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.

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.

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

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.

And then there were none

John Babcock, the last surviving Canadian veteran of the First World War, died yesterday.  The War, as seen by the soldiers, has passed from living memory and now exists solely in history.

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.

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.

A Week of Remembrance: Introduction, and The Pine Street Gang

Note: I had originally intended to write a new series of posts leading up to Remembrance Day, but I ran out of time, and will instead reprint the posts from last year.

It is made of bronze and weighs less than an ounce. In some ways, it is impossible to put a price on it, though on the open market it is worth more than one hundred times its weight in gold. The reason for its existence is inscribed in two simple words on its face: "For Valour". It is the Victoria Cross, our highest award for bravery in the face of the enemy.




Canadians or men serving with the Canadian forces have been awarded the Cross 94 times, often posthumously.


I have read the stories of many of the winners of the Cross and I find that there tend to be three ways to win the medal. I call these ways the way of the soldier, the way of the officer, and the way of Charity. Those who win the medal the soldier's way are the grunts. Their stories are stories of incredible and often harebrained bravery under fire and in returning fire. It is as if these men woke up one morning, ate their Wheaties, and decided they were going to win the war all by themselves. The feats which earn them the award are often a rampage and a brave refusal to be daunted by the odds or danger.


The way of the officer belongs to the men who hold positions of leadership. The men who win this way all lead from the front, and through their courage, leadership and example under fire and their example, they all turned a dire situation around and brought victory measurably closer.


Though the winners of the first two ways deserve tremendous honour and respect, those who win through the way of charity is the greater way. These are the men who put their own lives in extreme hazard to save the life of another. Unlike the other two ways, it goes across the ranks. An private may do such deeds as easily as an officer. The men who win the award this way do not win battles or bring victory nearer, but they give us hope, and show us a brief glimpse of humanity amidst the hideous brutality that is war. This way hearkens back to the ancient Romans, who gave their greatest individual award- a laurel made from oak leaves, the tree sacred to Jupiter- not to the man who killed the most enemies, but to the man who saved the life of a Roman citizen. James Doolittle, the leader of the famous Doolittle raid on Japan, attempted to refuse the Congressional Medal of Honour he was to be awarded for that raid because he felt the Medal of Honour should be reserved for those who risk their lives to save others. He only accepted the award upon the order of General Marshall.


So, generally, those awarded the Cross fall into these three categories. To start off this little series, I will briefly tell the story of three men who exemplify the three ways. Their names are Corporal Leo Clarke, Lieutenant Robert Shankland, and Serjeant-Major Frederick William Hall.


Clarke was fighting in the Somme on September 9, 1916. As an acting corporal, his section was sent sent to clear out a German trench while the company sergeant constructed a fortified defense position. Clarke and his men reached the trench to find it heavily defended. The fighting descended into hand to hand chaos, as the men fought with guns, grenades and bayonets and bare hands. When it was over, Clarke was the only man of his section still standing. He was tending to the wounded when 20 Germans counterattacked. Clarke responded by attacking the 20 Germans with a pistol, then with a German rifle he picked from the ground, and when that ran out of bullets, he picked another, and continued fighting. A German officer charged him with bayonet and wounded Clarke in the knee before Clarke shot him. The Germans retreated but Clarke chased them, killing all but one, whom he took prisoner. Single handedly he had defeated twenty Germans. For this action, Clarke was awarded the Victoria Cross.


But he did not live long enough to receive it personally. A little over a month later a shell exploded near a trench in which he was crouching. The concussion caved the trench in and buried Clarke. His brother dug him out, but the weight of the trench collapsing on him crushed his spine. He died eight days later, on October 19, 1916. His grave is marked with the tombstone unique to those who won the Cross, with a large Cross carved into the surface. His family chose a quotation from Thessalonians to be written on the stone: And So Shall We Ever Be With The Lord.


Shankland began in the ranks, won the Distinguished Conduct Medal for his work leading stretcher bearers in 1916. He was promoted in field and earned a commission, and was thus a lieutenant at Passchendaele on October 26, 1917. He and his men were holding part of Bellevue Spur, a critical point from which to launch the attack on Passchendaele, and were under heavy German artillery fire. On his right a Canadian attack failed to reach its objective, and that battalion withdrew, leaving Shankland's right flank exposed. For four hours they withstood a terrifying artillery attack. And then, the eighth brigade on his left flank was forced to withdraw, leaving Shankland exposed on both flanks.

In danger of being cut off and destroyed, Shankland either had to find reinforcements or withdraw from a prized objective achieved at a terrible cost. Shankland turned command over to another officer and began winding his way through the shelling back to battalion headquarters. There he gave a detailed account of the situation and outlined a plan for the best method of counterattack. He returned through the shelling to his men and lead the counterattack with reinforcements from other battalions. The position was consolidated and secured and the situation was saved. For his leadership through this crisis, Shankland was awarded the Victoria Cross.

