Against All Odds

by P. J. Naworynski

  Back at the base in between sorties, Frank enjoyed beer with his mates and time on the nearby rink. He never knew when his number was going to be called. He had brought his skates with him from Canada, not because he was looking to play organized hockey or anything, but for pickup games with his buddies and a much-needed distraction from the horrors of war.

  On a mission to destroy the shipyards in Kiel, Dunster’s Halifax lost an engine to German anti-aircraft gunners, who also shot up the fuel tank and knocked out the navigation equipment. Unable to limp back to their own base, Dunster somehow guided his crew to the safety of an American air base, where they made an emergency landing. They spent the rest of the night there and had their plane repaired. Back at home base everybody thought Frank and his crew had been shot down. When they arrived home the next day, Dunster found his locker had been cleared out and his most valued possession—his skates—were gone. A friend from Ottawa took them believing Frank was dead.

  For his incredible feats of flying, Frank Dunster was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross. On his official commendation for meritorious service, W.G. Phelan, wing commander for 420 Squadron, remarked: “F/O Dunster has proved himself a most capable navigator who has always displayed outstanding determination and coolness.” His group captain, L.H. Lecomte, added: “F/O Dunster, by his outstanding skill as a Navigator, was largely responsible for the successful completion of a tour of operations by his crew. His courage and skill have at all times been an example to the other members of his squadron.”

  Frank made it through the war. He was the consummate team player who did his duty and did it well. He rarely spoke about his experiences to his family when he came home. There was too much death, and the bad memories seemed to overwhelm the good ones. But the bonds that were formed from shared experience between the captains of the clouds ran deep. Here in St. Moritz it was time once again to show the world what Canadian boys were made of.

  PART THREE

  Showtime

  Game 1. The Flyers in action against the Swedes.

  Tom Schroeter

  Marching through St. Moritz in the opening parade.

  Tom Schroeter

  LET THE GAMES BEGIN

  12

  At the crack of dawn on January 29, 1948, Hubert Brooks looked out his window in the Stahlbad Hotel. Wave after wave of thick, heavy snowflakes whirled through the air and added more layers to the five-foot-deep snowcake already on the ground. St. Moritz was in the final throes of a blizzard. In the run-up to the Olympics the mountain paradise had received the heaviest snowfalls since the pre-war years. It created the perfect conditions for the skiing and sledding venues but was not so ideal for the next day’s opening ceremonies and ice hockey matches. From his cozy room in the Stahlbad, Brooks watched as teams of workers frantically wielded shovels to clear the fresh snow from various venues and spectator stands. If they weren’t going to have a skate that morning, Brooks figured he could get in a visit with his fiancée. Meanwhile, some of the other guys headed into town for some window shopping.

  It took half a day for the Swiss workers to shovel the snow, scrape the ice, and then water the surface by hand before the guys could lace up for their first practice. Refreshed, re-energized, and loaded up with wholesome food, the boys ran through a series of drills and exercises as Coach Frank Boucher ruminated over his final selections. For the most part the team was looking good, and Frank seemed pleased. Only a few of the guys were still suffering from high-altitude headaches, dizziness, and shortness of breath.

  After the practice Frank and Sandy held a team meeting for a final discussion about Frank’s strategy for success. Boucher wanted to hammer home a number of key points for the boys to keep in mind. They had to go all out and score as many goals as possible. That being said, they also had to remember to play smart and conserve their energy, considering the high elevation. They had to backcheck hard and play a tight defence. He could not overemphasize the importance of defence. They had to be conscious of the European rules and the somewhat sketchy refereeing. He also reminded the guys that the spotlight was focused on them. Canadians had claimed the gold medal in ice hockey at all but one of the previous Winter Olympic Games. Yes, the press had slammed them. Yes, they had their detractors. Yes, most outsiders didn’t think they had a hope in hell of winning a medal. This was their chance to prove them all wrong. Tomorrow was the big day, opening ceremonies followed by their first match against the rough-and-ready Swedes. Manager Sandy Watson ordered them all to get to bed by 9:00 p.m.

