Almost one hundred thousand Canadians have died in this nations wars and peace keeping. Once a year, we remember them and their brother soldiers in ceremonies across this land.
At the national ceremony in Ottawa, among those laying a wreath is the Silver Cross Mother- a mother who lost her child to the violence of war. A few short years ago, we were running out of Silver Cross Mothers, and people involved with the ceremony began to seriously debate what should be done, should we run out. Afghanistan has solved that problem for the foreseeable future. In retrospect, it was naive to believe that war was gone forever from our history. War is eternal.
Remembrance Day is a day where we remember that liberty came with a price, and that price is blood. We sleep in peace because others lie awake, vigilant for our safety. Our freedom, our lives come at a price, and that price was and is their freedom, their lives.
Showing posts with label Remembrance Day. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Remembrance Day. Show all posts
11 November 2011
10 November 2011
Week of Remembrance: A lighter note
I post this video, which is completely different from everything else I have posted this week, for two reasons: First, it is funny. Second, for me, it obliquely answers an old question: What would have happened if the people of the time of The Second World War were like the people of today. Language alert.
The answer is zat ve vood be sprechen de Deutsche.
The answer is zat ve vood be sprechen de Deutsche.
9 November 2011
A Week of Remembrance: Sharpening the killer instinct
The parachute was invented prior to the First World War. The concept existed at least form the time of Da Vinci, yet pilots in the First World War were never given parachutes, until the Germans began to outfit their airmen with them late in the war. The logic behind not giving the pilots parachutes was simple and chilling: the British Generals felt that giving their pilots the ability to leap from their planes would encourage cowardice, as the pilots would simply leap at the first sign of trouble. They believed that by not allowing pilots to have parachutes, they were encouraging a killer instinct in their fliers, a 'do or die' mentality.
Other than parachutes, the pilots of the war were fairly well equipped and, compared to the men in the trenches, well off. They had clean beds with neat sheets. Good meals, served to them in a clean mess hall. Along with a fair amount of booze at the officers' club. With the exception of the time they spent flying, no one was shooting at them, and they could relax in relative peace. They also had the shortest life expectancy of any unit in the war: a mere two weeks on average. This average is boosted by the presence of fliers like Billy Bishop or Billy Barker, who served for years and flew hundreds of missions. Many pilots did not survive their first operation.
Their planes were glorified box kites, with engines that would be out powered by almost any half decent motorcycle engine today. The gas tank was typically under the pilots chair. There was nothing in the plane design to aid the pilot to survive. He either won, or he died. Imagine driving down the highway in a sports car, with the top down. Now imagine you are going at over a hundred miles and hour. And it is winter and well below freezing. And you have no windshield. That was the easiest part of the experience of a World War One pilot.
The efforts of harnessing and maintaining a killer instinct killed many pilots. It also lead to the death of men on the ground, who were sometimes shot by their fellow soldiers.
No one signing up for the First World War knew what they were getting into. Some men's nerves broke. They ran from battle, and when given a choice between returning to the front line or a firing squad, several chose the certain death of the squad over spending another second at the front.
Among the Canadians, many men felt that, as an army of volunteers, they should not be subject to the ultimate punishment. If a man found his nerves could not handle the prolonged stress of war, many of his comrades felt sympathy for him, as their own nerves were often stretched to the breaking point. A man who volunteered, and found he could not do the task required, should not be punished any further, thought many Canadians. The British believed executing cowards was essential to maintaining order and discipline. While they may sympathize with some cases, they felt letting one deserter go free would only encourage others to follow suit. In order to maintain the maximum amount of discipline, soldiers would be executed by their fellow soldiers, as a lesson to all soldiers.
Soldiers were chosen from the condemned man's battalion. Ten of them would be lead into a curtained off enclosure, while the rest of the battalion would be assembled outside. Deward Barnes wrote of one such execution.
Twenty three Canadians were executed for desertion or cowardice during the Great War, as an example to the other men. The Australians, on the other hand, refused to allow any of their men to be shot and killed by decree. The men at the time had little notion of what we today call Post Traumatic Stress disorder, and no treatment, only nine live rounds and a blank. The executioners got some rum.
Other than parachutes, the pilots of the war were fairly well equipped and, compared to the men in the trenches, well off. They had clean beds with neat sheets. Good meals, served to them in a clean mess hall. Along with a fair amount of booze at the officers' club. With the exception of the time they spent flying, no one was shooting at them, and they could relax in relative peace. They also had the shortest life expectancy of any unit in the war: a mere two weeks on average. This average is boosted by the presence of fliers like Billy Bishop or Billy Barker, who served for years and flew hundreds of missions. Many pilots did not survive their first operation.
Their planes were glorified box kites, with engines that would be out powered by almost any half decent motorcycle engine today. The gas tank was typically under the pilots chair. There was nothing in the plane design to aid the pilot to survive. He either won, or he died. Imagine driving down the highway in a sports car, with the top down. Now imagine you are going at over a hundred miles and hour. And it is winter and well below freezing. And you have no windshield. That was the easiest part of the experience of a World War One pilot.
The efforts of harnessing and maintaining a killer instinct killed many pilots. It also lead to the death of men on the ground, who were sometimes shot by their fellow soldiers.
No one signing up for the First World War knew what they were getting into. Some men's nerves broke. They ran from battle, and when given a choice between returning to the front line or a firing squad, several chose the certain death of the squad over spending another second at the front.
Among the Canadians, many men felt that, as an army of volunteers, they should not be subject to the ultimate punishment. If a man found his nerves could not handle the prolonged stress of war, many of his comrades felt sympathy for him, as their own nerves were often stretched to the breaking point. A man who volunteered, and found he could not do the task required, should not be punished any further, thought many Canadians. The British believed executing cowards was essential to maintaining order and discipline. While they may sympathize with some cases, they felt letting one deserter go free would only encourage others to follow suit. In order to maintain the maximum amount of discipline, soldiers would be executed by their fellow soldiers, as a lesson to all soldiers.
Soldiers were chosen from the condemned man's battalion. Ten of them would be lead into a curtained off enclosure, while the rest of the battalion would be assembled outside. Deward Barnes wrote of one such execution.
By this time the whole battalion was lined up outside so they could hear the shots and would learn a lesson about deserting. ... We got into position and were to fire straight, or we may have the same fate. The prisoner was taken out of a car (we saw him get out, with a black cap over his head and guarded) and placed on the other side of the curtain. After a while the provost marshall told us that the prisoner would not have anything to do with communion or the Church and all he asked is for us to shoot straight and make a good job of it. We took our positions, five kneeling and five standing behind; the sergeant on one side, and the Officer on the other to give orders. if we did not kill, the Officer would have to. As soon as the curtain dropped (the prisoner was tied in a chair five paces away from us, with a black cap over his head and a big round disc over his heart) we got the order to fire. One blank and nine live rounds. It went off as one. I did not have the blank. The prisoner did not feel it. His body moved when we fired, then the curtain went up. That was the easiest way for an execution I had heard of. The firing squad only saw him for a few minutes. We went back to the Battalion Orderly Room and got a big tumbler of rum each, and went to our billets, ate, and went to bed. We had the rest of the day off. It was a job I never wanted.
Twenty three Canadians were executed for desertion or cowardice during the Great War, as an example to the other men. The Australians, on the other hand, refused to allow any of their men to be shot and killed by decree. The men at the time had little notion of what we today call Post Traumatic Stress disorder, and no treatment, only nine live rounds and a blank. The executioners got some rum.
8 November 2011
Week of Remembrance: Memory.
The Great Wars of the twentieth century are passing from living memory. Should I live a normal span, I shall see the last of the soldiers of the Second World War pass, even as I saw the last of the First. For a long time, there was a sense of gratitude to those soldiers, for their courage, for their sacrifice. George Orwell, writing before the Second World War, said that pacifism was only possible because the pacifists were protected by walls, on which stood rough men, ready to do violence on behalf of the pacifists. Tom Brokaw famously wrote of the people who overthrew Hitler that they were the Greatest Generation. But these are not universal positions. New positions come, bolstered by no sense of history, unfettered by logic. Books have been written about the Baby Boomers, naming them the greater generation. There was also this piece (H/t John C Wright):
Consider well that last statement. Read it again, then again, then again. Consider well the context (the Second World War) and what is being said.
In Canada, during the Second World War we had what was called the Zombie crisis. The zombies were men who volunteered to serve in the army, but only for home defence, not for overseas duty, not, in short, to fight. Some may have been motivated by principle. Others signed up because it was a job with some pay. Others because wearing a uniform gave them stature, made them more attractive to the ladies. The men at the front loathed the zombies. Many mail calls brought dear John letters from home, many wives or girlfriends who could wait no longer, and gave in, often to one of the zombies. There were reports of men who, after receiving such letters, presented themselves to enemy fire, passively suicidal. This writer would have us believe the true heroes were the zombies, and not the men they left spinning in the wind.
The best way to defend freedom against a genocidal regime bent on world domination, was to stay home, sleep around, and enjoy freedom, and not to surrender that very freedom, even for little time, to oppose them. History is being rewritten as memory fades, and we are being told that cowardice is true courage, and the true heroes are those who betrayed and cheated those rough men who manned the walls behind which the cowards cringed.
Toward the end of World War II, Robert Heinlein wrote a letter to well-known SF fan Forrest Ackerman, whose brother had recently been killed in battle. In the letter Heinlein, who had served in the U.S. Navy, explicitly condemned the many SF fans who considered themselves superior to ordinary people yet hadn’t lifted a finger to help win the war. In Heinlein’s words, these fans were “neurotic, selfish, (and) childish” individuals who needed to tackle “the problems of the real world.”
However, if these fans had written their own letter to Ackerman I have no doubt they would have defended their lives and choices in equally blunt terms (after all, there are very few SF fans who aren’t opinionated about life and politics).
While Heinlein wrote from a military point of view about his desire for self-sacrifice and a sense of duty, these fans would probably have replied that they supported their country by making their own individual choices.
The best way to defend freedom, in this opposing view, was to embrace freedom by living your life the way you choose. (Emphasis mine)
Consider well that last statement. Read it again, then again, then again. Consider well the context (the Second World War) and what is being said.
In Canada, during the Second World War we had what was called the Zombie crisis. The zombies were men who volunteered to serve in the army, but only for home defence, not for overseas duty, not, in short, to fight. Some may have been motivated by principle. Others signed up because it was a job with some pay. Others because wearing a uniform gave them stature, made them more attractive to the ladies. The men at the front loathed the zombies. Many mail calls brought dear John letters from home, many wives or girlfriends who could wait no longer, and gave in, often to one of the zombies. There were reports of men who, after receiving such letters, presented themselves to enemy fire, passively suicidal. This writer would have us believe the true heroes were the zombies, and not the men they left spinning in the wind.
The best way to defend freedom against a genocidal regime bent on world domination, was to stay home, sleep around, and enjoy freedom, and not to surrender that very freedom, even for little time, to oppose them. History is being rewritten as memory fades, and we are being told that cowardice is true courage, and the true heroes are those who betrayed and cheated those rough men who manned the walls behind which the cowards cringed.
6 November 2011
A Week of Remembrance. A soldier's life
The men Canada sent overseas to fight in distant wars had extraordinary records, did incredible things, beat the odds and did the impossible, time after time after time. In the First World War, the Canadian Corps, alone of all units in the war, was undefeated. The First Canadian Army, fighting in the Second World War, had a string of hard fought battles clearing ports, and covering the northern flanks of the British and the Americans as they drove into Germany. Canadians held off disaster in Korea, and kept peace in far off unlikely places. Virtually all of these men, and now women too, were volunteers. They come from no one place, no special part of our society, but represent all of it. They were and are our brothers and fathers, our sons and friends, joined now by our mothers and daughters and sisters. They served us better than most living Canadians either know or deserve. For all their stunning achievements, and the glory they brought upon themselves and their country, they were ordinary people. Were it not for the wars and their deeds, we would not look at them twice, or recall their names. Their wars done, they returned home and tried to go back to their ordinary lives. Many never could.
it was the American Composer, Aaron Copland, who, inspired by the sight of ordinary Americans stepping forward to fight evil itself in the Second World War, who paid tribute to these troops in his music. Instead of writing a piece for princes and kings, politicians and rich men, he wrote this piece, The Fanfare for the Common Man, in honour of the ordinary men whom, when all was darkest, shone the brightest of all generations.
it was the American Composer, Aaron Copland, who, inspired by the sight of ordinary Americans stepping forward to fight evil itself in the Second World War, who paid tribute to these troops in his music. Instead of writing a piece for princes and kings, politicians and rich men, he wrote this piece, The Fanfare for the Common Man, in honour of the ordinary men whom, when all was darkest, shone the brightest of all generations.
5 November 2011
A Week of Remembrance: A soldier's life
On a day in 1916, my grandfather and a group of his friends walked into a recruitment office and signed up to go to war. He had a son, my uncle, his first child, just two weeks earlier. They all worked in a fireworks plant, which had converted to making munitions for the war. As skilled workers in a war industry, they would have been exempt from any draft. The only way they could have got into the war was by signing up, so sign up they did.
I don't know about the others, but Granddad could not have signed up before 1916, on account of his size. Prior to 1916, the minimum height to join the army was five foot three. In 1916, the requirement was loosened, and the minimum was lowered to five foot one. Granddad qualified. Barely.