William Hall was with the Winnipeg rifles and a witnessed the new terror of gas attacks at the Second Battle of Ypres. It was here the First Canadian Division saved the situation by holding the line after French troops had fled from the gas. On the night of April 23 1915, the moans of the wounded reached the men in the trenches. Hall, looking for some of his men who had gone missing during the battle, travelled into No Man's Land under the cover of darkness, and twice returned with wounded men.

By nine o'clock on the morning of the 24th he was still missing some of his men. In broad daylight under heavy fire, he and two other men sought to reach the wounded men. Hall's two companions were themselves wounded but managed to reach the trench. Then a wounded man some fifteen yards from the trench cried out for help. Hall tried to reach the man, but gunfire forced him back. Again the man cried out, and Hall went forward a second time. Hall reached the man and was lifting the man up to carry him to safety when Hall took a bullet to the head. He fell to the ground, dead. The wounded man was also shot and killed. This piece of humanity which cost Hall his life also earned him the Victoria Cross. He has no known grave. His name is inscribed on the Menin Gate of Ypres, with thousands of other soldiers who died in the Ypres
Salient and have no known grave.

I have not chosen these three men at random. Though each excellently exemplifies the three ways to win the Cross, I have another reason for choosing these men. They were united in a strange and unique coincidence. Prior to the war, they all lived on the same street in Winnipeg. It is believed their street, named Pine Street, is the only street in the world to be home to three Victoria Cross Winners. The people of Winnipeg decided to honour these men and memorialize their home, to give their street a name more fitting for the heroes who called it home, and for that reason in 1925 they changed the name of Pine Street to Valour Road. Shankland, alone of the three, lived to see the honour.

End of an era

Harry Patch, last survivor of trench warfare on the Western Front, has died.

They were men, taken for all in all. We shall not look upon their like again.

History: Monuments of University Avenue, part three.

There are many monuments on the University Avenue strip that deserve mention, such as the fire fighter's memorial, and the police memorial. There's a statue outside Sick Kids hospital marking the birthplace of Mary Pickford. There are quite a few modern art masterpieces raised to something or other, giving mute testimony to the fact that astigmatism and blowtorches just don't mix.

But for now I wish to conclude with a simple monument which will lead us into the series I start tomorrow for the week leading up to Remembrance Day.



It's the World War One Cenotaph.






Sadly, there are no good photographs of this simple, dignified monument on the net. Unfortunately the monument faces north, which means any pictures taken when the light is best have the soldier in near silhouette against the afternoon sun.


The word "cenotaph" comes to us from the Greek, and can be translated roughly as "foreign tomb". This is the gravestone for men buried elsewhere.

Cenotaphs began appearing all around the country in the years following the First World War. They were all local efforts. There was no overarching federal programs of memory. The monuments therefore reflect the efforts and choices of the locals. They are diverse. I have seen many, but I have never seen two alike. The people who raised them would have known the people to whom the monuments were to be dedicated.

The inscription reads:

Erected by members of Toronto District Sons of England Benefit Society in memory of those who fell in the Great War.

Their names liveth forever more.

There is one odd thing about this monument: it was never modified. Every other cenotaph I have seen was re-inscribed after the Second World War to include the names of the dead from that war, and then later inscribed with those who fell at Korea. Some are having the names of the dead from Afghanistan and peace keeping missions added. But this one does not. It is solely a memorial to the First World War.

The design is simplicity. Of the three lions- emblematic of the British Empire- one rests, symbolizing the Empire at peace, but the other two are alert and watchful, peering at the horizon for future peril. The soldier on top encompasses both positions. He stands at ease, but outfitted for war and his weapons at hand. In that, this monument was prophetic for its time. War was to come again, and Canada was filled with sleepy lions in 1939.

The bronze soldier standing atop his pediment leads the way to the posts beginning tomorrow, as this man of bronze will lead to another group who may be called of men of bronze as I look at some of Canada's citizen soldiers who for their courage were awarded our highest honour for the week leading up to Remembrance Day.

History: Monuments of University Avenue, part one.

Because sometimes you have to remember the bad as well as the good...

Some weeks ago I took a few friends on a tour of some of Toronto's older churches. Whilst we were travelling around they asked me if I could tell them about some of the monuments that dot the middle of University Avenue. We planned a second trip, but never got around to it. So, in keeping with my intention of explaining a little bit of my city and nation's past I thought I would tell a little about the monuments here on the blog. I will say a little about the monuments themselves and a little of what I know of the history behind the monuments.

University Avenue, for those who have not seen it, is a wide road running north and south in the city. It ends rather grandly at Queen's Park, our provincial parliament. The center of the road is a large grassy and park-like median, and it is dotted with statues and memorials. Some of the monuments and memorials are relics of a time past, times rather unlike our own. From the very existence of these monuments we can see that these people believed that there were events and people of such significance their actions and lives deserved to be literally carved in stone or cast in bronze to last as a reminder for all ages. In short, they believed in heroes. Heroes like this criminal.

