Our trainer at Camp Borden had been a motorcycle stunt rider at fairs and carnivals before the war. He gave us lots of helpful tips about riding and instructions on how to crash a motorcycle and be able to walk away in one piece. We were taught how to stay alive and I paid a lot of attention so that I could do precisely that.
Riding dispatch was an exciting period in my life. Most of my time overseas was spent in Italy, from November 1943 until March 1945. We ended up in Holland and we were still there on May 8—VE-Day. I look back and I think of the tremendous responsibility that they gave this 19- or 20-year-old kid. I just accepted it and then went out to do what had to be done. A big part of my job was delivering important messages that were too risky to be sent by radio or by telephone because the Germans could tap in and listen to what was being said. We also did some convoy work; sometimes, you’d have a truckload of supplies to deliver or maybe a few tanks. The people in charge would say, “Take this from point A to point B,” and they’d give you a map and away you’d go.
I got to meet some wonderful people and had some great experiences in Italy. The Italians and the Germans had been in an alliance for a time. But when we first arrived, the Italians had just surrendered to the Allies, not wanting to participate in Mr. Hitler’s war anymore. So, we ended up fighting only the Germans. The gratitude that the Italians showed us often made for some wonderful friendships that a lot of the guys built up while we were there.
My job was such that I was never really engaged in the actual fighting, but I was constantly delivering messages pretty close to it and had my share of near misses. Sometimes, I’d be in a position where I’d have to find a foxhole and hunker down for a while. But, generally, I spent my war years riding my motorcycle—and fighting the elements.
—by Harry Watts, Kitchener, Ontario
Uncle Wilfred Remembered
Childhood memories of a favourite uncle are rekindled by a visit to his World War II gravesite in Belgium
In September 1944, my uncle Wilfred Atwood of Oak Park, Nova Scotia was killed during the Second World War in the Battle of the Scheldt, when the Algonquin Regiment and others were attempting to cross the Leopold Canal in Belgium.
Since I was only seven years old at the time, the impact of the news did not hit me as hard as it did my older brothers. As I became older, I began to realize the loss that my family and I had experienced. Uncle Wilfred was single and, living right next door, my brothers and I were treated like his own.
I have so many fond memories of Uncle Wilfred. One incident that stands out for me was the time he took me to his parents’ home and he and I picked wild strawberries behind their house. When we took the berries inside, my grandmother served them up with sugar and cream; the two of us sat at the table and enjoyed the treat, and especially each other’s company. We enjoyed many such moments.
Unlike today, when soldiers who lose their lives in battle are usually brought home for burial, Uncle Wilfred was buried in Belgium. Thanks to the Internet, I was able to see the place where he was buried, as well as read his name and related details on his tombstone. But it had always been a dream of mine to visit his grave and see where he spent his final days.
That dream became reality in May 2008, when my daughter Lois and her husband Stoy took me on a trip to Belgium. Via the Internet once again, I was able to contact Iris Van Landschoot, who gave me quite a bit of helpful information; when we arrived in Brussels, I called her and she and her husband Daniël became our guides.
We visited Adegem War Cemetery, where Uncle Wilfred and many other soldiers were buried, and we walked along the Leopold Canal, where the World War II crossing had been attempted. There was a building across the canal where marks of the fighting were still visible on the walls. A local historian came by and gave us additional facts about that particular area and details about the battle and some of those who were killed.
While overseas, we were also able to visit the Canadian War Museum, which was built as a tribute to the Canadians who liberated the Flemish people from Nazi domination. Thanks to Lois and Stoy, as well as to both Iris and her husband for adding so much to our visit, it was indeed the trip of a lifetime and one that I will always treasure.
—by Miriam (Atwood) Thompson, Pugwash, Nova Scotia
Accentuate the Positive
A daughter marvels at the resilience and determination of her mother—a Canadian war bride
When Mother sent me the faded blue airmail letter, dated August 15, 1946, it looked just like so many of the other letters she’d received from England when I was a child.
I didn’t pay much attention at first, but I unfolded it one evening and realized it was written not to my mother, but rather by my mother to her new sister-in-law, Pearl, in Canada whom she hadn’t yet met. It is a simple letter, from one woman to another—a bit tentative, a bit formal, as it is when a new relationship is just beginning. Aunt Pearl had saved it all these years and finally returned it to my mother to pass on to me, knowing I would treasure it. This is what the letter said:
Dear Pearl,
It was very kind of you to write to me and send congratulations on the new baby, and very many thanks for same. I’ve only recently come out of hospital and am now staying with my stepsister in Surrey for a rest. After being in hospital for six weeks I feel a bit weak, but I shall soon get well again, as I’m fairly tough. My baby is very sweet and is really very good. The death of my mother upset me terribly, as she was really all I had. She was looking forward to seeing the baby and looking after me, too, but I suppose it just wasn’t to be. There must be a purpose in these things I’m sure, although it’s difficult to find at times. I’ve no idea when I can get out to Harold, but it will be as soon as I can. I have so much to settle up here now, and in any case, the immigration department states a child has to be several months old before they can be transported. As I’m now staying not far from London, I shall go and make inquiries. Naturally I miss Harold—it seems a very long time ago since he went back and much has happened since. I’m anxious for him to see his daughter, too, but eventually the time will come along and we shall all be together again. Once again, many thanks for letter and card. I hope you are all keeping well, and shall look forward to seeing you sometime in the future.
