I decided to pursue the Xavier Junior College option and was pleasantly surprised when my family agreed to foot the bill. I had worked during the summer at a local soft-drink bottling plant and had managed to save a few dollars, which would help to offset the significant cost of books on top of the tuition. I submitted my application to the college, very aware that I was applying to enter first-year university only having completed grade eleven. Since Nova Scotia’s high school system was completed with grade twelve, unlike the British Columbia school system, which had thirteen grades at the time, many students went directly to first-year university after completing grade eleven. If you stayed in high school and completed grade twelve, you had a good chance of being accepted into second-year university, with the potential to obtain a bachelor’s degree in three years.
A few days after I’d dropped off my application, my mother was told by phone that I should report to the college president’s office the following day. I called Gerry and Leo to see if they knew what was going on, but they both pleaded ignorance. They did, however, assure me that the president did not make a habit of interviewing students before they got into trouble.
I reported to the president’s office ten minutes early, wearing my only tie. At the appointed hour, the door opened and an imposing figure emerged. Dr. Malcolm MacLennan (God rest his soul) was a large man, well over six feet tall, but in spite of his advancing years he moved with the grace of someone who had been a fine athlete in his day. He introduced himself as “Monsignor MacLennan” and motioned me into his office. I approached the seat directly in front of his desk, but I stood there nervously, and could not sit down until he had done so. Our initial conversation was one-sided as Dr. MacLennan asked me about my background and where I had gone to school. He seemed genuinely interested in my family and in where my parents were from. He asked me if I was interested in philosophy, and did I think I would be able to fit in some classes on the subject, in spite of my request to study engineering? When he mentioned the subject of religious classes, I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach: he didn’t know that I was not a Catholic. Summoning up all the courage I could, I blurted out, “Of course, Monsignor, you realize I’m Protestant!” Dr. MacLennan looked me squarely in the eye. Without missing a beat, he said: “Young MacKenzie, you score thirty-five points a game for our basketball team, and we don’t care what you are!” (Unfortunately, I managed a thirty-five-point game only once in the next two years.) Our conversation then completed, the good president welcomed me to Xavier Junior College and its basketball team.
My old gang from the Academy was still intact, thanks to basketball, and we still had an exaggerated (in our minds) reputation to uphold. In October 1957, the Soviet Union launched Sputnik, the world’s first orbiting satellite. Its passage overhead was clearly visible during the hours of darkness, providing the weather co-operated. Following one of our Friday brown-bag starts to the weekend, someone suggested that we would get a clearer view of the satellite if we observed it from the highest spot in town. We decided that this ideal location would be the top of the local TV broadcasting tower, which was located on a prominent hill in the south end of the city.
When we arrived at the base of the tower, we began to question the wisdom of our plan. The tower was twelve feet in diameter at its thickest point, about fifteen feet above ground level. From that point, unfortunately, it tapered to a relatively narrow point, where it embraced a massive ball bearing, which in turn rested on a ground-based fitting. We decided that the purpose of the bearing was to let the three-hundred-foot tower sway a certain amount with the wind, thereby reducing the stress on the entire structure. This might have been good engineering, but it made reaching the first leg of the attached steel ladder a little difficult. Ingenuity prevailed, and I found my way up to the bottom rung via the backs of a slightly unsteady human pyramid.
Flashback extract from Miss Shaver’s grade seven second-term report card, dated March 28, 1953: “Lewis has a tendency to show off.” Mid-way to the top, I realized that this engineering marvel was extremely compliant with the wind, swaying back and forth, and that if I wasn’t careful I would suffer from motion sickness. Physics dictated that the swings became greater the closer I got to the three red lights mounted on the tower’s summit. I picked out a star in the night sky and kept my eyes focused on that one spot in the universe, ignoring the slurred words of direction and encouragement emanating from below. It helped.
Somewhere near the summit, I sobered up. My timing was not great. Whenever you steeplejacked, even during the 1940s, volumes of safety regulations dictated that you must wear the right kit with a safety line as a first priority. It was a little late to do anything about it at this stage, so with a death grip on the metal ladder I decided to wait for Sputnik to appear. Fortunately it was not long appearing, and it was worth the effort.
The night was clear, and the Soviets’ winning entry in the space race flashed its way yet again across the sky, to the great consternation of the Free World. Nevertheless, for a few minutes on that tower, I marvelled at the sight of something man-made circling our planet at inconceivable heights. Ten minutes and a pair of sore arms later, I was back on solid ground with my friends—and I was the only sober one in the bunch.
Meanwhile, back on earth and with my feet planted firmly on the ground, I selected an engineering major for my first year at the college. My best marks in grade eleven had been in science and math, and—you guessed it—most of my friends were going into engineering. I suppose we thought we could excel with a minimum of effort. As the year progressed, everyone started to make plans for the summer. Obtaining good, worthwhile summer employment was, and still is, by all accounts, a challenge for most college students. A few of my friends had joined the Canadian Officer Training Corps (COTC), whose mission was to produce army officers for the militia. During the academic year there were only a few training nights dealing with subjects like military law, tradition, organization and so on. The real treat came during summer break when you went off to your chosen corps for almost three full months of concentrated officer training before returning for the next academic year—and you got paid for it!