Meet Sir Adam Beck. His monument stands on the south side of the intersection of University and Queen. The inscription reads:

Erected by the Corporation of the City of Toronto and the Toronto Hydro Electric Commission in grateful commemoration of the public services of Sir Adam Beck, KT. LLD. MLA., whose labours have ensured that the citizens of his native province under co-operative municipal ownership shall enjoy the benefits of low cost electrical energy derived from water power resources to serve the industrial and domestic needs of the Province of Ontario. Nippigon, Trent, Eugenia, Severn, Muskoka, Rideau, Nipissing, Niagara, Queenston-Chippawa.

Sir Adam Beck is called the founder of the provincially owned and run power company. The monument is simplicity in itself. It features Beck himself standing over a water course down which would run the water that would turn the turbines that powered Ontario homes and businesses. In so doing the monument memorializes one of the greatest feats of legalized robbery in Ontario's history. In truth, Adam Beck did not found Ontario Hydro, he helped steal it.

From this man.

Now meet Sir Henry Pellatt, the real founder of Ontario Hydro.

If the people of Toronto have heard anything about Pellatt, it is generally about his home, Casa Loma, the castle on the hill. Sir Henry, I was told when I was young, Had once been the richest man in Canada but he blew all his vast fortune building the money pit to end all money pits and the largest private home built in in North America. The truth is a little more sordid. Casa Loma indeed played its part in ruining his fortunes, but there were other forces at work which served to ruin him.

Pellatt made his fortune as a financier. He had an uncanny knack for spotting a new trends into which he would invest heavily. He was known as "Pellatt the plunger" for his habit of heavily investing into his predictions. One day in the late 19th century Pellatt went to the World Fair looking for the Next Big Thing, looking for a new place to invest all the lovely money he made through investments in railways and land in the Canadian West, when he saw a display put on by Thomas Edison. Well, the light went on, so to speak, for Pellatt. This time he would plunge his money into electricity.

So he came back to Toronto and with the help of a few backers and partners set up the Toronto Electric Light Company. It was this company that first brought power to Toronto, and even started Toronto's streetcars running. The money was rolling in and things were going well, but the men soon realized they would need a larger source of electricity. Fortunately, there was a huge one not far from Toronto: Niagara Falls. The only problem was they needed to be granted a licence from the Provincial Government to set up a generating facility at the Falls, and to run the power from there to Toronto. But this problem was not much of a problem, for the Liberals were in power and Pellatt was a well known Liberal and generous donor to the party. The license was soon granted, and construction was underway shortly. All was well.

Until a year after the construction finished. It was time for an election, and the Conservatives claimed the licence should never have been granted to Pellatt and his friends. Even better, the Conservatives claimed that energy should be as free as the air, and promised to deliver free electricity to all of Ontario should they be elected. The people of Ontario thought that sounded just wonderful and elected the conservatives. Our friend, Sir Adam Beck, was put in charge of obtaining the power.

This was done by the stroke of a pen. The license was revoked, and all the holdings of the electric companies were confiscated. Pellatt and his backers got... nothing.

Before long, Pellatt's fortunes were beginning to sag. Before long he was getting desperate He looked again into his crystal ball for another big thing to plunge into and came up with... aeroplanes. He got a few of his old backers together and they built a factory and a pilot school. Then came an event that should have helped him recoup his fortunes: World War One.

It should have been simple, even rudimentary. It was war. Canada needed planes and pilots. Pellatt was making planes and training pilots. Simply write Pellatt a nice fat cheque and have him make planes and train pilots for Canada. What could be clearer?

Unfortunately for our friend, during World War One Canada was lead by a Conservative government, and their minister for war, the idiot Colonel Sam Hughes, was a profound believer of the patronage system, which in short meant he handed out government contracts to his friends, no matter how corrupt. And they were corrupt. How bad was it? Under Col. Sam, known as "Captain F*** Up" to the troops, winded half-dead horses were diverted from the glue factory and sent to the front. Canadian soldiers were issued uniforms made of tissue paper, boots made of cardboard, trucks that didn't drive, shovels that didn't dig and worst of all, guns that didn't shoot. And no, I did not make up any of that.

Still, he could let one competent man have a contract, let bygones be bygones, and allow a man they had nearly ruined recoup some of his losses, couldn't he? Unfortunately, no. Pellatt was still a Liberal, and had to be punished for not being a Conservative. And besides, the precedent had already been set. Why pay a man to work for you when you could simply confiscate his property? So, for the second time, Pellatt lost his company to the Conservatives. The aeroplane factory and pilot training school were appropriated for the war effort, and Pellatt was given nothing in return.