1916 was the bloodiest year of the war. The war on the Western Front was dominated by two bloodbaths: Verdun, fought mostly by the French, which ultimately resulted in 1,100,100 casualties, and Somme, fought mainly by the British, which resulted in 1,000,000 casualties. At the end of the battles, the lines had hardly changed at all.
Canadian units suffered over 30,000 casualties a the Somme, one of whom was a great uncle, My Grandmother's brother. Its units were depleted, and they were desperate for new recruits. The relaxing of standards led to a surge in recruits. There were more recruits that year than any other of the war. After 1916, the number of men signing up tapered off. There was no one left.
He signed up to the 120th City of Hamilton battalion. This unit was purely a reserve unit. It was to be shipped over to Europe, and the men sent to other battalions to try and bring them up to strength. Here is a photo of some of the men from the 120th.
An interesting assortment of men. Some look far too young to have signed up. Some look like they were recently released from prison. They were all younger than me when they posed for this photo. They are all now dead.
The motives of my Grandfather and his friends for signing up are unknown. Other soldiers who wrote of their experience of the war indicate they thought they were signing up for duty, for revenge of a brother who had died, or they felt they were taking part in an adventure.
If they thought they were signing up for the sake of adventure, they were mistaken. The life of a soldier was one of long bouts of tedium, followed by short bursts of hair raising terror. Battle actually occupies a very small portion of the soldier's time. The soldier in the Great War was required to put in eight hours of labour every day, same as a regular job. The work was back breaking and tedious. Digging trenches, moving munitions, shovelling out horse stalls. Some units in the army were pure work units, and were never intended for battle. Then there were the endless parades. Pay parades, bath parades, food parades, mail parades and the insufferable orders of superior officers.
One soldier wrote of how a British officer commanding a base where the Canadians were stationed was appalled by the slipshod way the Canadians went about their bathing. He ordered the Canadians to organize and march properly to the baths, wearing their bathrobes, their towel folded and placed over their shoulder, carrying their shaving kit in one hand, and march in precision to the bath. The Canadians, however, had a different style of bath robes than the British. The Canadian robe ended at the waist. The soldiers, however, decided to teach the British officer a lesson by following his orders exactly. They put on their too short robes, threw their towels over their shoulder and carried their shaving case in the proper hand and marched in perfect precision, naked from the waist down, to the baths. Their path carried them past the hospital. The nurses came out, and whistled and cheered them on as they passed. The men neatly saluted and continued on. The British considered the Canadians to be the most unruly of all their troops.
Sometimes they had some leave time. Occasionally they went to the big cities. The men were young, they were on their own, often for the first time, and, for a soldier in the Great War, the Canadians were generally better paid than the troops of other countries. Not surprisingly, Canadians were soon suffering from a minor syphilis epidemic.
There was one activity that soldiers did more often than fight, or bother the British, or consort with the kind of woman their mother warned them against: Smoking. It was during the war that cigarettes became popular. They began to come ready rolled, they were free, and soon it was the soldiers greatest pastime. One soldier observed
Smoking could be bad for your health in a very direct and immediate way. A neighbour of my mother's was killed in the Second World War. it was only after the war ended, and the troops came home, that the family found out how and why. He had been on patrol one night when he stopped to light a cigarette. The flame of the match stood out on the dark night, a German sniper spotted it, and put a round through his head.
Smoking was also practical for the soldiers, as it was a way of detecting phosgene
It was a peculiar combination of smoke and gas that lead to one of the great symbols of the first world war. During the Second Battle of Ypres, where the Canadians held the line against the first gas attack in history, a young Canadian doctor treating the wounded at field hospital, took a break and stepped outside for a smoke. While smoking he looked out over the crosses in the cemetery near the hospital, and the flowers growing among them. The sight of them moved and inspired him somehow. The doctor, John McRae reached into his pocket, pulled out his notebook and pencil, and wrote down a few lines. They eventually became the most popular poem of the war, In Flanders Field.
I don't know about the others, but Granddad could not have signed up before 1916, on account of his size. Prior to 1916, the minimum height to join the army was five foot three. In 1916, the requirement was loosened, and the minimum was lowered to five foot one. Granddad qualified. Barely.
1916 was the bloodiest year of the war. The war on the Western Front was dominated by two bloodbaths: Verdun, fought mostly by the French, which ultimately resulted in 1,100,100 casualties, and Somme, fought mainly by the British, which resulted in 1,000,000 casualties. At the end of the battles, the lines had hardly changed at all.
Canadian units suffered over 30,000 casualties a the Somme, one of whom was a great uncle, My Grandmother's brother. Its units were depleted, and they were desperate for new recruits. The relaxing of standards led to a surge in recruits. There were more recruits that year than any other of the war. After 1916, the number of men signing up tapered off. There was no one left.
He signed up to the 120th City of Hamilton battalion. This unit was purely a reserve unit. It was to be shipped over to Europe, and the men sent to other battalions to try and bring them up to strength. Here is a photo of some of the men from the 120th.
An interesting assortment of men. Some look far too young to have signed up. Some look like they were recently released from prison. They were all younger than me when they posed for this photo. They are all now dead.
The motives of my Grandfather and his friends for signing up are unknown. Other soldiers who wrote of their experience of the war indicate they thought they were signing up for duty, for revenge of a brother who had died, or they felt they were taking part in an adventure.
If they thought they were signing up for the sake of adventure, they were mistaken. The life of a soldier was one of long bouts of tedium, followed by short bursts of hair raising terror. Battle actually occupies a very small portion of the soldier's time. The soldier in the Great War was required to put in eight hours of labour every day, same as a regular job. The work was back breaking and tedious. Digging trenches, moving munitions, shovelling out horse stalls. Some units in the army were pure work units, and were never intended for battle. Then there were the endless parades. Pay parades, bath parades, food parades, mail parades and the insufferable orders of superior officers.
One soldier wrote of how a British officer commanding a base where the Canadians were stationed was appalled by the slipshod way the Canadians went about their bathing. He ordered the Canadians to organize and march properly to the baths, wearing their bathrobes, their towel folded and placed over their shoulder, carrying their shaving kit in one hand, and march in precision to the bath. The Canadians, however, had a different style of bath robes than the British. The Canadian robe ended at the waist. The soldiers, however, decided to teach the British officer a lesson by following his orders exactly. They put on their too short robes, threw their towels over their shoulder and carried their shaving case in the proper hand and marched in perfect precision, naked from the waist down, to the baths. Their path carried them past the hospital. The nurses came out, and whistled and cheered them on as they passed. The men neatly saluted and continued on. The British considered the Canadians to be the most unruly of all their troops.
Sometimes they had some leave time. Occasionally they went to the big cities. The men were young, they were on their own, often for the first time, and, for a soldier in the Great War, the Canadians were generally better paid than the troops of other countries. Not surprisingly, Canadians were soon suffering from a minor syphilis epidemic.
There was one activity that soldiers did more often than fight, or bother the British, or consort with the kind of woman their mother warned them against: Smoking. It was during the war that cigarettes became popular. They began to come ready rolled, they were free, and soon it was the soldiers greatest pastime. One soldier observed
To him (the soldier) the cigarette is the panacea of all ills. I have seen men die with a cigarette between their lips- the last favour they had requested on earth. If the soldier was in pain, he smokes for comfort; when he receives good news, he smokes for joy; if the news is bad, he smokes for consolation; if he is well- he smokes; when he is ill, he smokes. But good news or bad, sick or well, he always smokes.
Smoking could be bad for your health in a very direct and immediate way. A neighbour of my mother's was killed in the Second World War. it was only after the war ended, and the troops came home, that the family found out how and why. He had been on patrol one night when he stopped to light a cigarette. The flame of the match stood out on the dark night, a German sniper spotted it, and put a round through his head.
Smoking was also practical for the soldiers, as it was a way of detecting phosgene
It was a peculiar combination of smoke and gas that lead to one of the great symbols of the first world war. During the Second Battle of Ypres, where the Canadians held the line against the first gas attack in history, a young Canadian doctor treating the wounded at field hospital, took a break and stepped outside for a smoke. While smoking he looked out over the crosses in the cemetery near the hospital, and the flowers growing among them. The sight of them moved and inspired him somehow. The doctor, John McRae reached into his pocket, pulled out his notebook and pencil, and wrote down a few lines. They eventually became the most popular poem of the war, In Flanders Field.
11 November 2010
Act of Remembrance
They shall grow not old
As we that are left grow old.
Age shall no weary them,
Nor the years condemn
At the going down of the sun,
And in the morning
We shall remember them.
***
Computer problems have kept me from doing my usual Remembrance Day posts. Instead, I will quickly repost an old one.
A Week of Remembrance: The Homecoming.
Ninety-one years ago today, on the evening of November 10-11, the Canadian Corps had reached the outskirts of Mons, and the men began to prepare for the end of the war on the morrow. To their shock and dismay, orders came down for the men to start marching. They were to capture Mons. Will Bird wrote of the reaction among the men that night in his book "Ghosts Have Warm Hands". The men were planning their lives after the war when and unexpected visitor showed up.
"Bird!" It was the voice of the company-sergeant-major, harsh as a whip saw. "Get your section ready at once. Battle order. leave your other stuff in your billet."
The Mills brothers sat up. Jones pushed the little girls from his lap. I managed to speak. "What's up?" I demanded.
"We're going to take Mons. No use to argue about it. Get our men ready."
"Just a minute." Tom Mills was on his feet. "The war's over tomorrow and everybody knows it. What kind of rot is this?"
"Watch what you say." The sergeant-major's face was set. He was not speaking in his normal voice at all. "Orders are orders. Get your gear on."
Every man argued bitterly and it was difficult to get them ready. We formed up with the platoon while the men swore over trivial matters, hitched around and changed positions. Two cursed steadily, and with frightful emphasis, the ones who had issued the orders.
Away on the left was the report of shell bursts, and we could see a few long range crumps leaving black smoke trails. Thirteen platoon came along and joined us. Five or six of their men were shouting at us to turn around and attack headquarters. The officers were worse enemies than any German. No one tried to quiet them, and presently we marched down a street along a road and into a field...
The decision to attack Mons remains controversial to this day. No one knows exactly why General Currie decided to make one final attack in the last hours of the war. Some say it was because Currie had been attacking all along, and he did not wish to give the Germans any breathing space in case the armistice did not go as planned. Some suggest it was because Mons was the first place the Germans and British had fought in 1914, and Currie felt capturing what the British had lost would be a symbol and inspiration future generations of Canadians. Others suggest he had been treated roughly by the British in the closing weeks of the war, and he decided to show them up by taking back what they had lost.
Currie's own statements indicated he did not expect and resistance from the Germans. He was not far off: resistance was quite light, but 30 Canadians still died in capturing Mons that last day. Every dead man was someone's friend, or rival, or brother.
It had become full day when Old Bill came around the corner with Jim Mills. he beckoned me to him. Jim was wild-eyed, white as if he had been ill. "He says he's going to shoot whoever arranged to have his brother killed for nothing. " whispered Bill. "He really means it. He's hoping Currie comes here today. If he doesn't, he's going to shoot the next higher up. He says his brother was murdered."
One of the 42nd officers was walking toward us and I went up to him. He was not the one I would have chosen, but something had to be done. I saluted him and told him about Jim. He was startled, for he had not known Jones and Tom Mills were dead. But he said there was no need to worry about Jim. Take him and get him drunk, so drunk he wouldn't know anything for twenty four hours. When he came out of it he would be all right. He told me to say my piece to Bill and come back to him. Bill agreed to get Jim plastered, and I gave him the money. Then the officer took me up to where the adjutant was standing. He said there was to be a parade shortly, but the two deaths must be reported...
The decision to take Mons is the only spot on Currie's otherwise sterling record as a general. It is also ironic when you consider that after the war Field Marshall Haig was celebrated as a conquering hero after having commanded the two greatest disasters in British military history, and who did not once successfully plan a battle during the war, that Currie's reputation was ruined for a battle he won with minimal casualties.
However, not all men remembered the end with bitterness.One soldier wrote of the experience later, in a letter to the editor that mentioned my Grandfather, a soldier in the Great War.
I Was There
By a Port Credit Veteran
In the murky darkness of a November morning 41 years ago I was in Mons. Not far ahead in the blackness were the retreating lines of the German army, splitting the night with its artillery as is put up a last desperate barrage against the advancing Canadians. Before dawn had broken I was given the singular privilege of passing the cease fire order to a Port Credit man, the late Roy Finch.
As a Sergeant in No. 3 platoon, 'A' Company, 19th Battalion Canadian Expeditionary Force, Roy Finch, D.C.M., M.M., had been left in charge of the platoon when his officer had been killed 10 minutes before the order was received. Another Port Credit man, the late Fred (my grandfather), was responsible for carrying the good news to many war weary Canadians. He was a runner with the same battalion.
This incident remains fresh in my mind as other memories remain fresh in the minds of all Canadian relating to both past wars. This is as it should be, and to observe these memories each November 11 is little return for the great sacrifice made by so many. We who were there can never forget, the the remembrance is a permanent inspiration to us, as it should be to all.