  Meanwhile a firestorm of controversy swirled around the Games and threatened to derail the entire Olympic hockey program. Two teams claiming to be the official representatives of the United States had arrived in St. Moritz ready to play. The team whose players had badgered the Flyers on the Queen Elizabeth was sponsored by the Amateur Hockey Association. The other team was sponsored by the Amateur Athletic Union and the United States Olympic Committee. The Flyers had never seen the AAU boys before. The AAU team had really travelled to Europe in style. They had flown over on American Overseas Airlines.

  As far as the Canadian boys were concerned, the showdown between these two American sports organizations was background noise and political posturing. They figured surely the situation would resolve itself before the Games began. But here they were on the eve of the Olympics and the two American camps were still fighting it out. If the two American contingents, the Swiss Olympic Committee, and the International Olympic Committee could not come to a resolution, the Flyers might be playing for a world championship title instead of an official Olympic medal. Sandy and Frank advised their players to put the entire debacle out of their minds and not interfere with the two teams. It would sort itself out. The Canadians were there to represent their country, pure and simple. The boys couldn’t agree more.

  Opening day, Friday, January 30, was one of those wintery mountain days when low grey clouds hang heavy in the sky, creating an eerie stillness in the air. The temperature hovered just below freezing. The atmosphere was electric. The entire town—twenty-five hundred locals—and about ten thousand spectators had turned out to watch the festivities. Many of the well-heeled guests stood on their hotel balconies with a fine Scotch in hand and fur throws draped over their shoulders. Dozens of reporters and newsreel cameramen blazed around in Jeeps as they jockeyed for the best position to capture images of the procession of athletes. Visitors jumped into local horse-drawn sleighs instead of trudging through the deep snow to find a spot to view the ceremonial procession.

  At 10:15 a.m., 915 citizens of the world representing twenty-eight countries assembled in front of the luxurious Kulm Hotel in the centre of town for the traditional five-block march to the Olympic Stadium. Following protocol of the previous Olympic Games, the representatives from Greece were to lead the procession. For diplomatic reasons, countries were then lined up in alphabetical order, with Canada marching in fifth position, behind Greece, Argentina, Austria, and Belgium. The long parade of coloured flags and participants stretched and snaked along the snowy streets of town for two miles.

  War hero Hubert Brooks was chosen to be Canada’s flag-bearer and stood proudly at the front of the entire Canadian contingent of forty-one athletes and officials. As the boys lined up and everyone darted into position, Brooks could barely contain himself. He vibrated with excitement and was filled with pride. Trainer George McFaul was ten feet in front of Brooks. George marched with the small black-and-white “Canada” name placard hoisted above his head on a simple metal pole. The rest of the players, along with Frank Boucher, were at the back of the Canadian entourage, decked out in their woollen overcoats and regular RCAF service uniforms. They all sported toothy smiles and held their heads high as they marched in unison, three abreast. Manager Sandy Watson was setting the tempo a few steps in front of the lads, his arms swinging. Just ahead of Sandy were the speed skaters in their Canada sport jackets, their long blades tucked under their arms. Everyone was beaming, and the giant lightbox
in the sky created the perfect marching conditions.

  Up at the front of the Canadian procession, members of the ski team waved to the crowds with one hand while they held their skis over their shoulders with the other. Next came the figure skating component and the media darling of the Olympics, Barbara Ann Scott. The young teenager from Ottawa had recently graced the cover of Time magazine. Here in St. Moritz it appeared as if every single reporter, photographer, and newsreel cameraman wanted a piece of her as they scrambled over one another in the hunt for the ultimate close-up. Poised and calm she paid little attention to the media barrage and marched on with her teammates as she waved and grinned to the cheering crowds.

  Barbara Ann and her fellow skaters were decked out in blue blazers with toasty ski pants and heavy boots. They all carried their skates in one hand and waved to the adoring fans with the other. As the Canadians paraded down the hill towards the stadium, the crowd of spectators grew thicker and thicker, with thousands crammed into the stands. Thousands more packed the surrounding hills that overlooked the stadium. The bravest of the bunch stood precariously in the thigh-deep snow on cliffs and ledges to get a bird’s-eye view of the spectacle that played out below.