This time there was no bouncing back. He lost his home, declared bankruptcy. His house was taken over by the city and his property auctioned off. His summer home in King City became an Augustinian monastery, thus giving this whole affair a very tenuous Catholic connection and justifying its place on this blog. Before long his wife died and he was living in the house of his former chauffeur. Somehow he managed to show a brave face. He lived long enough to see his house was made a tourist attraction he was invited as a guest of honour. He signed the guestbook and declared himself content, knowing his house was in good hands and would be cared for.

He also lived long enough to see a monument raised to the man who robbed him.

Even so, thanks to Sir Adam Beck, we now have the power system we Ontarians know and love. His promise in that long ago election to provide all of Ontario with free electricity has born its fruit, and now no one in Ontario need ever pay for electricity.... as long as they're Amish. For the rest of us, if we want to use some of this stolen power, for which a decent man's fortunes were ruined, we need only follow a very simple procedure. We open our wallets and repeat the following words: "Help Yourself."

Thank you, Sir Adam Beck.

Our Most Decorated Soldier

Warning: War alert. Canadian History alert.



Today is the ninetieth anniversary of one of the most incredible acts in Canada’s history of war. The story involves a man almost completely forgotten today, in spite of several efforts to bring his name back into our memory. He is our most decorated soldier, William Barker.

Barker signed up early in the war as a machine gunner, but soon transferred to observation, and from there into flying fighters. He turned out to be a superb pilot, fearless and cunning. In an era when the average life span of a pilot was about two weeks, with only a few hours in the air, Barker amassed over nine hundred hours of combat missions.

For much of his career as a pilot, Barker was stationed in Italy. There he picked up a parcel of medals, was mentioned in dispatches and was even immortalized by Ernest Hemmingway in the story The Snows of Kilimanjaro for his raid on a German airfield on Christmas Day, 1917. His skill and ability to fight his way clear of tight spots was incredible.

His record was outstanding. According to Wikipedia “He is officially credited with one captured, two (and seven shared) balloons destroyed, 33 (and two shared) aircraft destroyed, and five aircraft "out of control;" the highest "destroyed" ratio for any RAF, RFC or RNAS pilot during the conflict.” He flew most of his missions with a Sopwith Camel, even after other improved aircraft entered the conflict. He felt his knowledge and comfort with his aircraft gave him an advantage greater than other improvements. As a result of this, his Sopwith Camel was the most successful combat aircraft in the history of the RAF. He had over 46 kills in it from September 1917-1918 over 404 operational hours. He only gave up the Camel when it was ordered dismantled. He tried to keep the clock from the aircraft as a souvenir, but was ordered to return it the next day.

His personality is difficult to pin down. His coolness under fire is undeniable, yet at times his behaviour appears almost childish. As he completed his Christmas raid in 1917 he dropped a cardboard note to the Germans inscribed with the words “Merry Christmas.” At another time, he dropped another note on a German Aerodrome offering a challenge to a top German pilot to meet Barker at some location where they could settle the question as to who was the better pilot mano e mano. The challenge went unanswered.

Barker’s greatest exploit, the one whose anniversary is today, was his last of the war. In 1918 Barker was ordered back to England to train new pilots- a task he despised, as he felt he was of more use as a combat pilot. To forestall being sent back, he quickly invented a story. He had served on the Italian Front, he explained. He knew little of the Combat techniques of the Western Front. He should at least get a taste of the tactics before he began training men to fight there. Somehow, HQ swallowed the story. He was given a Sopwith Snipe and a roving commission to serve on the Western Front for two weeks. He went into France and awaited his last chance to fight. It rained, and he was grounded for the entire two weeks.

The sun finally broke through the clouds on the day he was to return the Snipe to the depot. Reluctantly, he climbed into his aircraft and took off. As he flew away, several of the ground crew chased after him, waving their arms and shouting for his attention, trying to tell him he was flying in the wrong direction- towards the front, and not away from it. He soared out of sight and the crews and staff returned to their huts. An hour later, their phones were ringing with accounts of one of the most incredible dogfights in history.

Barker had decided to take one last shot at combat, and he flew his Snipe to the Western Front to try and find one last fight. As he flew along at about twenty one thousand feet, he spotted a German two-seater observation plane. He dropped on the plane from behind and shot it down in short order. As the plane went down, the crew bailed out using parachutes, a recent innovation. Barker watched in fascination as the two men drifted down towards earth. He had never seen them before. The British refused to issue parachutes to their men as they felt it would dull their pilots’ killer instincts, and they would bail out at the first opportunity rather than fight to the death. As Barker watched, he heard the sound of machine gun fire, and piercing pain as a bullet hit his thigh. He had let himself be distracted, and now he paid the price. As he looked around, the sky was full of German planes. He was in the middle of an entire German squadron.