At 10:59, Canadian soldier Private Price was killed by a sniper as he took part in a patrol near Mons. He was the last Canadian soldier killed in the war, possibly the last soldier of any side to be killed in the war. At 11:00, the guns fell silent for the first time in four years. The war was over.
As that long ago November day wore on, the Canadians found themselves in the middle of celebrations, parades and parties. No man would present would ever forget that day and the cheering joy that rang in their ears. The war was over. They had won. For a time they were delirious with joy. But soon their thoughts turned to their distant homes. Much to their chagrin, the soldiers soon found out home would wait, as they were still in the army, and for a time they were to be part of the occupying force of Germany.
The Canadian Corps' record of achievement throughout the war was singular: no other unit could rival the Corps. The Germans apparently invented a new word to describe the Canadian troops: "stormtroopers." But their victories and their reputation came at a price Of the 440,000 men who served in the four divisions of the Corps, 67,000 died, or one in seven. In terms of Canada's total population of the time, nearly one percent of Canadians died on the battlefields of Europe. A further 173,00 were wounded, bringing the total casualty rate to one in two, or fifty percent. Recent studies have indicated that should a military unit suffer a casualty rate higher than twenty percent, the survivors suffer from irreparable psychological damage. By that standard we are left with the disturbing possibility that the next generation of Canadians were raised to a large extent by men who were not wholly sane. Worst of all, the peace treaty, when it finally came, was a disaster, though none knew it yet. The young men through their blood and sacrifice had bought a chance to make a new world. The old men took that chance and merely recreated the old one. In twenty years the sons of the veterans of the Great War would be back to fight a greater, bloodier war.
It was 1919 before the Canadians were back in England, awaiting their transport home. Some men couldn't wait for the return. Others began to dread it. The young men had grown up in war, had come to manhood in war. As men, war was all they knew. What were they to be in peace time? Other men began to sense something was different within themselves. They had changed.
Slowly the men began to trickle back to Canada to find a country which had made no preparations against their return. The men were expected to simply pick up their lives when they had left off. Some men found a way to do it. For others the change had been too great. Men of war, they could not cope with the peace. Men like Captain Agar Adamson of the Princess Patricias. Adamson was a very rare bird: he had served almost the entire war. Throughout the war he had written letters to his wife almost every day, telling her details about camp life, battles, and the deaths of friends. He signed all the letters "Ever thine, Agar." "Ever" turned out to be a year. Shortly after his return he found peace no longer suited him. He abandoned his family and travelled. He became a hard drinker, a gambler and an adventure seeker. He died as a result of a plane crash in 1929.
For a time my grandfather waited in England for his transportation home. He got some leave and travelled about a bit, even going to Ireland where he met his grandfather for the first and only time. He returned to camp and waited. On May 14th, 1919 he and the rest of his battalion boarded the ship SS Carolina and set sail for home.
Home was becoming real for the men now. Many of the men, mainly the newer recruits who had only arrived just before the very end, looked towards home with unbridled enthusiasm. The older men had mixed feelings. Will Bird wrote of his journey home:
In my fine sheets I could not sleep and began to forget where I was. I seemed to be in an atmosphere rancid with stale sweat and breathing, the hot grease of candles, the dampness of the underground. I saw cheeks resting on tunics, mud streaked, unshaven faces... men shivering on chicken wire bunks. Then, from overhead, the machine gun's note louder, higher, sharper as it swept bullets over the shell crater in which I hugged the earth... the rumble of guttural voices and heavy steps in an unseen trench just the other side of the black mass of tangled barb wire beside which I lay... the long drawn whine of a coming shell... its heart shaking explosion... the seconds of heavy silence after, then the first low wail of a man down with a blood spurting wound... It was too much. I got up and dressed, although it was only four o'clock in the morning.
It was cold but I wore my greatcoat, and to my amazement there were other dark figures near the rail. We stood, hunched together, gazing ahead into the darkness. Presently another figure joined us, then another. In an hour there were fourteen of us, and no one had spoken, although we were touching shoulders. The way we stood made me think of a simile. Ah-we were like prisoners. I had seen them standing together, staring over the wire into the field beyond, never speaking. And we were more or less prisoners of our thoughts. Those at home would never understand us, because something inexplicable would make us unable to put our feelings into words. We could only talk with one another.
All at once the watchers stirred,tensed, craned forward. It was the moment for which we had lived, which we had envisioned a thousand times, that held us so full of feeling it could not find utterance. Far ahead, faint but growing brighter, we had glimpsed the first lights of home!
But Halifax and the East Coast of Canada was not home to my Grandfather. Home for him lay two thousand miles to the west, with a woman he had not seen in three years, and a son who had been but two or three weeks old when he signed up. Many of the milestones marking a child's progress were long in the past. He had missed his son's first steps, his first tooth, his first words. The two would not recognize each other, and would meet as strangers.
If he looked into the future, he might have seen three more sons (my father being the first of those three, born in 1922) and one daughter who died in infancy. He would return to his job of making fireworks. The job was dangerous, and explosions were common. Every Saturday night would see him at the local legion hall with the other veterans. Will Bird was correct: they could only speak to each other, and sought the regular comfort and company of each other. My Grandfather never spoke of the war to his sons, not even my father, who followed Grandfather's journey across the ocean to serve in the Second World War, and was a vet like his father. My Granfather had even received a medal from the war for some act of bravery, but no one knows for certain what it was, or why.
Grandfather and his battalion disembarked at Halifax, boarded a train and began a long journey to Toronto, home drawing nearer. The men were excited to be returning, but they knew they were leaving something behind. Gone was the camaraderie of the trenches, the bleak humour, the brotherhood. Gone was a life lived only in the present, where the next moment may not exist and therefore was unimportant. For years or months they had lived only in the present moment, the future being an unreal possibility. Now a normal span of life stretched out before the men. Once again they would grunt and sweat under the weary burden of the future, a future that seemed more of a question mark now than ever before. They would find a way.
The train carrying the 19th and 20th battalions arrived in Toronto on May 24th, 1919 at the Toronto station of the CPR, now known as Summerhill station. The men were formed up in parade formation and they marched together for the last time. Crowds in the street cheered and threw confetti at the men as they marched to the old Varsity stadium, where there was to be a reception. Officials and politicians had gathered planned to give speeches to the men and their families before the men were dismissed.
But at the the sight of the long lost men the crowd could not contain itself. They burst past the barricades and rushed the men. The police tried briefly to retain order, and then gave up. The politicians threw their hands up in despair: they never would give their speeches. No one noticed. No one cared. Once again the men of the army found their ears filled with a roar and noise; once again they stood in the midst of chaos. But unlike the noise and confusion of the war which carried fear and death, this was the noise of Joy and Life. People wept and kissed as they met again after years apart. Some soldiers found time to say good-bye to old comrades as they went off with their families. The men forgot the past, forgot the future as they reunited again to the present, only the present. Here was another day no one would ever forget for as long as they lived. The men were home.
The men were home.
As we that are left grow old.
Age shall no weary them,
Nor the years condemn
At the going down of the sun,
And in the morning
We shall remember them.
***
Computer problems have kept me from doing my usual Remembrance Day posts. Instead, I will quickly repost an old one.
A Week of Remembrance: The Homecoming.
Ninety-one years ago today, on the evening of November 10-11, the Canadian Corps had reached the outskirts of Mons, and the men began to prepare for the end of the war on the morrow. To their shock and dismay, orders came down for the men to start marching. They were to capture Mons. Will Bird wrote of the reaction among the men that night in his book "Ghosts Have Warm Hands". The men were planning their lives after the war when and unexpected visitor showed up.
"Bird!" It was the voice of the company-sergeant-major, harsh as a whip saw. "Get your section ready at once. Battle order. leave your other stuff in your billet."
The Mills brothers sat up. Jones pushed the little girls from his lap. I managed to speak. "What's up?" I demanded.
"We're going to take Mons. No use to argue about it. Get our men ready."
"Just a minute." Tom Mills was on his feet. "The war's over tomorrow and everybody knows it. What kind of rot is this?"
"Watch what you say." The sergeant-major's face was set. He was not speaking in his normal voice at all. "Orders are orders. Get your gear on."
Every man argued bitterly and it was difficult to get them ready. We formed up with the platoon while the men swore over trivial matters, hitched around and changed positions. Two cursed steadily, and with frightful emphasis, the ones who had issued the orders.
Away on the left was the report of shell bursts, and we could see a few long range crumps leaving black smoke trails. Thirteen platoon came along and joined us. Five or six of their men were shouting at us to turn around and attack headquarters. The officers were worse enemies than any German. No one tried to quiet them, and presently we marched down a street along a road and into a field...
The decision to attack Mons remains controversial to this day. No one knows exactly why General Currie decided to make one final attack in the last hours of the war. Some say it was because Currie had been attacking all along, and he did not wish to give the Germans any breathing space in case the armistice did not go as planned. Some suggest it was because Mons was the first place the Germans and British had fought in 1914, and Currie felt capturing what the British had lost would be a symbol and inspiration future generations of Canadians. Others suggest he had been treated roughly by the British in the closing weeks of the war, and he decided to show them up by taking back what they had lost.
Currie's own statements indicated he did not expect and resistance from the Germans. He was not far off: resistance was quite light, but 30 Canadians still died in capturing Mons that last day. Every dead man was someone's friend, or rival, or brother.
It had become full day when Old Bill came around the corner with Jim Mills. he beckoned me to him. Jim was wild-eyed, white as if he had been ill. "He says he's going to shoot whoever arranged to have his brother killed for nothing. " whispered Bill. "He really means it. He's hoping Currie comes here today. If he doesn't, he's going to shoot the next higher up. He says his brother was murdered."
One of the 42nd officers was walking toward us and I went up to him. He was not the one I would have chosen, but something had to be done. I saluted him and told him about Jim. He was startled, for he had not known Jones and Tom Mills were dead. But he said there was no need to worry about Jim. Take him and get him drunk, so drunk he wouldn't know anything for twenty four hours. When he came out of it he would be all right. He told me to say my piece to Bill and come back to him. Bill agreed to get Jim plastered, and I gave him the money. Then the officer took me up to where the adjutant was standing. He said there was to be a parade shortly, but the two deaths must be reported...
The decision to take Mons is the only spot on Currie's otherwise sterling record as a general. It is also ironic when you consider that after the war Field Marshall Haig was celebrated as a conquering hero after having commanded the two greatest disasters in British military history, and who did not once successfully plan a battle during the war, that Currie's reputation was ruined for a battle he won with minimal casualties.
However, not all men remembered the end with bitterness.One soldier wrote of the experience later, in a letter to the editor that mentioned my Grandfather, a soldier in the Great War.
I Was There
By a Port Credit Veteran
In the murky darkness of a November morning 41 years ago I was in Mons. Not far ahead in the blackness were the retreating lines of the German army, splitting the night with its artillery as is put up a last desperate barrage against the advancing Canadians. Before dawn had broken I was given the singular privilege of passing the cease fire order to a Port Credit man, the late Roy Finch.
As a Sergeant in No. 3 platoon, 'A' Company, 19th Battalion Canadian Expeditionary Force, Roy Finch, D.C.M., M.M., had been left in charge of the platoon when his officer had been killed 10 minutes before the order was received. Another Port Credit man, the late Fred (my grandfather), was responsible for carrying the good news to many war weary Canadians. He was a runner with the same battalion.
This incident remains fresh in my mind as other memories remain fresh in the minds of all Canadian relating to both past wars. This is as it should be, and to observe these memories each November 11 is little return for the great sacrifice made by so many. We who were there can never forget, the the remembrance is a permanent inspiration to us, as it should be to all.
At 10:59, Canadian soldier Private Price was killed by a sniper as he took part in a patrol near Mons. He was the last Canadian soldier killed in the war, possibly the last soldier of any side to be killed in the war. At 11:00, the guns fell silent for the first time in four years. The war was over.
As that long ago November day wore on, the Canadians found themselves in the middle of celebrations, parades and parties. No man would present would ever forget that day and the cheering joy that rang in their ears. The war was over. They had won. For a time they were delirious with joy. But soon their thoughts turned to their distant homes. Much to their chagrin, the soldiers soon found out home would wait, as they were still in the army, and for a time they were to be part of the occupying force of Germany.
The Canadian Corps' record of achievement throughout the war was singular: no other unit could rival the Corps. The Germans apparently invented a new word to describe the Canadian troops: "stormtroopers." But their victories and their reputation came at a price Of the 440,000 men who served in the four divisions of the Corps, 67,000 died, or one in seven. In terms of Canada's total population of the time, nearly one percent of Canadians died on the battlefields of Europe. A further 173,00 were wounded, bringing the total casualty rate to one in two, or fifty percent. Recent studies have indicated that should a military unit suffer a casualty rate higher than twenty percent, the survivors suffer from irreparable psychological damage. By that standard we are left with the disturbing possibility that the next generation of Canadians were raised to a large extent by men who were not wholly sane. Worst of all, the peace treaty, when it finally came, was a disaster, though none knew it yet. The young men through their blood and sacrifice had bought a chance to make a new world. The old men took that chance and merely recreated the old one. In twenty years the sons of the veterans of the Great War would be back to fight a greater, bloodier war.
