.
Upon boarding the ship, we were each issued a numbered meal card, which allowed us two meals a day. I can still remember an American voice calling over the PA system, “Will all those holding the number one mess card report to the dining room on A deck for chow.” This went on about every hour; meals were served in shifts all day from early morning until sometime into the evening.