  Remarkably, both American hockey teams marched in the parade. Neither side had capitulated yet. The AHA team sported blue coats, hats, and fur-lined aviator boots. The AAU team wore plush white winter jackets and matching hats. Tempers flared and a few of the AAU boys and the AHA boys got into fisticuffs en route to the stadium. Ultimately, at the last minute, the AHA team was chosen to represent the United States on the ice. After all the political posturing and arguing about which teams would be accorded official Olympic status, the AHA got the nod. But there was a caveat: they were to receive no official ranking in the tournament. If they were to win at the Olympics, they would be ineligible to take home a medal. However, as this hockey tournament was also the world championships, the AHA team would be crowned world champions if they were to win.

  As far as the Flyers were concerned it was a political quagmire. They could not have cared less which American team they faced in the coming days. Right now they had their minds focused squarely on the upcoming match against the Swedes.

  Once all the nations had arrived and lined up in the stadium, Brooks and his fellow flag carriers marched to the centre of the podium and encircled it. After a series of proceedings and speeches the Olympic flame was lit, and Enrico Celio, president of the Swiss Olympic Federation, declared “the Fifth Winter Games as part of the modern Olympic Games to have begun.” Brooks planted his flag in the snowbank beside those of the other twenty-seven nations and went to join his teammates.

  The Flyers had a few hours to kill. Their first match against Sweden wasn’t scheduled until 2:00 p.m. Frank and Sandy had very few scouting reports on the Swedes. They knew they had a few big defencemen and were reportedly one of the toughest teams in Europe. They were also favourites to win the silver medal. Watson wanted his players rested, fed, and ready for the afternoon game. The boys hopped into a few horse-drawn sleds for a ride back to the Stahlbad. Ten minutes later and twelve dollars lighter, they pulled up to their luxurious accommodations and made tracks for the dining lounge.

  After a quick feast at the hotel, Coach Frank Boucher sat down in his room and stared long and hard at a blank sheet of paper. It was decision time. One by one he scribbled out his starting lineup for that day’s game. He had seventeen capable players to choose from, but only eleven plus a backup goalie could dress for the match against Sweden. The rest of the players would have to ride the bench as reserve men. In the event of an injury or suspension, Frank could pull from his reserves list for the next match.

  A few of the boys were obvious standouts. Murray Dowey was a shoe-in for starting goaltender. Last-minute additions Wally Halder, George Mara, and André Laperrière had lived up to their glowing recommendations. New Edinburgh Burghs linemates Ab Renaud, Reg Schroeter, and Ted Hibberd were on fire. Tough guy Frank Dunster, Patsy Guzzo, Irving Taylor, and defenceman Louis Lecompte all had years of high-level playoff experience under their belts.

  The rest of the lineup consisted of a handful of young guns and tried-and-true veteran players. Frank felt he was spoiled for choice, but he could dress only so many guys. Warriors Hubert Brooks and Roy Forbes were among the five men who did not make the list. They joined teammates Pete Leichnitz, Red Gravelle, and Andy Gilpin on the bench, along with backup goalie Ross King. They were all first-rate players totally capable of lacing up against the best, but they fell victim to the numbers game. Boucher called them his “Black Aces.” The boys who didn’t make the starting lineup were gutted, but they understood the rationale. They might not have been called on for that day’s battle on the ice, but they were all there to win as a team. And they were ready for action if they got tapped to suit up for the next game.

  At 2:00 p.m. “the chosen ones” hit the ice for the pre-game warm-up. Murray was out first, and as the rest of the boys floated around the surface they peppered him with shots. Like the spectators in Basel, the St. Moritz fans were amazed that Murray caught almost every puck that was fired at him. None of the fans had ever seen a goalie catch a puck before. Bewildered and mystified, the spectators leapt to their feet with mouths agape and cheered as the nimble Canadian snagged puck after puck from the air. Coach Frank Boucher pulled the boys in close to the bench for a last-minute huddle. As always he didn’t yell or get loud but made his point clearly and concisely to his men. He reminded them to keep the goals down and quietly repeated two words over and over: “Backchecking and defence, backchecking and defence.”