It was 1919 before the Canadians were back in England, awaiting their transport home. Some men couldn't wait for the return. Others began to dread it. The young men had grown up in war, had come to manhood in war. As men, war was all they knew. What were they to be in peace time? Other men began to sense something was different within themselves. They had changed.
Slowly the men began to trickle back to Canada to find a country which had made no preparations against their return. The men were expected to simply pick up their lives when they had left off. Some men found a way to do it. For others the change had been too great. Men of war, they could not cope with the peace. Men like Captain Agar Adamson of the Princess Patricias. Adamson was a very rare bird: he had served almost the entire war. Throughout the war he had written letters to his wife almost every day, telling her details about camp life, battles, and the deaths of friends. He signed all the letters "Ever thine, Agar." "Ever" turned out to be a year. Shortly after his return he found peace no longer suited him. He abandoned his family and travelled. He became a hard drinker, a gambler and an adventure seeker. He died as a result of a plane crash in 1929.
For a time my grandfather waited in England for his transportation home. He got some leave and travelled about a bit, even going to Ireland where he met his grandfather for the first and only time. He returned to camp and waited. On May 14th, 1919 he and the rest of his battalion boarded the ship SS Carolina and set sail for home.
Home was becoming real for the men now. Many of the men, mainly the newer recruits who had only arrived just before the very end, looked towards home with unbridled enthusiasm. The older men had mixed feelings. Will Bird wrote of his journey home:
In my fine sheets I could not sleep and began to forget where I was. I seemed to be in an atmosphere rancid with stale sweat and breathing, the hot grease of candles, the dampness of the underground. I saw cheeks resting on tunics, mud streaked, unshaven faces... men shivering on chicken wire bunks. Then, from overhead, the machine gun's note louder, higher, sharper as it swept bullets over the shell crater in which I hugged the earth... the rumble of guttural voices and heavy steps in an unseen trench just the other side of the black mass of tangled barb wire beside which I lay... the long drawn whine of a coming shell... its heart shaking explosion... the seconds of heavy silence after, then the first low wail of a man down with a blood spurting wound... It was too much. I got up and dressed, although it was only four o'clock in the morning.
It was cold but I wore my greatcoat, and to my amazement there were other dark figures near the rail. We stood, hunched together, gazing ahead into the darkness. Presently another figure joined us, then another. In an hour there were fourteen of us, and no one had spoken, although we were touching shoulders. The way we stood made me think of a simile. Ah-we were like prisoners. I had seen them standing together, staring over the wire into the field beyond, never speaking. And we were more or less prisoners of our thoughts. Those at home would never understand us, because something inexplicable would make us unable to put our feelings into words. We could only talk with one another.
All at once the watchers stirred,tensed, craned forward. It was the moment for which we had lived, which we had envisioned a thousand times, that held us so full of feeling it could not find utterance. Far ahead, faint but growing brighter, we had glimpsed the first lights of home!
But Halifax and the East Coast of Canada was not home to my Grandfather. Home for him lay two thousand miles to the west, with a woman he had not seen in three years, and a son who had been but two or three weeks old when he signed up. Many of the milestones marking a child's progress were long in the past. He had missed his son's first steps, his first tooth, his first words. The two would not recognize each other, and would meet as strangers.
If he looked into the future, he might have seen three more sons (my father being the first of those three, born in 1922) and one daughter who died in infancy. He would return to his job of making fireworks. The job was dangerous, and explosions were common. Every Saturday night would see him at the local legion hall with the other veterans. Will Bird was correct: they could only speak to each other, and sought the regular comfort and company of each other. My Grandfather never spoke of the war to his sons, not even my father, who followed Grandfather's journey across the ocean to serve in the Second World War, and was a vet like his father. My Granfather had even received a medal from the war for some act of bravery, but no one knows for certain what it was, or why.
Grandfather and his battalion disembarked at Halifax, boarded a train and began a long journey to Toronto, home drawing nearer. The men were excited to be returning, but they knew they were leaving something behind. Gone was the camaraderie of the trenches, the bleak humour, the brotherhood. Gone was a life lived only in the present, where the next moment may not exist and therefore was unimportant. For years or months they had lived only in the present moment, the future being an unreal possibility. Now a normal span of life stretched out before the men. Once again they would grunt and sweat under the weary burden of the future, a future that seemed more of a question mark now than ever before. They would find a way.
The train carrying the 19th and 20th battalions arrived in Toronto on May 24th, 1919 at the Toronto station of the CPR, now known as Summerhill station. The men were formed up in parade formation and they marched together for the last time. Crowds in the street cheered and threw confetti at the men as they marched to the old Varsity stadium, where there was to be a reception. Officials and politicians had gathered planned to give speeches to the men and their families before the men were dismissed.
But at the the sight of the long lost men the crowd could not contain itself. They burst past the barricades and rushed the men. The police tried briefly to retain order, and then gave up. The politicians threw their hands up in despair: they never would give their speeches. No one noticed. No one cared. Once again the men of the army found their ears filled with a roar and noise; once again they stood in the midst of chaos. But unlike the noise and confusion of the war which carried fear and death, this was the noise of Joy and Life. People wept and kissed as they met again after years apart. Some soldiers found time to say good-bye to old comrades as they went off with their families. The men forgot the past, forgot the future as they reunited again to the present, only the present. Here was another day no one would ever forget for as long as they lived. The men were home.
The men were home.
11 November 2009
Remembrance Day 2009
In Flanders Fields
by John McCrae, May 1915
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
A Week of Remembrance: The Homecoming.
Ninety-one years ago today, on the evening of November 10-11, the Canadian Corps had reached the outskirts of Mons, and the men began to prepare for the end of the war on the morrow. To their shock and dismay, orders came down for the men to start marching. They were to capture Mons. Will Bird wrote of the reaction among the men that night in his book "Ghosts Have Warm Hands". The men were planning their lives after the war when and unexpected visitor showed up.
"Bird!" It was the voice of the company-sergeant-major, harsh as a whip saw. "Get your section ready at once. Battle order. leave your other stuff in your billet."
The Mills brothers sat up. Jones pushed the little girls from his lap. I managed to speak. "What's up?" I demanded.
"We're going to take Mons. No use to argue about it. Get our men ready."
"Just a minute." Tom Mills was on his feet. "The war's over tomorrow and everybody knows it. What kind of rot is this?"
"Watch what you say." The sergeant-major's face was set. He was not speaking in his normal voice at all. "Orders are orders. Get your gear on."
Every man argued bitterly and it was difficult to get them ready. We formed up with the platoon while the men swore over trivial matters, hitched around and changed positions. Two cursed steadily, and with frightful emphasis, the ones who had issued the orders.
Away on the left was the report of shell bursts, and we could see a few long range crumps leaving black smoke trails. Thirteen platoon came along and joined us. Five or six of their men were shouting at us to turn around and attack headquarters. The officers were worse enemies than any German. No one tried to quiet them, and presently we marched down a street along a road and into a field...
The decision to attack Mons remains controversial to this day. No one knows exactly why General Currie decided to make one final attack in the last hours of the war. Some say it was because Currie had been attacking all along, and he did not wish to give the Germans any breathing space in case the armistice did not go as planned. Some suggest it was because Mons was the first place the Germans and British had fought in 1914, and Currie felt capturing what the British had lost would be a symbol and inspiration future generations of Canadians. Others suggest he had been treated roughly by the British in the closing weeks of the war, and he decided to show them up by taking back what they had lost.
Currie's own statements indicated he did not expect and resistance from the Germans. He was not far off: resistance was quite light, but 30 Canadians still died in capturing Mons that last day. Every dead man was someone's friend, or rival, or brother.
It had become full day when Old Bill came around the corner with Jim Mills. he beckoned me to him. Jim was wild-eyed, white as if he had been ill. "He says he's going to shoot whoever arranged to have his brother killed for nothing. " whispered Bill. "He really means it. He's hoping Currie comes here today. If he doesn't, he's going to shoot the next higher up. He says his brother was murdered."
One of the 42nd officers was walking toward us and I went up to him. He was not the one I would have chosen, but something had to be done. I saluted him and told him about Jim. He was startled, for he had not known Jones and Tom Mills were dead. But he said there was no need to worry about Jim. Take him and get him drunk, so drunk he wouldn't know anything for twenty four hours. When he came out of it he would be all right. He told me to say my piece to Bill and come back to him. Bill agreed to get Jim plastered, and I gave him the money. Then the officer took me up to where the adjutant was standing. He said there was to be a parade shortly, but the two deaths must be reported...
I Was There
By a Port Credit Veteran
In the murky darkness of a November morning 41 years ago I was in Mons. Not far ahead in the blackness were the retreating lines of the German army, splitting the night with its artillery as is put up a last desperate barrage against the advancing Canadians. Before dawn had broken I was given the singular privilege of passing the cease fire order to a Port Credit man, the late Roy Finch.
As a Sergeant in No. 3 platoon, 'A' Company, 19th Battalion Canadian Expeditionary Force, Roy Finch, D.C.M., M.M., had been left in charge of the platoon when his officer had been killed 10 minutes before the order was received. Another Port Credit man, the late Fred (my grandfather), was responsible for carrying the good news to many war weary Canadians. He was a runner with the same battalion.
This incident remains fresh in my mind as other memories remain fresh in the minds of all Canadian relating to both past wars. This is as it should be, and to observe these memories each November 11 is little return for the great sacrifice made by so many. We who were there can never forget, the the remembrance is a permanent inspiration to us, as it should be to all.
At 10:59, Canadian soldier Private Price was killed by a sniper as he took part in a patrol near Mons. He was the last Canadian soldier killed in the war, possibly the last soldier of any side to be killed in the war. At 11:00, the guns fell silent for the first time in four years. The war was over.
As that long ago November day wore on, the Canadians found themselves in the middle of celebrations, parades and parties. No man would present would ever forget that day and the cheering joy that rang in their ears. The war was over. They had won. For a time they were delirious with joy. But soon their thoughts turned to their distant homes. Much to their chagrin, the soldiers soon found out home would wait, as they were still in the army, and for a time they were to be part of the occupying force of Germany.
The Canadian Corps' record of achievement throughout the war was singular: no other unit could rival the Corps. The Germans apparently invented a new word to describe the Canadian troops: "stormtroopers." But their victories and their reputation came at a price Of the 440,000 men who served in the four divisions of the Corps, 67,000 died, or one in seven. In terms of Canada's total population of the time, nearly one percent of Canadians died on the battlefields of Europe. A further 173,00 were wounded, bringing the total casualty rate to one in two, or fifty percent. Recent studies have indicated that should a military unit suffer a casualty rate higher than twenty percent, the survivors suffer from irreparable psychological damage. By that standard we are left with the disturbing possibility that the next generation of Canadians were raised to a large extent by men who were not wholly sane. Worst of all, the peace treaty, when it finally came, was a disaster, though none knew it yet. The young men through their blood and sacrifice had bought a chance to make a new world. The old men took that chance and merely recreated the old one. In twenty years the sons of the veterans of the Great War would be back to fight a greater, bloodier war.
It was 1919 before the Canadians were back in England, awaiting their transport home. Some men couldn't wait for the return. Others began to dread it. The young men had grown up in war, had come to manhood in war. As men, war was all they knew. What were they to be in peace time? Other men began to sense something was different within themselves. They had changed.
Slowly the men began to trickle back to Canada to find a country which had made no preparations against their return. The men were expected to simply pick up their lives when they had left off. Some men found a way to do it. For others the change had been too great. Men of war, they could not cope with the peace. Men like Captain Agar Adamson of the Princess Patricias. Adamson was a very rare bird: he had served almost the entire war. Throughout the war he had written letters to his wife almost every day, telling her details about camp life, battles, and the deaths of friends. He signed all the letters "Ever thine, Agar." "Ever" turned out to be a year. Shortly after his return he found peace no longer suited him. He abandoned his family and travelled. He became a hard drinker, a gambler and an adventure seeker. He died as a result of a plane crash in 1929.
For a time my grandfather waited in England for his transportation home. He got some leave and travelled about a bit, even going to Ireland where he met his grandfather for the first and only time. He returned to camp and waited. On May 14th, 1919 he and the rest of his battalion boarded the ship SS Carolina and set sail for home.
Home was becoming real for the men now. Many of the men, mainly the newer recruits who had only arrived just before the very end, looked towards home with unbridled enthusiasm. The older men had mixed feelings. Will Bird wrote of his journey home:
In my fine sheets I could not sleep and began to forget where I was. I seemed to be in an atmosphere rancid with stale sweat and breathing, the hot grease of candles, the dampness of the underground. I saw cheeks resting on tunics, mud streaked, unshaven faces... men shivering on chicken wire bunks. Then, from overhead, the machine gun's note louder, higher, sharper as it swept bullets over the shell crater in which I hugged the earth... the rumble of guttural voices and heavy steps in an unseen trench just the other side of the black mass of tangled barb wire beside which I lay... the long drawn whine of a coming shell... its heart shaking explosion... the seconds of heavy silence after, then the first low wail of a man down with a blood spurting wound... It was too much. I got up and dressed, although it was only four o'clock in the morning.