It was desperate, but Barker was a master of desperate situations. He out circled the plane that had shot him, and with his deadly accuracy put a round through that plane's gas tank. The plane burst into flames and spun towards the distant ground. But the sky was still full of enemies. His plane was taking hits from all directions and he took a hit in his other thigh. He fought back, and sent another two fokkers down in spins, but by now the loss of blood was taking its toll and he passed out. His plane went into dive, and the rushing air help revive him. He pulled out of his dive, and found himself surrounded by another flight of Germans. He picked out one aircraft and charged it, guns blazing. The plane exploded, but now Barker was hit by another bullet, shattering his elbow. For a second time he fainted from the pain and loss of blood and his plane dove again. The rushing air revived him a second time. He found himself in firing position for another German plane, and he shot it down in flames.He bolted for allied lines, but the Germans intercepted him. He had to fight his way out one more time. He charged and broke up the German formation and took more hits. His gas tank- which was directly under his seat- was shot away but miraculously did not catch fire. With failing strength he switched over to the reserve tank and continued, flying at top speed as he descended to the ground. At last he crossed over to friendly lines. Cover fire from the ground chased off the last of his pursuers. He brought his plane down as best he could. His landing was little more than a barely controlled crash. Though badly wounded, he survived.

His plane was soon surrounded by lustily cheering soldiers who had witnessed the fight from the ground. From their position it was clear that this one pilot had defeated an entire German Squadron. What is more, by some coincidence the fight had taken place over the Canadian Corps. When the Canadians on the ground saw that it was a fellow countryman who had done this incredible deed, their cheers became only louder.

The fight was one of the most unique in aerial combat history. The estimates of the number of planes Barker fought range from fifteen to sixty. He had engaged elements of an entire German Squadron as he dropped in height through the German’s upper, lower and middle flights. The estimate of sixty is quite possible.

Barker was in a coma for weeks, clinging doggedly to life. When he awoke, the war was over. For his exploit, the High Command had two options: court-martial, or pin a medal on his chest. They chose the latter, and for this incredible combat Barker was awarded the British Empire’s highest military honour: the Victoria Cross.

After the war Barker lived an uneasy life, as did many veterans. He drifted in and out of the military. For a time he trained pilots, though he loathed that job. He used his status as the most decorated pilot of the war to lobby the British military to start issuing parachutes to their pilots. He and Canada’s most famous pilot, Billy Bishop, started a business of flying people from Toronto to Muskoka. The venture failed badly. Barker married a wealthy woman from Toronto and had a daughter, but seemed to find no peace.

In January 1930 Barker was a test pilot, taking a new aircraft up for a spin before the craft was tested in the presence of military brass. As he flew around, he took the plane into climb. The airplane stalled and crashed to the ground. Barker was dead.

His funeral was the largest in Toronto’s history. Over 50,000 people lined the route. An honour guard of 2,000 soldiers and veterans accompanied his body on the way to his tomb- a tomb which does not bear his name. He is buried in his wife’s family mausoleum. Today he is barely a memory.

Interestingly, his Snipe survives and is at the Canadian War Museum. It is the only surviving aircraft in which a VC was won. Last time I heard a report, however, it was not put on display as the museum did not have the money to prepare it for display.

An effort to help revive the memory of Barker resulted in the excellent book: Barker VC: William Barker, Canada’s Most Decorated War Hero, by Wayne Ralph. It is an excellent book, and a fitting tribute to a man whose name deserves to be remembered.

...And Now I'm Cold Again.

I posted a week or so back that I was growing to like the idea of the movie Passchendaele. I had seen a documentary on the making of the movie, and in it the star/writer/director was making some good noise about what he hoped to achieve. I was looking forward to see it, and now I have.

It was a disappointment, to put it mildly. The movie should have been called "Calgary", because the majority of the flick takes place there. I had said before I was afraid the love story element of the movie would weaken the focus of the movie, which should have been the battle. As it turns out, the love story didn't weaken the movie, it eviscerated it. The titular battle of the movie is reduced to a skirmish at the end. The whole story is about a fictional Canadian soldier and his fictional love, of two scarred and broken people finding each other against all odds. Of how they loved as no one has loved before or since and how they impossibly get together and etc etc etc.

What should have been the climax of the movie was the capture of the desolate moonscape that was all that was left of the village of Passchendaele, with soldier perhaps reflecting bitterly that it was not worth the price. The movie should have had its villain in General Douglas Haig, Commander of the Forces of the British Empire and all round incompetant. It was he who decided to continue the battle long after there was no point because he knew he would be sacked if he could not claim to have captured at least one objective. It was for this that the Canadians were sent in to capture the village, despite the Canadian general's warning that it would cost 16,000 casualties and it was not worth one drop of blood. The story should have included the eyewitness accounts of the battle, encompassed the experience of many units, told the story of the Canadian Corps and the horror and the futility our men had to bear time and again throughout the war focused on this one nightmare of mud. That movie would have been a horror, but it could have awakened in people a sense of the horror our men faced time and again.

Instead we have a love story, and Passchendaele is in the background. Instead of learning about the real sacrifices of our men, we learn of the non existent sacrifices of a fiction. The director even twice denies a historical event that has been documented in favour of his own fiction.