When I scanned the list of the available corps and the location of their schools, I couldn’t believe my good fortune. If I selected the Corps of Royal Canadian Engineers and was accepted, they would send me to Vedder Crossing, my dad’s old camp in British Columbia. And, no less important, I would be five miles from Chilliwack and the love of my life from grade ten, Pat Spears. I signed on the dotted line and became the lowest form of humanity in the army, next to second lieutenant: an officer cadet.
Even I was surprised, because I had never been a big fan of the military. During my school years in Chilliwack, I had seen only one side of a soldier’s life, and even that view was restricted to the activities of those who ventured into town on paydays. They normally made the return trip on the last bus, as did I on my way to Cultus Lake, and more often than not they were well and truly pissed. The fact that they didn’t represent the majority or that perhaps they had earned the right to blow off some steam before being shipped off to Korea never entered my mind.
My opinion of the military had been eroded even more while attending Chilliwack High. The military camp’s soldiers, particularly the sapper apprentices, who were school-age soldiers training for full-time employment in the regular army when they were of age, were our competitors for the affections of the local girls. It wasn’t a fair fight; it all boiled down to the fact that they had money, limited as it was, and we did not. Frequently the school’s public address system would blare: “A dance will be held at the military camp this Friday evening. Any girls who wish to attend, please leave your name at the office. Transportation will be provided, and it will leave the gym’s front entrance at 7 PM on Friday. Have a good time!”
On hearing this announcement, every red-blooded male student felt like he had been run over by a truck. Without an opportunity to offer even token resis
tance, our dates for the weekend had been enticed from our poverty-stricken grasp. Worse, they would disappear behind the enemy’s gate to suffer, in our minds, untold indignities.
On the positive side, the soldier’s apprentices came to our rescue more than once. Cultus Lake, one of the more popular summer destinations in the Vancouver area, was a magnet for all kinds of unsavoury characters. At the head of the line was a large and despicable Vancouver motorcycle gang that invaded Cultus Lake at least twice a year. For twenty-four hours they would pin down the small local police detachments, block the highway in and out of the town, and terrorize tourists and locals alike. Once the word had gone out that a large police contingent was on the way, these tough guys would put their tails between their legs and slink back to the city. Most of them, like their brethren in terrorist organizations, were cowards. Nevertheless there is nothing more ruthless than a bunch of cowards targeting a defenceless victim.
We were no match for this collection of rejects, but as our intelligence gathering improved and the jungle drums told us the goons were about to visit us again, we passed the word to the sapper apprentices down the road at the army camp. With the unofficial concurrence of the camp commander, scores of soldiers—easily distinguishable by their short-cropped hair— would show up and blend into the weekend influx of tourists. The motorcyclists would roar into Cultus Lake, and within minutes one or more of them would be involved in a confrontation with a tourist. By then, a contingent of soldiers would have violently removed the gang’s roadblock and would have established their own about a mile down the sole road leading from Cultus Lake, sealing off the resort. They would gather together in small groups and, with bicycle chains, brass knuckles and web belts, which sported a large metal buckle, proceed to deal a formidable beating to the weekend invaders. Inexplicably, the gang members did not immediately get the message. Each year they would increase their numbers, not realizing that the army had an immediate and relatively inexhaustible source of reserves only minutes away. After a few years of humiliating defeats, the bikers gave up on Cultus Lake and went on to easier pickings. It’s probably just as well, because in today’s more sensitive environment the local military commander would be court-martialled for allowing his folks to get involved. Pity.
3: Just a Summer Job?
“Mr. MacKenzie, are you the owner of a 1947 Chevrolet, licence number A3849?”
CORPORAL DOWNEY, ON BEHALF OF THE RCMP
MY EARLY INVOLVEMENT with the military had been dictated more by self-interest than by any great affection or respect for the institution. I had followed my friends into the Air Cadets and the militia, and now I had signed up for army officer training just to get a free trip across the country to see an elusive girlfriend— not exactly in the same league as God, Queen and country, as far as motivation goes. Whoever said that God doesn’t have a sense of humour never studied the backgrounds of soldiers before they walked through the front door of the recruiting office. A good number of us arrived by very circuitous routes.
Fortunately my friend Gerry had also signed up, and we made the trip out west together. Despite my father having served at the Royal Canadian School of Military Engineering (RCSME) in Vedder Crossing for more than four years, I had rarely ventured through the front gate of the camp. My first impression was one of absolute cleanliness and efficiency. The camp being the school for army engineering, there was no shortage of expertise when it came to beautifying it, and the result was truly impressive. The grass was manicured, the roads were spotless and every building looked like it had just been painted. We were quickly escorted through the main built-up area of the camp to a corner close to the Vedder River and the highway leading to Cultus Lake. The open sandy lot was the site of about thirty sandy-coloured “bell” tents, each of which would accommodate two people. There were whitewashed rocks everywhere, delineating the paths between the tents. The area was separated from the main road by an eight-foot-high plywood fence that had been painted dark green.