It was cold but I wore my greatcoat, and to my amazement there were other dark figures near the rail. We stood, hunched together, gazing ahead into the darkness. Presently another figure joined us, then another. In an hour there were fourteen of us, and no one had spoken, although we were touching shoulders. The way we stood made me think of a simile. Ah-we were like prisoners. I had seen them standing together, staring over the wire into the field beyond, never speaking. And we were more or less prisoners of our thoughts. Those at home would never understand us, because something inexplicable would make us unable to put our feelings into words. We could only talk with one another.
All at once the watchers stirred,tensed, craned forward. It was the moment for which we had lived, which we had envisioned a thousand times, that held us so full of feeling it could not find utterance. Far ahead, faint but growing brighter, we had glimpsed the first lights of home!
But Halifax and the East Coast of Canada was not home to my Grandfather. Home for him lay two thousand miles to the west, with a woman he had not seen in three years, and a son who had been but two or three weeks old when he signed up. Many of the milestones marking a child's progress were long in the past. He had missed his son's first steps, his first tooth, his first words. The two would not recognize each other, and would meet as strangers.
If he looked into the future, he might have seen three more sons (my father being the first of those three, born in 1922) and one daughter who died in infancy. He would return to his job of making fireworks. The job was dangerous, and explosions were common. Every Saturday night would see him at the local legion hall with the other veterans. Will Bird was correct: they could only speak to each other, and sought the regular comfort and company of each other. My Grandfather never spoke of the war to his sons, not even my father, who followed Grandfather's journey across the ocean to serve in the Second World War, and was a vet like his father. My Granfather had even received a medal from the war for some act of bravery, but no one knows for certain what it was, or why.
Grandfather and his battalion disembarked at Halifax, boarded a train and began a long journey to Toronto, home drawing nearer. The men were excited to be returning, but they knew they were leaving something behind. Gone was the camaraderie of the trenches, the bleak humour, the brotherhood. Gone was a life lived only in the present, where the next moment may not exist and therefore was unimportant. For years or months they had lived only in the present moment, the future being an unreal possibility. Now a normal span of life stretched out before the men. Once again they would grunt and sweat under the weary burden of the future, a future that seemed more of a question mark now than ever before. They would find a way.
The train carrying the 19th and 20th battalions arrived in Toronto on May 24th, 1919 at the Toronto station of the CPR, now known as Summerhill station. The men were formed up in parade formation and they marched together for the last time. Crowds in the street cheered and threw confetti at the men as they marched to the old Varsity stadium, where there was to be a reception. Officials and politicians had gathered planned to give speeches to the men and their families before the men were dismissed.
But at the the sight of the long lost men the crowd could not contain itself. They burst past the barricades and rushed the men. The police tried briefly to retain order, and then gave up. The politicians threw their hands up in despair: they never would give their speeches. No one noticed. No one cared. Once again the men of the army found their ears filled with a roar and noise; once again they stood in the midst of chaos. But unlike the noise and confusion of the war which carried fear and death, this was the noise of Joy and Life. People wept and kissed as they met again after years apart. Some soldiers found time to say good-bye to old comrades as they went off with their families. The men forgot the past, forgot the future as they reunited again to the present, only the present. Here was another day no one would ever forget for as long as they lived. The men were home.
The men were home.
"Bird!" It was the voice of the company-sergeant-major, harsh as a whip saw. "Get your section ready at once. Battle order. leave your other stuff in your billet."
The Mills brothers sat up. Jones pushed the little girls from his lap. I managed to speak. "What's up?" I demanded.
"We're going to take Mons. No use to argue about it. Get our men ready."
"Just a minute." Tom Mills was on his feet. "The war's over tomorrow and everybody knows it. What kind of rot is this?"
"Watch what you say." The sergeant-major's face was set. He was not speaking in his normal voice at all. "Orders are orders. Get your gear on."
Every man argued bitterly and it was difficult to get them ready. We formed up with the platoon while the men swore over trivial matters, hitched around and changed positions. Two cursed steadily, and with frightful emphasis, the ones who had issued the orders.
Away on the left was the report of shell bursts, and we could see a few long range crumps leaving black smoke trails. Thirteen platoon came along and joined us. Five or six of their men were shouting at us to turn around and attack headquarters. The officers were worse enemies than any German. No one tried to quiet them, and presently we marched down a street along a road and into a field...
The decision to attack Mons remains controversial to this day. No one knows exactly why General Currie decided to make one final attack in the last hours of the war. Some say it was because Currie had been attacking all along, and he did not wish to give the Germans any breathing space in case the armistice did not go as planned. Some suggest it was because Mons was the first place the Germans and British had fought in 1914, and Currie felt capturing what the British had lost would be a symbol and inspiration future generations of Canadians. Others suggest he had been treated roughly by the British in the closing weeks of the war, and he decided to show them up by taking back what they had lost.
Currie's own statements indicated he did not expect and resistance from the Germans. He was not far off: resistance was quite light, but 30 Canadians still died in capturing Mons that last day. Every dead man was someone's friend, or rival, or brother.
It had become full day when Old Bill came around the corner with Jim Mills. he beckoned me to him. Jim was wild-eyed, white as if he had been ill. "He says he's going to shoot whoever arranged to have his brother killed for nothing. " whispered Bill. "He really means it. He's hoping Currie comes here today. If he doesn't, he's going to shoot the next higher up. He says his brother was murdered."
One of the 42nd officers was walking toward us and I went up to him. He was not the one I would have chosen, but something had to be done. I saluted him and told him about Jim. He was startled, for he had not known Jones and Tom Mills were dead. But he said there was no need to worry about Jim. Take him and get him drunk, so drunk he wouldn't know anything for twenty four hours. When he came out of it he would be all right. He told me to say my piece to Bill and come back to him. Bill agreed to get Jim plastered, and I gave him the money. Then the officer took me up to where the adjutant was standing. He said there was to be a parade shortly, but the two deaths must be reported...
The decision to take Mons is the only spot on Currie's otherwise sterling record as a general. It is also ironic when you consider that after the war Field Marshall Haig was celebrated as a conquering hero after having commanded the two greatest disasters in British military history, and who did not once successfully plan a battle during the war, that Currie's reputation was ruined for a battle he won with minimal casualties.
However, not all men remembered the end with bitterness.One soldier wrote of the experience later, in a letter to the editor that mentioned my Grandfather, a soldier in the Great War.
I Was There
By a Port Credit Veteran
In the murky darkness of a November morning 41 years ago I was in Mons. Not far ahead in the blackness were the retreating lines of the German army, splitting the night with its artillery as is put up a last desperate barrage against the advancing Canadians. Before dawn had broken I was given the singular privilege of passing the cease fire order to a Port Credit man, the late Roy Finch.
As a Sergeant in No. 3 platoon, 'A' Company, 19th Battalion Canadian Expeditionary Force, Roy Finch, D.C.M., M.M., had been left in charge of the platoon when his officer had been killed 10 minutes before the order was received. Another Port Credit man, the late Fred (my grandfather), was responsible for carrying the good news to many war weary Canadians. He was a runner with the same battalion.
This incident remains fresh in my mind as other memories remain fresh in the minds of all Canadian relating to both past wars. This is as it should be, and to observe these memories each November 11 is little return for the great sacrifice made by so many. We who were there can never forget, the the remembrance is a permanent inspiration to us, as it should be to all.
At 10:59, Canadian soldier Private Price was killed by a sniper as he took part in a patrol near Mons. He was the last Canadian soldier killed in the war, possibly the last soldier of any side to be killed in the war. At 11:00, the guns fell silent for the first time in four years. The war was over.
As that long ago November day wore on, the Canadians found themselves in the middle of celebrations, parades and parties. No man would present would ever forget that day and the cheering joy that rang in their ears. The war was over. They had won. For a time they were delirious with joy. But soon their thoughts turned to their distant homes. Much to their chagrin, the soldiers soon found out home would wait, as they were still in the army, and for a time they were to be part of the occupying force of Germany.
The Canadian Corps' record of achievement throughout the war was singular: no other unit could rival the Corps. The Germans apparently invented a new word to describe the Canadian troops: "stormtroopers." But their victories and their reputation came at a price Of the 440,000 men who served in the four divisions of the Corps, 67,000 died, or one in seven. In terms of Canada's total population of the time, nearly one percent of Canadians died on the battlefields of Europe. A further 173,00 were wounded, bringing the total casualty rate to one in two, or fifty percent. Recent studies have indicated that should a military unit suffer a casualty rate higher than twenty percent, the survivors suffer from irreparable psychological damage. By that standard we are left with the disturbing possibility that the next generation of Canadians were raised to a large extent by men who were not wholly sane. Worst of all, the peace treaty, when it finally came, was a disaster, though none knew it yet. The young men through their blood and sacrifice had bought a chance to make a new world. The old men took that chance and merely recreated the old one. In twenty years the sons of the veterans of the Great War would be back to fight a greater, bloodier war.
It was 1919 before the Canadians were back in England, awaiting their transport home. Some men couldn't wait for the return. Others began to dread it. The young men had grown up in war, had come to manhood in war. As men, war was all they knew. What were they to be in peace time? Other men began to sense something was different within themselves. They had changed.
Slowly the men began to trickle back to Canada to find a country which had made no preparations against their return. The men were expected to simply pick up their lives when they had left off. Some men found a way to do it. For others the change had been too great. Men of war, they could not cope with the peace. Men like Captain Agar Adamson of the Princess Patricias. Adamson was a very rare bird: he had served almost the entire war. Throughout the war he had written letters to his wife almost every day, telling her details about camp life, battles, and the deaths of friends. He signed all the letters "Ever thine, Agar." "Ever" turned out to be a year. Shortly after his return he found peace no longer suited him. He abandoned his family and travelled. He became a hard drinker, a gambler and an adventure seeker. He died as a result of a plane crash in 1929.
For a time my grandfather waited in England for his transportation home. He got some leave and travelled about a bit, even going to Ireland where he met his grandfather for the first and only time. He returned to camp and waited. On May 14th, 1919 he and the rest of his battalion boarded the ship SS Carolina and set sail for home.
Home was becoming real for the men now. Many of the men, mainly the newer recruits who had only arrived just before the very end, looked towards home with unbridled enthusiasm. The older men had mixed feelings. Will Bird wrote of his journey home:
In my fine sheets I could not sleep and began to forget where I was. I seemed to be in an atmosphere rancid with stale sweat and breathing, the hot grease of candles, the dampness of the underground. I saw cheeks resting on tunics, mud streaked, unshaven faces... men shivering on chicken wire bunks. Then, from overhead, the machine gun's note louder, higher, sharper as it swept bullets over the shell crater in which I hugged the earth... the rumble of guttural voices and heavy steps in an unseen trench just the other side of the black mass of tangled barb wire beside which I lay... the long drawn whine of a coming shell... its heart shaking explosion... the seconds of heavy silence after, then the first low wail of a man down with a blood spurting wound... It was too much. I got up and dressed, although it was only four o'clock in the morning.
It was cold but I wore my greatcoat, and to my amazement there were other dark figures near the rail. We stood, hunched together, gazing ahead into the darkness. Presently another figure joined us, then another. In an hour there were fourteen of us, and no one had spoken, although we were touching shoulders. The way we stood made me think of a simile. Ah-we were like prisoners. I had seen them standing together, staring over the wire into the field beyond, never speaking. And we were more or less prisoners of our thoughts. Those at home would never understand us, because something inexplicable would make us unable to put our feelings into words. We could only talk with one another.
All at once the watchers stirred,tensed, craned forward. It was the moment for which we had lived, which we had envisioned a thousand times, that held us so full of feeling it could not find utterance. Far ahead, faint but growing brighter, we had glimpsed the first lights of home!
But Halifax and the East Coast of Canada was not home to my Grandfather. Home for him lay two thousand miles to the west, with a woman he had not seen in three years, and a son who had been but two or three weeks old when he signed up. Many of the milestones marking a child's progress were long in the past. He had missed his son's first steps, his first tooth, his first words. The two would not recognize each other, and would meet as strangers.
If he looked into the future, he might have seen three more sons (my father being the first of those three, born in 1922) and one daughter who died in infancy. He would return to his job of making fireworks. The job was dangerous, and explosions were common. Every Saturday night would see him at the local legion hall with the other veterans. Will Bird was correct: they could only speak to each other, and sought the regular comfort and company of each other. My Grandfather never spoke of the war to his sons, not even my father, who followed Grandfather's journey across the ocean to serve in the Second World War, and was a vet like his father. My Granfather had even received a medal from the war for some act of bravery, but no one knows for certain what it was, or why.
Grandfather and his battalion disembarked at Halifax, boarded a train and began a long journey to Toronto, home drawing nearer. The men were excited to be returning, but they knew they were leaving something behind. Gone was the camaraderie of the trenches, the bleak humour, the brotherhood. Gone was a life lived only in the present, where the next moment may not exist and therefore was unimportant. For years or months they had lived only in the present moment, the future being an unreal possibility. Now a normal span of life stretched out before the men. Once again they would grunt and sweat under the weary burden of the future, a future that seemed more of a question mark now than ever before. They would find a way.
The train carrying the 19th and 20th battalions arrived in Toronto on May 24th, 1919 at the Toronto station of the CPR, now known as Summerhill station. The men were formed up in parade formation and they marched together for the last time. Crowds in the street cheered and threw confetti at the men as they marched to the old Varsity stadium, where there was to be a reception. Officials and politicians had gathered planned to give speeches to the men and their families before the men were dismissed.