Our people deserve better. Our men deserved better. Gross, the director, said he was bringing history to the screen. He didn't.

I am disappointed.

I think I'm warming to the movie...

...in spite of what I wrote about the movie Passchendaele a while back. And also in spite of a review of the film which says the movie has exactly the weakness I thought it might: namely, that the love story detracts from the war story.





A while back, a cousin of mine and I were discussing what Canadian battle would make a great movie, and we tossed around a few, among them Passchendaele. We hashed out a theoretical movie treatment, which was similar to movies like "The Longest Day" or "A Bridge too Far." Essentially, we would take a few eyewitness accounts and try and give an overview of the battle as a whole. There are several Canadians who wrote of their experiences at the battle, William Bird, Agar Adamson, Canon Scott to name three just off the top of my head. We would have began with General Currie arguing with General Haig: "Passhendaele? Let the Germans keep it! It's not worth one drop of blood!" and go from there. It would have been one horrible, depressing nightmare of a movie.

Still, there are other things that draw me to this movie. I am so happy to finally see a Canadian movie about our history that isn't an apology. I am happy to see a Canadian movie that isn't some artistic nonsense about dysfunctional families and meaningless sex. There are some surface details about the movie that I rather like. It is- apparently- the most expensive Canadian movie ever made- at 20 million dollars. Yes, for the price of lunch for a Hollywood star, we made our most expensive movie ever. Which is why so many of our stars go south. Incidentally, lunch appears to have been a major way of raising funds for this movie. Writer/Director/Actor Paul Gross said in an interview he raised money for the film using a process he called "dinner with millionaires." Secondly, it appears poised to be the most successful Canadian movie yet. After the critically acclaimed commercial flops of crud like "Young People F*cking" (yes, that indeed was a movie title) I would hope someone might wake up and say, "Hey, Canadians want to see this stuff, not that pseudo-European slop!" and perhaps make one or two more. However, I won't hold my breath.

So I hope to see it soon. I hope it's good. I know Gross went to great pains to make the battlefield look authentic, which alone should give people some inkling of how bad the fight was. I've heard some schools are taking classes out to see the flick. I hope it kindles an interest in some of them about history, about the sacrifices our people made in the name of a better future. I don't want school kids learning their history solely from the movies, but if it gets them started, great.

My biggest regret is that it took so long to make a movie about the war. Growing up I heard about WWII from my father. I read all his books about that war, I read other books about that war, I saw movies about that war, but WWI was nebulous to me, just the war that came before the really big show. All this attention paid to the second war, while the vets of the first sat back, ignored, forgotten, dying. Lately there has been a spate of really excellent documentaries about the war, but by the time they started in the 90's there were only a few vets left. Now there is only one Canadian vet of the Great War still alive- and he lives in America- and he was one of those who lied about their age and got caught on the way over, and never actually fought. It would have been good to have seen this movie while a few were still alive to appreciate it. Maybe even see an old guy in the theatre, turn to him, ask him "Was that what it was like?" and hear his words, and thank him.

At any rate, I'll give a review when I see it, but for now, I approve that it simply exists. I hope, in spite of everything, this movie may inspire others to follow, make more movies. And hey, if they need any help coming up with an idea for a movie, send them my way. I've got a few.

Drocourt Quaent Switch

Warning: More Canadian War History

Today is the ninetieth anniversary of one of the most important battles of the First World War: the battle of Drocourt Quaent Switch.

Following their disastrous defeat at the Battle of Amiens, the Germans began a long retreat, eventually losing all the ground they had captured during their spring offensive of 1918. By the end of August they were back in their old trenches, but demoralized. The spring offensive had been their last push, one last shot at beating the allies before the American presence on the battlefield became overwhelming. They very nearly pulled it off, and their defeat was a crushing blow to their morale. Most of the German soldiers no longer believed they could win the war.

The British High Command was optimistic, but concerned. They feared another four years of interminable trench warfare, of pointless battles fought again and again over the same ground. The British commander, Douglas Haig, had another reason to be afraid: by now he knew that if the war lasted another year, the British Prime Minister, Lloyd George, planned to have him replaced. Haig called in his most successful general (and incidentally, the man chosen by George to replace Haig if the War stretched into 1919) the Canadian general Sir Arthur Currie. He gave Currie a seemingly impossible task: he was to attack and break the German lines at a place called Drocourt Quaent. Haig gave Currie two days to prepare. Currie insisted- and got- three days. As Currie stood to leave, Haig gave him a warning: "It will be a tough nut."

Currie replied: "We shall crack it sir."

Throughout the war, the British and French Generals made outlandish and unrealistic plans in which they dreamed their armies would smash through the German lines and some place, rush through and capture distant objectives, and end the war within a week or two. Uncharacteristically for Currie, it appeared that it was now his turn to indulge in some rather extravagant plans. The Canadian corps would break through at Drocourt Quaent. Canadian commander Brutinel's special armoured vehicle units would rush through the gap, cross the Canal Du Nord and, in a daring pincer movement, capture the city of Cambrai. They were confident. They had never been defeated, never had a machine gun or cannon captured. Their men had taken many objectives the French and British had thought impossible. They could do this.

