The Dance

I was no more than seven years old when my father waltzed me around the basement of our house in Camp Gagetown, Oromocto, New Brunswick. One – two – three. One – two three. Around and around our basement floor, he spun me and lifted me, with one strong arm around my waist and a big warm hand wrapped around my little one. Maybe that’s where I learned my love of dancing. But what I most remember is how special I felt.

When I love someone, really love them and feel a deep connection to them, I want to think only the best of them. I find ways to feel proud of them, to justify any bad behaviour, and will mount a defense when I can’t. So, it has come as somewhat of a surprise to me that I don’t need to do either as I blog about my father’s wartime experiences. You see, I know the rest of the story, the story I haven’t yet told you. I have been dreading telling you his secrets because I love him. I want to be loyal to him. I want you, his descendants, to think only the best of him. Which is why I wrote about the dance. I wanted to prepare you for what you are about to learn, so that you wouldn’t judge him too harshly.

But I don’t need to do that because what is emerging from a deeper dive into his military records and the world he inhabited, is a human being, a well-intentioned but flawed human being. Just like me. And just like you. He wasn’t perfect. And he certainly was no saint. He would be the first to admit that. He was my dad, your grandfather, your great-grandfather. And I loved him.

So here goes!

We left Maurice at the end of his first two months of basic training in Sherbrooke, Quebec. On May 29, 1941, he was off to Montreal South 4 D.D. (District Depot), a location of his choosing some 85 kilometers from his home in Cowansville. Montreal South no longer exists. Today it forms part of what is now known as Longueil.

Located near the foot of the Jacques Cartier bridge, the training camp (pictured here) is where my dad would complete his basic training. This training included skills development. My dad wanted to study motor mechanics but ‘bad nerves’ due to a car accident eight years earlier left him unable to drive. And so, he took electricians training instead.

Basic training also included combat fatigue exercises designed to prepare soldiers for the psychological stress of battle, to help build confidence and resilience by simulating combat conditions. To keep them from cracking up on the battlefield, to put it bluntly. From there he would be ‘processed’ and sent where needed – ‘regular army’ and ready for duty, which meant he could now be sent overseas to fight.

Which may explain why he went AWOL – Absent Without Leave – three times for a total of 14 days, joining the ranks of some 90,000 men from across Canada, mostly NRMA draftees, who just didn’t want to fight. So, what are we dealing with here; 90,000 cowards? Let’s see if we can put ourselves in their boots.

At that time, memories of World War I, “the war to end all wars” were still fresh, having ended only 21 years earlier. And news of its horrors were legendary. The battle of Somme that took place between July 1^st and November 18^th 1916 saw 24,029 Canadian soldiers dead, 93% of which were ground forces, or infantry. The three-day battle of Vimy Ridge in April of 1917 saw 10,600 Canadian soldiers killed and injured, 2500 in one day. In total, 61,122 men lost their lives during World War 1– quite a bite out of Canada’s population that stood at not quite eight million. I’ve always known my father to be a news junkie. I’m sure he was well aware of this grim history.

I was somewhat disgusted to read about wartime ‘wastage’. This is the term that was used to describe the amount of guns and ammunitions, vehicles and yes, human beings that the war machine could afford to ‘waste’ in battle. The best-educated and fittest recruits, presumably leadership material, were considered most valuable and so could apply to serve in the safest divisions -the Air Force or the Navy.  The vast majority, men like my father, were assigned to the Infantry. Of the 61,122 men who served and died in World War 1, 190 were Navy, 1388 were Air Force and 59,544 were Infantry. Hey, I want to join the Infantry. Pick me!

My father may have been many things, but he was no dummy. Like many of the 90,000 who went AWOL, they often chose to skedaddle when news of a coming deployment to a hotspot was rumoured. And because they were not deserters, they came back once the threat had passed. This was not their war, remember. Canada’s freedom and safety was not yet threatened. They didn’t want to die for a cause they didn’t believe in.

At first, I must admit, I wondered if my father might be a coward. Now I am impressed with how clever he was. He found ways to avoid getting himself killed while still serving the war effort. After completing basic training, he requested a transfer to the Royal Canadian Ordnance Corps (RCOC) in Barriefield, Ontario, where he landed on June 1, 1942. The RCOC played a crucial role, supplying essential materials such as clothing, weapons, and equipment. At its peak, it numbered 35,000 military personnel.

 I know I have speculated that my father left the relative safety of the NRMA to join the regular army because he was pressured into it.  But I have begun to realize that this may have, instead, been a strategic move on his part. Could he have anticipated the day in April of 1942 when NRMA soldiers would become required to fight overseas?  But because he joined the Active Force when he did, he could choose where he was deployed after completing basic training, and he chose the RCOC in Barriefield.

On several occasions, I have found references in my father’s military records to his high intelligence. So yup, your ancestor was definitely no dummy.