But at the the sight of the long lost men the crowd could not contain itself. They burst past the barricades and rushed the men. The police tried briefly to retain order, and then gave up. The politicians threw their hands up in despair: they never would give their speeches. No one noticed. No one cared. Once again the men of the army found their ears filled with a roar and noise; once again they stood in the midst of chaos. But unlike the noise and confusion of the war which carried fear and death, this was the noise of Joy and Life. People wept and kissed as they met again after years apart. Some soldiers found time to say good-bye to old comrades as they went off with their families. The men forgot the past, forgot the future as they reunited again to the present, only the present. Here was another day no one would ever forget for as long as they lived. The men were home.
The men were home.
10 November 2009
A Week of Remembrance: "And the greatest of these..."
C.S. Lewis once wrote that courage is not merely a virtue, but rather it is every virtue at the testing point. All the men I have profiled in this little series have shown the courage to stand at the extreme testing point, and to make what difference they could. The last one, Andy Mynarski, stands out because, first of all, his actions really made no difference. He saved no one; he won no battle; he did not turn around any dire situation. Yet his actions move anyone who hears his story. I believe this is because of the second point: he displayed more than mere courage, but also the master virtue, which I can only refer to as love. Andy's story is really the story of two men.
Andy served as the gunner in the top turret of a Lancaster. Pat Brophy, his best friend, served as the gunner in the tail turret. The men served together on missions, drank together at the pub, and behaved like young men do, even having their own little in-jokes. Whenever they split up to return to their quarters, Brophy would call out to Mynarski and say "Good-night, Irish," to which Mynarski would respond with a salute and the words: "Good-night, sir."
On the night of June 12-13, 1944, Andy and Pat's bomber was taking part in a raid, when it was attacked by a German night fighter over Cambrai. Cannon shells raked the engines and fuselage, causing a hydraulic fire. The burning plane was a loss, and the pilot ordered the crew to bail out. Brophy went to exit his turret when he discovered the loss of hydraulics had jambed it closed. He was trapped.
Brophy stared through the back of his turret into the aircraft when he saw Mynarski leave the top turret and head for the rear escape hatch. Mynarski was about to jump when he spotted Brophy. Without hesitation Mynarski walked through the flames and began to try and free his friend.
He used a fire axe to try and pry then beat the doors open. When that failed he tossed the axe aside and began to try and pry the turret open with his bare hands. Meanwhile Brophy was shouting pointlessly at Mynarski to get out and save himself. Brophy watched in horror as Mynarski's clothes and parachute smoked and caught fire. Mynarski didn't seem to notice or care. The smell of burning flesh reached Brophy in the turret, sickening him. He redoubled his efforts to get Mynarski to leave and save himself.
How long Mynarski tried to save Brophy is unknown. Time seemed to stop before his desperate heroism. Finally the futility came to Mynarski. He left Brophy in the turret and made his way back through the fire to the hatch. Here he paused one last time, looked back to Brophy and saluted. Brophy could see his lips move as Mynarski said "Good-night, sir." Brophy responded: "Good-night, Irish." Mynarski leapt from the plane. His clothes and parachute burning he fell like a comet, landing hard. French peasants who saw his fall rushed him to a German military hospital, where he died of his burns not long after.
How then, is this story known? It is known, because miraculously Brophy survived.
After Mynarski bailed out, Brophy settled into his turret and waited for death. It was a long wait. Though the pilot and all the other crew had long since abandoned the plane, It didn't roll over and go nose down to the ground. Instead, the plane still flew level, taking only a gradual descent, as though some hand still guided the plane. After long minutes the plane skidded into the ground. The shock of the plane striking the ground did what Andy's efforts could not: it jerked the turret around, and threw Brophy free and clear. So gentle was the plane's landing that only two of its bombs exploded. Brophy landed somewhere soft and safe, relatively unharmed. The only thing he noticed was when he took off his helmet and all his hair came off with it.
The French found Brophy and hid him. Eventually Brophy made his way back to England, where he began to tell anyone and everyone the story of Andy Mynarski. He told his story to the officials his squadron and up the chain in Bomber Command. Because of his story, Andy Mynarski was awarded the Victoria Cross. His is one of the few Crosses handed out on the basis of the testimony of a single witness. But hidden behind Andy's courage is also the courage of Brophy, who was willing to forgo a chance of escape to get his friend off the aircraft and to safety. They were both brave, brave men.
Behind these two men I see other men standing. Anyone who knows the history of the bombing campaign of WWII knows it was costly. Many machines were shot down, many crews went down with their planes. On how many were there men who gave up their chance at life and safety to try and pull a trapped buddy out of the plane? They went down with their planes, their names and deeds known to God alone. Of them all, we know the story of just one: Andy Mynarski, and he stands for them all.
Andy served as the gunner in the top turret of a Lancaster. Pat Brophy, his best friend, served as the gunner in the tail turret. The men served together on missions, drank together at the pub, and behaved like young men do, even having their own little in-jokes. Whenever they split up to return to their quarters, Brophy would call out to Mynarski and say "Good-night, Irish," to which Mynarski would respond with a salute and the words: "Good-night, sir."
On the night of June 12-13, 1944, Andy and Pat's bomber was taking part in a raid, when it was attacked by a German night fighter over Cambrai. Cannon shells raked the engines and fuselage, causing a hydraulic fire. The burning plane was a loss, and the pilot ordered the crew to bail out. Brophy went to exit his turret when he discovered the loss of hydraulics had jambed it closed. He was trapped.
Brophy stared through the back of his turret into the aircraft when he saw Mynarski leave the top turret and head for the rear escape hatch. Mynarski was about to jump when he spotted Brophy. Without hesitation Mynarski walked through the flames and began to try and free his friend.
He used a fire axe to try and pry then beat the doors open. When that failed he tossed the axe aside and began to try and pry the turret open with his bare hands. Meanwhile Brophy was shouting pointlessly at Mynarski to get out and save himself. Brophy watched in horror as Mynarski's clothes and parachute smoked and caught fire. Mynarski didn't seem to notice or care. The smell of burning flesh reached Brophy in the turret, sickening him. He redoubled his efforts to get Mynarski to leave and save himself.
How long Mynarski tried to save Brophy is unknown. Time seemed to stop before his desperate heroism. Finally the futility came to Mynarski. He left Brophy in the turret and made his way back through the fire to the hatch. Here he paused one last time, looked back to Brophy and saluted. Brophy could see his lips move as Mynarski said "Good-night, sir." Brophy responded: "Good-night, Irish." Mynarski leapt from the plane. His clothes and parachute burning he fell like a comet, landing hard. French peasants who saw his fall rushed him to a German military hospital, where he died of his burns not long after.
How then, is this story known? It is known, because miraculously Brophy survived.
After Mynarski bailed out, Brophy settled into his turret and waited for death. It was a long wait. Though the pilot and all the other crew had long since abandoned the plane, It didn't roll over and go nose down to the ground. Instead, the plane still flew level, taking only a gradual descent, as though some hand still guided the plane. After long minutes the plane skidded into the ground. The shock of the plane striking the ground did what Andy's efforts could not: it jerked the turret around, and threw Brophy free and clear. So gentle was the plane's landing that only two of its bombs exploded. Brophy landed somewhere soft and safe, relatively unharmed. The only thing he noticed was when he took off his helmet and all his hair came off with it.
The French found Brophy and hid him. Eventually Brophy made his way back to England, where he began to tell anyone and everyone the story of Andy Mynarski. He told his story to the officials his squadron and up the chain in Bomber Command. Because of his story, Andy Mynarski was awarded the Victoria Cross. His is one of the few Crosses handed out on the basis of the testimony of a single witness. But hidden behind Andy's courage is also the courage of Brophy, who was willing to forgo a chance of escape to get his friend off the aircraft and to safety. They were both brave, brave men.
Behind these two men I see other men standing. Anyone who knows the history of the bombing campaign of WWII knows it was costly. Many machines were shot down, many crews went down with their planes. On how many were there men who gave up their chance at life and safety to try and pull a trapped buddy out of the plane? They went down with their planes, their names and deeds known to God alone. Of them all, we know the story of just one: Andy Mynarski, and he stands for them all.
9 November 2009
A Week of Remembrance: Courage to the End
Courage takes many forms in war. There is the courage of defense, the courage of attack, the kind of courage that saves situations and wins battles. There is the courage in risking one's life to save one's fellows, which is the greatest of all. There is also an kind of courage which may be called an existential courage, that of a man put into an impossible situation by indifferent or incompetent commanders, trying to meet his unjust doom with what dignity his grace affords him. Unfortunately, this kind of courage was and is all too common. In late 1941, this was the courage demanded of two battalions of Canadians sent to Hong Kong.
Originally, the planners and tacticians of war believed Hong Kong to be indefensible. If war with Japan commenced, they would maintain it as an outpost for as long as possible, but no plans were made for its defense. That policy was maintained until late 1941, when it was thought a small defense force would deter the Japanese from invading. Accordingly, Canada was asked to provide a battalion or two for the defense of the colony. The Royal Rifles of Canada and the Winnipeg Grenadiers were sent to Hong Kong on October 27. Neither had received front line training. As both were being sent for garrison duty, it was felt it wasn't important to train them for actual combat. The full depth of the error was realized just weeks later, when the Japanese launched near simultaneous attacks across the Pacific.
Despite the optimism, the defenders of Hong Kong, who numbered about 14,000 including the Canadians, had prepared several defensive lines for the coming attack. They unfortunately had almost no naval support and only five airplanes. The defenses were considered to be adequate unless the Japanese mounted a major attack.
On December 7, the post was put on high alert. On Dec 7th, the first Japanese air attack reached the island, attacking the airport and destroying all five aircraft. On the 9th Japanese ground forces began attacking the Hong Kong mainland positions. The defensive lines began to fall, and the over the next few days the defenders began a withdrawal to the island. On December 17th the Japanese demanded the outpost surrender. It was rejected. The Japanese began to soften up the island through artillery bombardment and air raids. On December 17th the demand for surrender was repeated. Again it was rejected, but defeat was only a matter of time. The US fleet lay in ruins in Pearl Harbour. British battleships Prince of Wales and Repulse were sunk off Malaya. The island was surrounded. There would be no supplies, no reinforcements, no relief. Outnumbered, out gunned, out prepared, the men prepared to go down fighting.
The invasion of the island began on the night of the 18th. experienced Japanese troops made progress up the island, the defenders holding on to every inch as best they could. Much of what was done over the next week was lost. Whole companies defending key points, or sent out to re-take critical objectives simply vanished from the earth, their deeds never known. Slowly and inexorably, the Japanese were taking over.
In the midst of all this, the actions of one man stand out, simply because his actions are remembered, and give us some small insight into the fighting at Hong King. Sgt John Robert Osborn and his company had been sent out on the morning of 19th December, 1941 to capture Mount Butler. At point of bayonet, his company succeeded in driving off the superior Japanese forces. They held the mount under heavy gunfire for the next three hours. The position became untenable, and the company began a withdrawal. Osborn and a small group covered the withdrawal. When it came to their turn to withdraw, Osborn singlehandedly engaged the enemy while his group pull back and rejoined the company. Finally he withdrew under heavy fire, gathered what stragglers he could, and rejoined the company position. He encouraged the man, and kept them fighting.
By afternoon the company was cut off from the battalion and completely surrounded. The men sought the protection of a slight depression in the ground. The Japanese came close enough to start lobbing grenades at the Canadians. Osborn started catching them and throwing them back. The company officer believed the position was impossible, and decided to surrender. He stepped forward from the depression, holding his white handkerchief aloft, and holding his pistol butt outward as a sign of surrender. The Japanese shot him dead. They threw more grenades. Osborn caught and threw more back, until he missed one. Shouting a warning to the men, Osborne threw himself on the grenade.
Minutes after Osborn's death the Japanese overran the company's position, and took the men prisoner. The defence of the island continued for another week. At 3:15, Christmas Day, the defenders surrendered, and the battle of Hong Kong was over. Before the survivors lay four hard, nightmarish years in Japanese Prison camps. Many of them would not survive.
After the war, when the POW's were released, the men of Hong Kong could finally tell their stories. People began to hear the story of John Robert Osborn. Reports were written, recommendations were made, and Osborn was awarded the Victoria Cross for his actions on the 19th December, 1941. It was the only VC awarded for the battle of Hong Kong.
In Hong Kong Park a bronze statue of a Canadian soldier stands as a memorial to the Battle of Hong Kong. He fiercely holds his rifle with bayonet afixed as he stands forever ready, forever defiant. It is John Osborn, the hero of Hong Kong.
Originally, the planners and tacticians of war believed Hong Kong to be indefensible. If war with Japan commenced, they would maintain it as an outpost for as long as possible, but no plans were made for its defense. That policy was maintained until late 1941, when it was thought a small defense force would deter the Japanese from invading. Accordingly, Canada was asked to provide a battalion or two for the defense of the colony. The Royal Rifles of Canada and the Winnipeg Grenadiers were sent to Hong Kong on October 27. Neither had received front line training. As both were being sent for garrison duty, it was felt it wasn't important to train them for actual combat. The full depth of the error was realized just weeks later, when the Japanese launched near simultaneous attacks across the Pacific.