  Hubert Brooks was disappointed to be on the bench, but he was buzzing with excitement beside Frank and Sandy. He noted in his journal later that night: “This is what we’d been building up to. To say that the pressure was intense would be an understatement. We wanted to win. We wanted to prove the naysayers in the press, who had hounded us all the way to Europe, wrong. This team had something to prove!”

  By the time Murray and the boys lined up for the opening faceoff, a couple of thousand fans had settled into their seats. About a thousand more stood in the deep snow and lined the hills and cliffs that overlooked the outdoor rink. Cameras started whirring as reporters and newsreel cameramen took up their positions beside the boards at ice level, in the stands, and up on the cliffs.

  From the puck drop, the first line of Flyers started off jittery and uncertain. The Swedes, however, mounted a bold and aggressive attack. Like the Canadians, the Swedes enjoyed hitting, but they also wielded their hockey sticks like weapons. After three punishing minutes of play, the brawny boys from Sweden muscled in the first goal of the game. Once again the Flyers found themselves trailing.

  This time the early Swedish goal didn’t deflate the Canadians. They didn’t fold as they had in their games back in Ottawa against McGill, or back in Paris against Le Club Racing, or back in Basel against the Swiss national team. This time, the Flyers reacted by pouring on the power. Less than two minutes later, Patsy Guzzo delivered a beautiful pass to George Mara, who slammed it home and tied up the score. Mara’s goal put wind in their sails and fire in their eyes. The boys in blue were infused with confidence and skated with an infectious purpose that rippled through their ranks.

  The Swedes take the puck in Game 1.

  Bettman / gettyimages

  For the remainder of the first period both teams played a tough and scrappy game. “Sticks flew and tempers flared,” wrote Canadian reporter Jack Sullivan. Patsy Guzzo received a vicious, deliberate kick in the leg from a Swedish player who was sporting a baseball mask. As Patsy hit the ice and grabbed his leg, the Swede turned around, looked down, and asked him, “OK?” The refs either didn’t notice or didn’t care to call it. After the first period of play the score was still tied 1–1. The Canadians were holding their own against the silver-medal favourites.

  In the early minutes of the second period both teams continued to battle it out. Then big gunner Wally Ha
lder took a pass from Ab Renaud and rifled in the Flyers’ second goal. The Swedes responded with full vigour, but none of their shots were getting by “Fast Hands” Murray Dowey. On the blue line, Frank “the Masher” Dunster laced one Swedish winger time and time again as the Swede attempted to skirt past him in between the boards. Dunster later remarked, “I hit him three times and it was hurting me more than it was hurting the Swede! This guy wouldn’t give up. He just kept coming and coming!”

  The boys in blue held on to their lead for the remainder of the second period. They were still getting used to the low boards, and Murray continued to dazzle and amaze the crowd—and his opponents—by stopping shot after shot with his homemade trapper glove.

  When the third period kicked off the Flyers again took to the offensive. Thirty-five seconds after the faceoff, Reg Schroeter buried the insurance goal and gave the Flyers a commanding 3–1 lead over the Swedes. Now trailing by two goals, the rough-and-ready Swedes turned up their heated attacks. A few minutes after Schroeter’s goal, one of the Swedes cut Wally Halder down with a brutal hatchet chop to the head. Wally hit the ice like a stone and didn’t move for what seemed like an eternity. Eventually he got up under his own power, ran his hand along the back of his bloodied head, and skated off to the bench. Incensed, the Flyers had had it with the dirty play.

  The final ten minutes of the game turned into what the press characterized as a “free-for-all” and a “near-riotous imbroglio.” The Swedes slashed, hooked, and speared almost at will in their attempts to claw their way back onto the scoreboard. André Laperrière hammered a big Swedish attacker and was rewarded with a penalty. Moments later Dunster unloaded on yet another Swede and also got sent to the box. The Swedes continued their vicious stick play and, with their one-man advantage, fired salvo after salvo at Murray Dowey. But the kid from the Beaches was like an octopus in net.