Before Gerry and I reported to the base, we had made a quick visit to my old stomping grounds in Cultus Lake. Riding on the bus, as we passed the camp, I noticed that someone had painted “DO NOT FEED THE ANIMALS!” in poorly drawn, large white letters on the tall green fence, which obscured the view of a field packed with two-man tents. The penny dropped, and I realized that my successors in Chilliwack High were probably expressing their opinion of the heredity of this summer’s crop of first-year officer cadets. It felt more than a little unusual to be on the other side of the fence—literally.
In any recruit training course it is important to convince a bunch of individuals that their effectiveness is directly proportional to their ability to work as a team. Before anyone can lead, he or she must demonstrate an ability to follow and, in doing so, to support the designated leader and the objectives of the group. There is no place for “doing your own thing.” To the uninitiated—this includes the participants themselves in the early stages of their training—the concept can appear rigid and demeaning. Slowly, as the group ceases to resemble a mob and becomes a team capable of conducting the dirtiest job a country can ask of its citizens—to kill on demand in support of a just cause—the participants begin to realize the importance of their individual contribution to the team’s success.
To reinforce this concept with the first-year officer cadets, the RCSME organized their training along infantry lines rather than strictly combat engineering skills, which would be taught in the following three summers. The infantry’s role provides the best context in which to develop leadership skills as its component building blocks at the lowest levels, ten-man sections and thirty-man platoons, and provide many opportunities for cadets to practise command appointments. The emphasis on infantry skills was in keeping with the Engineer Corps’ strongly held view that every engineer is a warrior first and a combat engineer second. Their casualty rate during the two World Wars, the Korean War and recent operations in the Persian Gulf, the Balkans and Afghanistan provides ample proof that they practise what they preach.
Once we learned how to salute and march from one point to another as a group without running into anything or anybody, we moved to the field to begin our infantry training. To help them conduct this training, the engineers had two infantry instructors assigned to the RCSME for that very purpose. Both infanteers were members of the Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry (PPCLI), which most of us knew by the reputation they had earned as a result of their outstanding performance during the Korean War, where their 2nd Battalion was awarded the U.S. Presidential Unit Citation for bravery at the battle of Kapyong. Lieutenant Mel Canfield, the senior instructor, looked and acted the part. With his maroon jump boots, beret and starched khaki “bush clothing,” he could have doubled as a recruiting mannequin. His second-in-command was a Korean War vet, Sergeant Major Shaw, known as “Boy” Shaw by his friends because he had been one of the youngest sergeants to serve in Korea. Sergeant Major Shaw was short, burly and gruff, and he was held in complete awe by each of us. Within days of our first encounter, the word circulated that he had walked through the front door of his home in Canada, weeks after he’d been reported killed in action in Korea, wondering what all the fuss was about. It didn’t matter that someone had embellished a story based on more than a few half-truths—we were impressed! Assisting Canfield and Shaw was a Corporal Downey of the engineers, who we all agreed was undoubtedly an infanteer at heart, considering his performance. It was a stroke of good fortune that these three individuals would have such a substantial effect on my immediate future.
Our training soon became a blur of marksmanship (shooting), field craft (seeing and not being seen), navigation (map reading), section tactics (ten guys practising together to kill the enemy) and digging and more digging (the safest place to be when under fire is underground). We moved from one training location to another on the run, so those who were not fit on arrival soon caught up or packed it in. During those early days I certainly didn’t understand le
adership and what it involved, but I remember what impressed me and why I would have gladly followed some individuals and not so willingly some others. Confidence itself was high on the list of the most desirable characteristics. Those instructors who read the script of their lesson plan word for word did themselves no favour. It was hard to trust that someone was professionally competent if he could not lift his eyes from a prepared text. This concern was frequently reinforced during question time if the instructor had difficulty thinking on his feet. On the other hand, instructors like Sergeant Major Shaw and Corporal Downey knew what had to be taught and went out of their way to make the learning process both enjoyable and effective. It was also quite obvious that a few instructors looked upon their responsibilities as an inconvenience, to put it mildly. Once the class was over, they would disappear from sight until the next day. The real leaders, however, would make a serious effort to get to know us and would fine-tune their efforts to address our weaknesses. Almost forty years later, I still remember the names of those self-confident leaders who took the time to treat us like individuals even in the context of the team. The others, I have long since forgotten.
Unfortunately the summer’s training was not without incident. On arrival we were confined to barracks (tents!) for two weeks, presumably because we were too undisciplined to be trusted in public. As the Friday of our first liberation approached, I phoned every girl I had known well during my days at Chilliwack High and pleaded with them to get their dad’s car and, at precisely 7 PM on Friday, to park on the outside of the high green fence that separated our compound from the main highway. At the appointed hour, at least twenty of us trainees scrambled over the fence and dove into the waiting cars. Ten minutes later, we arrived at Cultus Lake and arranged the boy-girl pairing. Since only a dozen girls had showed up, some of our colleagues went off to the roller rink to try their luck. The couples stayed with the cars and embarked on a summer of romance restricted to infrequent days off, the quality of our liaisons more than compensating for quantity.
Soldiers Made Me Look Good Page 5