Despite the optimism, the defenders of Hong Kong, who numbered about 14,000 including the Canadians, had prepared several defensive lines for the coming attack. They unfortunately had almost no naval support and only five airplanes. The defenses were considered to be adequate unless the Japanese mounted a major attack.
On December 7, the post was put on high alert. On Dec 7th, the first Japanese air attack reached the island, attacking the airport and destroying all five aircraft. On the 9th Japanese ground forces began attacking the Hong Kong mainland positions. The defensive lines began to fall, and the over the next few days the defenders began a withdrawal to the island. On December 17th the Japanese demanded the outpost surrender. It was rejected. The Japanese began to soften up the island through artillery bombardment and air raids. On December 17th the demand for surrender was repeated. Again it was rejected, but defeat was only a matter of time. The US fleet lay in ruins in Pearl Harbour. British battleships Prince of Wales and Repulse were sunk off Malaya. The island was surrounded. There would be no supplies, no reinforcements, no relief. Outnumbered, out gunned, out prepared, the men prepared to go down fighting.
The invasion of the island began on the night of the 18th. experienced Japanese troops made progress up the island, the defenders holding on to every inch as best they could. Much of what was done over the next week was lost. Whole companies defending key points, or sent out to re-take critical objectives simply vanished from the earth, their deeds never known. Slowly and inexorably, the Japanese were taking over.
In the midst of all this, the actions of one man stand out, simply because his actions are remembered, and give us some small insight into the fighting at Hong King. Sgt John Robert Osborn and his company had been sent out on the morning of 19th December, 1941 to capture Mount Butler. At point of bayonet, his company succeeded in driving off the superior Japanese forces. They held the mount under heavy gunfire for the next three hours. The position became untenable, and the company began a withdrawal. Osborn and a small group covered the withdrawal. When it came to their turn to withdraw, Osborn singlehandedly engaged the enemy while his group pull back and rejoined the company. Finally he withdrew under heavy fire, gathered what stragglers he could, and rejoined the company position. He encouraged the man, and kept them fighting.
By afternoon the company was cut off from the battalion and completely surrounded. The men sought the protection of a slight depression in the ground. The Japanese came close enough to start lobbing grenades at the Canadians. Osborn started catching them and throwing them back. The company officer believed the position was impossible, and decided to surrender. He stepped forward from the depression, holding his white handkerchief aloft, and holding his pistol butt outward as a sign of surrender. The Japanese shot him dead. They threw more grenades. Osborn caught and threw more back, until he missed one. Shouting a warning to the men, Osborne threw himself on the grenade.
Minutes after Osborn's death the Japanese overran the company's position, and took the men prisoner. The defence of the island continued for another week. At 3:15, Christmas Day, the defenders surrendered, and the battle of Hong Kong was over. Before the survivors lay four hard, nightmarish years in Japanese Prison camps. Many of them would not survive.
After the war, when the POW's were released, the men of Hong Kong could finally tell their stories. People began to hear the story of John Robert Osborn. Reports were written, recommendations were made, and Osborn was awarded the Victoria Cross for his actions on the 19th December, 1941. It was the only VC awarded for the battle of Hong Kong.
In Hong Kong Park a bronze statue of a Canadian soldier stands as a memorial to the Battle of Hong Kong. He fiercely holds his rifle with bayonet afixed as he stands forever ready, forever defiant. It is John Osborn, the hero of Hong Kong.
8 November 2009
A Week of Remembrance: A Good Man
No Canadian has been awarded a Victoria Cross since the end of the Second World War, even though Canadian troops have been almost constantly deployed to some of the worst places in the world since the end of that conflict. The man I wish to speak of today displayed some of the best virtues of our soldiers as he helped a people wage a battle against one of the worst enemies of all- despair. He received little official recognition from Canada, (although as you will see he did receive what simply had to be the field promotion to end all field promotions) and sadly his story was unknown until he was killed in Afghanistan in a friendly fire incident, and what he did was revealed in his eulogy.
In the eulogy, Major Shane Schreiber says "He didn’t think he had done anything that anyone else wouldn’t have done, and that many hadn’t already done (but then heroes seldom do think much of their efforts or achievements). What I find incredible is that Sergeant Léger was not all that much different from every other trooper in my Company." In this he is absolutely correct. To speak again of the Victoria Cross, I have read many interviews and statements from the men to whom the award was given, and all of them downplayed what they did, treated it as nothing special, merely doing what they were supposed to do. Often they stated that they could take the medal and hand it to a dozen others who would deserve it just as much. Humility, as well as courage, is an important part in the makeup of a hero. This is the recognition that there are things more important than ourselves, causes that may require us to sacrifice our personal wants and desires for something greater.
With that I come to Sgt Marc Leger, a good man who conquered despair without firing a single shot. Instead of rewriting his story, I will here reprint his eulogy in full from this site. I can make no improvements on this.
"I had the pleasure of having worked with Sergeant Léger for two years when I commanded A Company (Parachute). He was a soldier and leader of rare skill, drive, compassion and intellect. My most vivid memory of then Master Corporal Leger was during our tour together in Bosnia in 2000. By that time, most of the International Aid agencies had abandoned Bosnia for more exciting missions elsewhere, but the need was greater than ever because of the return of large numbers of displaced persons to their war-destroyed homes (and lives). Master Corporal Léger had been given a particularly difficult area of responsibility (AOR) in a placed called the Livno Valley. Here, Serbs who had been ethnically cleansed by their Croat neighbours were returning to shattered homes and destroyed lives. Despite the fact that it was beyond our mandate, Master Corporal Léger felt that he had to do something to help these people; to him, it made no sense that he was enforcing a peace that kept these people living like refugees in the own homes. He began by doing little things, like constantly harassing his Company Commander (me) for resources to help these people. He took leftover or thrown away building supplies, and distributed these on patrol. He snuck food from the Camp Kitchen, and spirited off the Camp Water truck when no one was looking. The more he found to help with, the more he needed, as those villagers he was helping told their friends to return home, that the Canadians would help them. Soon, a shattered village began to rebuild.
"The Livno Valley became Master Corporal Léger’s adopted home. He lived in the Camp with the rest of us, but his heart and mind was always with "his" people stuck in the bombed out houses among mines strewn fields. He could not accept that the Humanitarian Aid Agencies had simply left these people to fend for themselves. He began to badger the local UNHCR representative, and any aid agency that drove through the area was stopped by Master Corporal Léger and given a lecture on the conditions and the requirements for assistance. Finally, I explained to Master Corporal Léger that to get any resources from UNHCR or any other aid agency, he was going to have to get their attention, and the only way to get their attention was to get the locals to appoint a Mayor to plead their case directly. Seizing on the idea, Master Corporal Léger organized a "town hall" meeting with his people. He explained the realities and requirements, and explained the need to choose a leader, a spokesperson. Unanimously, they chose him. Amused, he explained that he could not act as their spokesperson; he was a Canadian soldier - not a Bosnian politician. He explained the foreign concept of an election, and they all agreed that this was an excellent way to choose a new Mayor. Again, Master Corporal Léger was the unanimous choice. Less amused and more concerned, Master Corporal Léger explained in detail that the Mayor had to be one of them. He was ineligible. Finally, after much good natured teasing and a quick lesson on the concept of democratic elections theory done through a bemused translator, the locals chose their Mayor. But they immediately became a constitutional monarchy when, again, by unanimous decision, they named Master Corporal Léger their King. "King Marco" was to become Master Corporal Léger’s lasting title, both in the Livno Valley, and within the Parachute Company.
"In his advocacy for the plight of the Livno Valley, King Marco became the irresistible force that eventually wore away the immovable rocks of misunderstanding and apathy. Eventually, he became a spokesperson for returnees throughout the Canadian AOR and his passion and commitment made an eloquent representative. I used to love to bring VIPs, like our British Divisional Commander, the American "Three Star" Commander of SFOR, or the Canadian Ambassador to Radonovici in the Livno Valley, for Master Corporal Léger to brief. His forthright manner and common sense solutions made converts of them all, and I watched with pride as he stick handled every question until even the most skeptical became his supporters. Eventually, with the support of the Battle Group Commanding Officer, Lieutenant Colonel Dave Barr, and the Canadian Ambassador, a deal was struck that gave Léger (and other equally deserving Master Corporals) the resources required to help Bosnians help themselves. Master Corporal Léger’s proudest day of the tour was when the first red tile roof went up in the Livno Valley, reversing a ten year cycle of destruction and despair. King Marco had brought hope back to the Livno Valley.
"I don’t know what the Livno Valley looks like today. King Marco’s empire may have returned to ruins, although I doubt that, as King Marco was as diligent in his succession as he was in his rule, something few rulers ever strive for or manage to achieve. I do know that for many, his compassion was truly and deeply heroic, and added to his already tall stature as a leader and soldier. For his work in the Livno Valley, Sergeant Léger was deservingly awarded a Deputy Chief of Defence Staff Commendation last year. He didn’t think he had done anything that anyone else wouldn’t have done, and that many hadn’t already done (but then heroes seldom do think much of their efforts or achievements). What I find incredible is that Sergeant Léger was not all that much different from every other trooper in my Company. What I find even more surprising is how an institution as publicly maligned and neglected as the Canadian Army can continue to consistently attract and retain guys like Marc Léger. As historian Jack Granatstein has said of another Canadian Army at another time, it is probably a better organization than the people of Canada know or deserve. Marc Léger and his fellow soldiers are, as the Prime Minister has already said, "the best face of Canada."
"He was a hero, and we should all take our lead from his spirit and his actions.
"The King is Dead. Long Live the King!"
In the eulogy, Major Shane Schreiber says "He didn’t think he had done anything that anyone else wouldn’t have done, and that many hadn’t already done (but then heroes seldom do think much of their efforts or achievements). What I find incredible is that Sergeant Léger was not all that much different from every other trooper in my Company." In this he is absolutely correct. To speak again of the Victoria Cross, I have read many interviews and statements from the men to whom the award was given, and all of them downplayed what they did, treated it as nothing special, merely doing what they were supposed to do. Often they stated that they could take the medal and hand it to a dozen others who would deserve it just as much. Humility, as well as courage, is an important part in the makeup of a hero. This is the recognition that there are things more important than ourselves, causes that may require us to sacrifice our personal wants and desires for something greater.
With that I come to Sgt Marc Leger, a good man who conquered despair without firing a single shot. Instead of rewriting his story, I will here reprint his eulogy in full from this site. I can make no improvements on this.
"I had the pleasure of having worked with Sergeant Léger for two years when I commanded A Company (Parachute). He was a soldier and leader of rare skill, drive, compassion and intellect. My most vivid memory of then Master Corporal Leger was during our tour together in Bosnia in 2000. By that time, most of the International Aid agencies had abandoned Bosnia for more exciting missions elsewhere, but the need was greater than ever because of the return of large numbers of displaced persons to their war-destroyed homes (and lives). Master Corporal Léger had been given a particularly difficult area of responsibility (AOR) in a placed called the Livno Valley. Here, Serbs who had been ethnically cleansed by their Croat neighbours were returning to shattered homes and destroyed lives. Despite the fact that it was beyond our mandate, Master Corporal Léger felt that he had to do something to help these people; to him, it made no sense that he was enforcing a peace that kept these people living like refugees in the own homes. He began by doing little things, like constantly harassing his Company Commander (me) for resources to help these people. He took leftover or thrown away building supplies, and distributed these on patrol. He snuck food from the Camp Kitchen, and spirited off the Camp Water truck when no one was looking. The more he found to help with, the more he needed, as those villagers he was helping told their friends to return home, that the Canadians would help them. Soon, a shattered village began to rebuild.
"The Livno Valley became Master Corporal Léger’s adopted home. He lived in the Camp with the rest of us, but his heart and mind was always with "his" people stuck in the bombed out houses among mines strewn fields. He could not accept that the Humanitarian Aid Agencies had simply left these people to fend for themselves. He began to badger the local UNHCR representative, and any aid agency that drove through the area was stopped by Master Corporal Léger and given a lecture on the conditions and the requirements for assistance. Finally, I explained to Master Corporal Léger that to get any resources from UNHCR or any other aid agency, he was going to have to get their attention, and the only way to get their attention was to get the locals to appoint a Mayor to plead their case directly. Seizing on the idea, Master Corporal Léger organized a "town hall" meeting with his people. He explained the realities and requirements, and explained the need to choose a leader, a spokesperson. Unanimously, they chose him. Amused, he explained that he could not act as their spokesperson; he was a Canadian soldier - not a Bosnian politician. He explained the foreign concept of an election, and they all agreed that this was an excellent way to choose a new Mayor. Again, Master Corporal Léger was the unanimous choice. Less amused and more concerned, Master Corporal Léger explained in detail that the Mayor had to be one of them. He was ineligible. Finally, after much good natured teasing and a quick lesson on the concept of democratic elections theory done through a bemused translator, the locals chose their Mayor. But they immediately became a constitutional monarchy when, again, by unanimous decision, they named Master Corporal Léger their King. "King Marco" was to become Master Corporal Léger’s lasting title, both in the Livno Valley, and within the Parachute Company.