The Switch was protected by large belts of barbed wire, machine gun nests, under ground tunnels for moving troops. It was very heavily defended, and any attacking army would face heavy casualties taking the position.

At 0500 on the morning of September 2, 1918, the Canadian guns fired, and the troops advanced. The Canadians waded into the Germans, advancing steadily forward under heavy fire. The ground conditions stopped Brutinel's armoured vehicles from being an effective force. This was a battle of infantry versus artillery.

Currie showed his usual preparedness and talent for battle. He drove the Canadians forward along one axis of attack, waiting until the Germans committed their reserves to the battle, and then he would shift the axis, leaving the German reserves out of position and exposed.

By nightfall, the Canadians had advanced over six thousand yards into the German defensive position. The Australians on one of the flanks had captured Mont St Quentin, another German strong point within the defense. The German Commander General Ludendorff realized his position was no longer tenable, and in the night he withdrew his troops across the Canal Du Nord to the city of Cambrai. The battle was over.

The Canadian commanders were initially disappointed with the results of the day. Their hopes had been much higher and set on a greater victory. They did not yet fully grasp the enormity of their achievement.

They had breached the line of German trenches. They had created a gap the German line that stretched across all of Western Europe. Through that gap now poured the might of the British Army. The German's were now outflanked, and the trenches of the Western Front could no longer protect them. They rose from their trenches and began the long retreat to Germany. Trench warfare was over.

Currie relentlessly drove the Canadians after the Germans for the next few months. He refused to let up pressure, even under the recommendation of his own High Command. He did not want to allow the Germans a moment's rest, did not want to let them pause long enough to build another line of defenses that would only be breached at a bloody price.

The Canadians were the spearhead of the British charge for the rest of the war. In the coming weeks they would cross the Canal Du Nord, and Cambrai would be theirs in time. More battles they had to fight, and in each they would emerge victorious, as our men gave a contribution far greater than anyone could have predicted. The men of our nation brought victory measurably closer with every passing day.

Representative of those men, I will once again publish the words of my Grandfather. One of the few letters I have of his was written after Drocourt Quaent, and I will finish with his words to his sister:

France
Sept. 2nd/18

Dear Sister,

Well Sis I suppose being as this is Labour Day you will be taking a trip to see the Exhibition and I sure would like to be there myself, however we will hope for that pleasure next year Eh? We haven't been getting much mail lately so I do not know how you are all keeping but I hope it is as well as this finds me at the present. We sure have been busy with Heimi lately as no doubt you see by the papers and as usual he came out second best (Ha-Ha). I wrote a line to Herb the other day and hope He receives it O.K. have you had a line from him lately and how is he keeping these days pretty busy I guess. I hope you had a nice time on your birthday gee Sis the time does fly Eh? I received a nice money order from Ollie the other day which I am saving for leave which will be coming along soon. You remember Bob H---'s brother Dick well I had quite a chat with him yesterday and He is looking fine. I am expecting a line from Roy F--- any time now I am anxious to hear how He is getting along You know that gas is No Bon as we say out here. Well Sis how are those boys behaving these days I'll bet Dad and they have a great time Eh? And how is Mother keeping I'll bet she feels a lot easier now that Dad is with you again. I hear eggs are an awful price over there now well I hope mum's chickens are doing their bit these days (ha-ha) Have you had a line from Ed Since He landed here I am waiting to hear from him so that I will know were (sic)to write to as He has no address at present. You knew George D--- didn't you well He is in the same Battery as George H--- and has a pretty good job. I hear Ernie Atkins is cooking in the mess for his Battery some class to him Eh? Well Min news is rather scarce at present so I will close for now hoping to hear form you soon with love and kisses to all and the babes xxxxxxxxxxxx

Your loving Brother

xxxxxFredxxxxx

Amiens

Today is the ninetieth anniversary of one of the First World War's most critical battles, the battle of Amiens. This battle was a true turning point in the war, and Canadians played a prominent role in the fight.

The battle has its genesis in the spring of 1918. By then the Germans had concluded their peace treaty with the now communist Russia. With that part of the war concluded, Germany moved over sixty division from the eastern front to the Western Front. Their goal was to launch an attack and defeat the British and the French armies before the American forces could become a factor in the war. They very nearly succeeded.

The Germans drove back the British all along the front, with one exception: they purposely avoided the Canadians now camped at Vimy. Their reasons for doing so are fairly clear: Vimy was a very strong defensive position, and throughout 1917 the Germans had lost in every engagement with the Canadians. Their attitude to the Canadians can be seen by a new word entered the lexicon of military terms: "stormtrooper." It was a German word, a name they gave to the Canadians. They seemed to wish to isolate the Canadians, rather than meet them directly. Even so, in the early days of spring the situation looked bleak. The Canadian General, Sir Arthur Currie, echoed this pessimism as he addressed his troops while waiting for the attack that never came.

Under the orders of your devoted officers in the coming battle you will advance, or fall where you stand facing the enemy. To those who fall I say; you will not die but step into immortality. Your mothers will not lament your fate, but will be proud to have born such sons. Your names will be revered for ever and ever by your grateful country, and God will take you unto himself. Canadians, in this fateful hour, I command you and I trust you to fight as you have never fought with all your strength, with all your determination, with all your tranquil courage. On many a hard fought field of battle you have overcome this enemy. With God's help you shall achieve victory once more.

(*Note: This speech met with mixed reviews. Students learning English in Northern France or Belgium in the 20's were often required to memorize this speech. The Canadian troops at whom it was directed booed it from their trenches. One soldier, Deward Barnes, wrote in his diary: "Currie spoke to us today. He said no one would miss us if we died.")

Because the Germans avoided all contact with the Canadians, the British forces still had one unit fresh and fit for battle, its morale untainted by defeat. Further, this unit had been used in the past as a spearhead, and could do so again when the time to launch a counterattack came. That time came on this day in 1918, near the town of Amiens.

The German advance had been slowed to halt, and repeated attacks at Amiens had been successfully resisted by the Australian troops. The Generals believed the time was ripe, and in secrecy they moved the Canadians south.

The attack began in the morning. The code word, for psychological reasons, was "Llandovery Castle," the name of a British hospital ship that had been torpedoed by the Germans not long before. The troops had read lurid accounts of the sinking, particularly of the deaths of many of the nursing sisters on board. The reminder of the sinking was meant to enrage the troops before the attack. In order to achieve total surprise there was no preliminary bombardment. This battle is often remembered for the role of tanks, but tanks only played an important role only in the beginning. Before long they had been disabled or suffered from mechanical problems.

The Canadians charged into the Germans and swept them aside. As the tanks fell to the wayside one by one, and as the troops began to outdistance the support of their own artillery, it became an infantry battle, and eventually a race, as the Germans fled and the Canadians pursued. At the end of the day, the Canadians had driven the Germans back 8 miles, the Australians on the Canadians flank had driven them back 7. It was a disaster for the Germans.

On the night of the 8th, several allied generals sought out the opinion of Currie. They had never had a success like this at any time during the war. They were uncertain how to proceed. Currie responded using a Canadian phrase: "The going's good," he said. "Let's keep going." The next day, the Canadians advanced another 4 miles.

Mop up operations continued for several days and before long both sides were back in their old trenches. The Allied generals were determined to break the stalemate of trench warfare once and for all, and once again the Canadians would be called upon to play a pivotal role.

There are many things to say about this battle, but I will leave the final words on a more personal level. They come from my grandfather who served at the battle. he came home a decorated soldier. It seems he most likely was decorated for capturing some prisoners- possibly the ones he mentions. Shortly after the battle he found time to write a letter home to his sister. It is a personal letter, in which the war is mentioned, but he'd really rather speak of home:

My Dear Sister,

I'll bet all of you are worrying yourselves these days wondering what has happened to me that I haven't written you a line sooner to let you know that I am O.K. Well Sis we have been so busy that writing was out of the Question altogether. I suppose you have seen in the papers that we have been at it again and say Sis we sure did spill the beans for Fritz this time and yours truly did his little bit as usual and came through it O.K. I managed to capture the odd prisoner and got a nice revolver and cap for a souvenir. See it was funny to see the boys go after souvenirs and there were lots to take them from. I received your welcome letter of July 17th also one from Marg & Ann tell them I will write to them as soon as I can also Dad. I had a letter from him to (sic) glad to hear he is out of the soldiers at last & I hope he stays out but sorry to hear about his broken arm hope it is getting along all right now. I received a letter from Ed and He says his stay in Eng. is about over so I guess he will soon be on his way over well good luck to him and hope I meet him when he arrives. Glad to hear you had a line from Herb he sure was looking good the last time I saw him. Well Sis you haven't moved yet Eh? Well I sent a letter to the new address a while ago and hope you get it O.K. I will send this one there as I think you will be moved by the time it reaches you, Say Sis I am not a kicker but I sure think it is the limit that none of you manage to visit Ollie (*note: my grandmother. His sister lived around the corner from his wife) once in a while (Nough said). Say I'll bet Jim had a nice time at the Falls Eh? I don't blame him for sticking his chest out I know I did the first time I saw them. I hope this reaches you in time for your birthday and I wish you all the luck I would wish for myself may I be there for the next one. I will have to close now Sis as I want to get a hair cut. Hoping to hear from you soon with love and
kisses to all and the kiddies.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXYour loving BrotherXXXXX

Fred
XXXXX