"In his advocacy for the plight of the Livno Valley, King Marco became the irresistible force that eventually wore away the immovable rocks of misunderstanding and apathy. Eventually, he became a spokesperson for returnees throughout the Canadian AOR and his passion and commitment made an eloquent representative. I used to love to bring VIPs, like our British Divisional Commander, the American "Three Star" Commander of SFOR, or the Canadian Ambassador to Radonovici in the Livno Valley, for Master Corporal Léger to brief. His forthright manner and common sense solutions made converts of them all, and I watched with pride as he stick handled every question until even the most skeptical became his supporters. Eventually, with the support of the Battle Group Commanding Officer, Lieutenant Colonel Dave Barr, and the Canadian Ambassador, a deal was struck that gave Léger (and other equally deserving Master Corporals) the resources required to help Bosnians help themselves. Master Corporal Léger’s proudest day of the tour was when the first red tile roof went up in the Livno Valley, reversing a ten year cycle of destruction and despair. King Marco had brought hope back to the Livno Valley.
"I don’t know what the Livno Valley looks like today. King Marco’s empire may have returned to ruins, although I doubt that, as King Marco was as diligent in his succession as he was in his rule, something few rulers ever strive for or manage to achieve. I do know that for many, his compassion was truly and deeply heroic, and added to his already tall stature as a leader and soldier. For his work in the Livno Valley, Sergeant Léger was deservingly awarded a Deputy Chief of Defence Staff Commendation last year. He didn’t think he had done anything that anyone else wouldn’t have done, and that many hadn’t already done (but then heroes seldom do think much of their efforts or achievements). What I find incredible is that Sergeant Léger was not all that much different from every other trooper in my Company. What I find even more surprising is how an institution as publicly maligned and neglected as the Canadian Army can continue to consistently attract and retain guys like Marc Léger. As historian Jack Granatstein has said of another Canadian Army at another time, it is probably a better organization than the people of Canada know or deserve. Marc Léger and his fellow soldiers are, as the Prime Minister has already said, "the best face of Canada."
"He was a hero, and we should all take our lead from his spirit and his actions.
"The King is Dead. Long Live the King!"
7 November 2009
A Week of Remembrance: None Shall Pass
Today I will tell two stories. The first is the heroism of a lone soldier during the First World War, and the second is the tale of the courage of a battalion during the Korean War. Both are stories of how courage turned around hopeless situations, and how one, or a few, can overcome many.
"Here we fear nothing, except God."
Corporal Joseph Kaeble, aged 26, was born in Quebec and served with the legendary Vandoos. He had been a mechanic in civilian life, and for that reason was made into a machine gunner during the war. (At the time they tried to match trades with positions within the army. It was thought mechanics would be better able to clear a jam in a machine gun than other trades.) He had served since 1916, and often wrote home to family and friends. He wrote to one girl in particular, who may have been his sweetheart or even his fiance. He wrote of how he longed to come home and see his people again, but also accepted that he may never return. He once wrote: “I pray to God every day that I may see you again, but that does not prevent me from doing my duty at the front. We must fear only the Good Lord. Here we fear nothing, except God.”
His devotion to duty and his courage he displayed in full on the June 8, 1918. I will allow his citation from the London Gazette explain the events of that day:
For most conspicuous bravery and extraordinary devotion to duty when in charge of a Lewis gun section in the front line trenches, in which a strong enemy raid was attempted. During an intense bombardment Corporal Kaeble remained at the parapet with his Lewis gun shouldered ready for action, the field of fire being very short. As soon as the barrage lifted from the front line, about fifty of the enemy advanced towards his post. By this time the whole of his section except one had become casualties. Corporal Kaeble jumped over the parapet, and holding his Lewis gun at the hip, emptied one magazine after another into the advancing enemy, and although wounded several times by fragments of shells and bombs, he continued to fire and entirely blocked the enemy by his determined stand. Finally, firing all the time, he fell backwards into the trench mortally wounded. While lying on his back in the trench he fired his last cartridges over the parapet at the retreating Germans, and before losing consciousness shouted to the wounded about him: "Keep it up, boys; do not let them get through! We must stop them !" The complete repulse of the enemy attack at this point was due to the remarkable personal bravery and self-sacrifice of this gallant non-commissioned officer, who died of his wounds shortly afterwards.
Alone Kaeble had defeated fifty men and prevented his position from being overrun. Time and again, victory came down to the raw courage of just a few good men. Kaeble stands among the finest of the few.
The Spartans
The Korean War is rarely remembered today. It is the less interesting of the great trilogy of war that stained the history of the twentieth century. This is unfortunate and wrong. It, too, has a rightful claim to our memory. We should never remember our men who served there, and fought in places like Kapyong.
Kapyong is the name of a river and village that stands about 40 miles north of Seoul. In 1951 it was a place of a bitter lopsided battle between Chinese forces and the Princess Patricia Canadian Light Infantry.
The battle began on April 22. American forces were forced to withdraw from a position north of Kapyong, leaving South Korean forces in their place. The Canadians, along with an Australian Regiment and supported by New Zealand Artillery and an American tank company, were ordered to establish a defensive line. The Commander, Lt-Col Big Jim Stone, reconnoitred the positions, and placed his four rifle companies carefully on a hill known only as hill 677. The men dug in, but the soil was rocky, and their trenches and holes were often only two feet deep. They laid booby traps and trip wires. They waited for news from the front.
On April 23 the news from the front came in an unexpected form. The valley below the Canadian was suddenly filled with the roar of military vehicles and the shouts of people. The road below rapidly choked with Koreans and units from the South Korean Army. In their panic some of the Korean soldiers ran towards the Canadian positions, only to hit the trip wires and booby traps, getting themselves killed or wounded, and depriving the Canadians of one of their defenses. To the men of the United Nations forces, the truth was very clear: They were now the front lines.
By nightfall, the area was quiet under a moonlit sky. Then at midnight the sky lit up as illumination flares lit up the Australian positions across the valley. Soon the valley was echoing with the sound of mortar and machine gun fire. The battle was on.
Throughout the night the Australians battled the Chinese. They regrouped and tightened their perimeter. With the dawn the Chinese regrouped and hit the Australians again. Running low on ammunition after 16 hours of battle, the Australians were forced to withdraw. Now the only thing between the Chinese and the road to Seoul was the 700 men of the Princess Patricias dug in on Hill 677.
At 10 o'clock on the night of the 24 the Chinese began their attack on the Patricias. The Chinese forced one company to withdraw, but the company only withdrew long enough to regroup and counter attack with bayonets, and take their position back. Around 1 am on the morning of the twenty fifth another company was under attack from three sides. The fighting degenerated into hand to hand combat. The company commander was forced to call for the New Zealand artillery to fire on his position. The Patricias ducked behind their shallow holes while the artillery cleared the Chinese from their position. The battle continued, and again the commander summoned fire upon himself. The battle continues throughout the night, the Chinese threatening to overwhelm the Canadians through sheer numbers. The Canadians held on, their excellent positioning paying off hugely, as was their experience in battle: many of the men were veterans of the Second World War.
By dawn the Chinese had withdrawn from Hill 677. The Patricias were low on supplies, and the Chinese held the supply route. Lt-Col Stone called for an air supply drop, and the US air force obliged. Resupplied, the Patricias waited for the battle to resume.
It didn't. The Chinese who had entered the valley had been badly mauled by the Canadians and Australians. They withdrew from the valley. The supply lines were cleared and reopened. The road to Seoul was never threatened again.
The casualties for the Princess Patricias were amazingly light for such prolonged and vicious fighting: 10 dead and 23 wounded. The Chinese dead numbered at least a thousand. The exact number of Chinese who attacked Kapyong is difficult to ascertain. Some sources estimate the number at 6,000. Others place the number much higher, at 20,000. By the minimum estimate, the Princess Patricias were outnumbered by more than 6 to 1. Yet they held firm, and protected the road to Seoul. Had they not have been such skilled soldiers under excellent commanding officers, the history of the Korean War could very well be very, very different.
None of the Canadians were awarded the Victoria Cross for this actions. But the Patricias as a whole received a very special recognition: they, along with the Australians and the American Tank Company all received a United Stated Presidential Unit Citation. The citation reads in part: "...in recognition of outstanding heroism and exceptionally meritorious conduct in the performance of outstanding services..." The Princess Patricia Light Canadian Infantry remain the only Canadian unit to ever receive this honour. Rather than forgetting these good men and sweeping their story under a carpet, they should be celebrated and remembered along with our other good men as an important part of our rich history.
6 November 2009
A Week of Remembrance: The Gatekeeper
The above photograph was once described as the closest anyone has ever come to photographing a man winning the Victoria Cross. The man winning the medal is Major David Vivian Currie. He is standing on the left of the photo, holding a pistol. This is his story.
The D-day landings did not quite go as planned for the allies. They gained a foothold in France, but they failed to capture all the objectives of the first day. Ten days later they still hadn't captured all the objectives of the first day. Worse, the individual beachheads had not linked up, leaving a gap between the American and British lines.
The Germans sought to capitalize on the gap by driving two armies into it, and striking out one both sides, rolling up the beachheads like a pair of carpets. The allies saw this move by the Germans as an opportunity of their own, and they began to make a pincer movement that would encircle the Germans, and trap their armies.
The German pocket became a slaughter. Allied planes ruled the day and destroyed German tanks and trucks. The Germans were being attacked on both sides, and fought back desperately. The dead were too numerous to bury, and in the summer sun corpses bloated and stank. An RAF pilot who flew over the battlefield at an altitude of hundreds of feet threw up in his cockpit from the stench.
The Germans reversed and sought to retreat through a small gap in the allied pincers near the town of Falaise. A rush was on to close the gap and prevent more Germans from escaping. The fighting became even more bitter. The gap had to be closed fast, but closing a gap was always dangerous. As the two sides of the same force drew nearer the risk of friendly fire was very high. The British and American command decided to have the Canadians close the gap.
Plans were made and orders were issued. Major Currie, serving with the South Alberta Regiment, was given the task of capturing the main German escape route through the town of St Lambert-sur-Dives. On August 18, 1944, Currie set out into the maelstorm with a small force of tanks, anti-tank guns and infantry to close the door on one hundred and fifty thousand Germans and all their equipment.
They ran into trouble almost immediately. Fearsome German 88's quickly knocked out two of Currie's tanks near the village. When night fell, under heavy mortar fire, Currie entered the village on foot to reconnoitre the German defenses and free the survivors in the two disabled tanks. This action alone should have earned him a medal in recognition of his courage. But he was only getting started.
At dawn the next morning Currie personally lead an attack into the village, without the aid of any previous artillery bombardment. In the face of German tanks, infantry and artillery he successfully pushed his way into the town, and secured about half of it. The Germans began launching counter attacks against Currie in an effort to retake the town, and secure once more their escape route. Against all odds, Currie and his men held. Under his unflagging leadership they held.
The casualties in Currie's unit were heavy. Every officer in the unit was killed or wounded. Currie lead alone, and he lead from the front. For the next two days he slept for only one hour.
From his command tank he personally directed fire upon a German Tiger tank- the most feared armour in the German arsenal- and knocked it out. Later, while his tank was taking on long range targets he used a rifle from the turret to deal with snipers who had infiltrated to within fifty yards of his position. The men grew weary and in need of reinforcements. Currie again took charge: the only reinforcements to come to his position came when he personally went, found forty men, and lead them back. These men fled in the face of the next attack. Currie went and rounded them up again. Inspired by his leadership and calmness under fire, they remained with him for the rest of the battle. Once, when an allied artillery bombardment was falling short and landing within fifteen yards of his position, he ordered it to continue because of the devastating effect it was having on the enemy. Throughout the action he moved through his positions, helping the men and giving them words of encouragement.
At nightfall on the 20th the Germans mounted one last attack on Currie's positions. Currie and his men held, and drove the enemy back with losses of seven enemy tanks, twelve 88mm guns and forty vehicles. 300 Germans were killed, 500 were wounded and 2,100 captured. (it was around now that the top photograph was taken.) Currie ordered a counter attack and his men seized the remainder of the village, shutting the door once and for all on the German retreat.
Finally replacements arrived. When Currie saw that the transfer was complete and the situation was secure, the exhaustion of the last three days came over him, and he fell asleep on his feet.
Currie's and the rest of the Canadians' actions during the Falaise Gap exist under a cloud. even back during the war it was felt too much time passed before the gap was closed. Although 50,000 Germans were finally trapped in the pocket, over 100,000 men escaped, men who the allies would have to face again. Recent writers, using Montgomery's journals, point the blame at the Canadians whom Montgomery felt had poor soldiers and poor leadership. Those writers forget that Montgomery would only claim praise for himself. Anything that went right was due to his genius and leadership. Anything which went wrong was someone else's fault. Just one example from this fight. The Canadians did not have many tanks when engaging the German Panzer divisions. Montgomery had committed the British armour to defending his flanks and Canadians like Currie were left using the weapons at hand and improvising in order to achieve the impossible. They deserve our gratitude, not acrimony from dead glory-hounds and armchair quarter backs.
For his actions at St. Lambert-sur-Dives and in closing the Falaise Gap, for his incredible leadership under constant fire, pulling a victory virtually from thin air, Major David Vivian Currie was awarded the Victoria Cross. A more thoroughly earned Cross you will never see.
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