Sincerely yours, Evelyn
My mother, Evelyn, had met my father, Harold Bennell, in London, where she worked as a nurse and he was a member of the Canadian Army. They were married in August 1945 and I was born in July 1946. However, my father had already been sent back to Canada, discharged from the army, and had found a job in Toronto. The original plan was that my mother would join him in Toronto at the earliest opportunity, but with the death of her mother, which postponed the trip, and my birth, which postponed it further, some months elapsed between my father’s departure and my mother’s opportunity to leave England.
Instructions eventually came to prepare to sail in early December 1946, on the SS Empire Brent. My mother was then living in her mother’s home in Southsea, on the south coast of England. She was instructed to report to a hostel at the west end of London. The following morning, she and a crowd of other war brides, many also with children, boarded a train to Liverpool. Mother later commented, “It was a long journey to Liverpool, as the railways were still on a wartime footing. There was no conveniences for babies and little children. However, we had just been through six years of war, and we had become adept at making do.”
Mother and 12 other war brides shared a cabin on the upper deck with their children. Once they fed and settled the children, they introduced themselves over a cup of tea, talking about people they were leaving behind and what lay ahead. Less than 12 hours later, the Empire Brent started for sea but collided with a cattle scow before she got out of the River Mersey. Repairing the hole would require several days’ work, so all the war brides and children made the return journey to London and the hostel. Once there, they were besieged by the press. Mother then stayed with her sister until time for the second
departure.
The journey was unpleasant, with high gales and bitter cold. After eight days, they reached Halifax, where the army was out full force to help with children and luggage. After going through customs, they boarded a train. Mother, however, had not been feeling well during the sea voyage, but had put it down to stress and the nasty weather. She began to feel worse on the train, and a doctor’s examination resulted in a diagnosis of appendicitis. The doctor arranged for her to be transferred to the nearest hospital in Rimouski, Quebec, promising that my father would be notified.
As mother was worrying about this turn of events, the train stopped. All around were fields and snow. The doctor then came with the news that there was a fire on the line ahead, which would cause some delay. He had arranged for a freight car to be sent on a branch line. It would be heated and a doctor would come with it and escort her to Rimouski. But just as she was ready to transfer to the car, the train started moving again and shortly arrived at Rimouski, where an ambulance was waiting in a driving snowstorm.
Mother was admitted to hospital, the doctors removed her appendix and she spent nearly two weeks in the hospital for rest and recuperation. The Red Cross visited, a kind nurse supplied her with magazines, and the Roman Catholic priest visited daily with news of me in the nursery. On Christmas Day, several of the nuns came to visit. Despite the language barrier, there was warmth and laughter. Mother later wrote to me, “I am not of the Roman Catholic faith, and I do not remember being asked about my religion. We were strangers from a train, mother and daughter needing help, and far from home, and they gave us the best of attention and loving care, and I have been forever grateful.”
Finally, the Red Cross put mother and me on a train to Montreal, and then from Montreal to Toronto, where my father met us on New Year’s Day 1947, nearly six months after I had been born. Upon his arrival in Canada, he had found a job, purchased a house and a car, and made preparations for his new family. He had put up a Christmas tree with a stuffed panda bear under it for me and kept it until we arrived. It had been a worrisome period for him, as he was the recipient of numerous telegraphs that read, “Delayed…” with a new estimated arrival date.
Looking back, the simplicity and ordinariness of Mother’s letter is quite startling. Her attitude that nothing was going to get in the way of her plans to come to Canada is implicit. While she could not have known of the various events that would occur during the long journey, that attitude carried her through a lot: a near shipwreck; a nasty ocean voyage; an appendicitis attack under adverse conditions; surgery in a foreign country; and over six months of delays—all with a baby and on her own. She’d set her heart on a future in a new land with her husband and family, and nothing was going to deter her.
I still marvel at the sheer strength of will it took to overcome the obstacles she faced. She told me once that a number of the young women who were on the ship during the collision changed their minds and remained in England. She, however, never had second thoughts. I remember her remarking that she believed the secret of life had to do with keeping a positive attitude.
In her 90s, macular degeneration caused her severe vision loss, but she went line dancing three times a week, participated in an art class, joined a book discussion club and walked every day. Once, when I called her on the phone, she gently told me that she would call me back later, as she wanted to be sure not to miss the landing of the Mars Pathfinder on TV. “Just think, dear,” she said, “I’m in my 90s and at last I’m going to find out what Mars is like.” In a future era, she’d have emigrated there, too.
—by Expat Canadian Irene Martin, now residing in Skamokawa, Washington
Tales From the Sea
Memories of adventure, danger and intrigue serving aboard the HMCS Cayuga during the Korean War
I was born in Rapid City, Manitoba, in December 1930 and joined the Royal Canadian Navy in 1948 at the age of 18. While serving aboard the HMCS Ontario, the Korean War began and there was a call for volunteers to serve in Korea. I transferred to the HMCS Cayuga and together with the Athabaskan and the Sioux, we sailed for Korea on July 5, 1950. The following are some of the memories I have of my two tours of duty patrolling Korea’s west coast at the beginning of the Korean War.
One time, while fuelling up on the atoll of Guam, Leading Seaman George Johnson rescued a dog that was part of a litter being drowned. Captain Brock allowed the dog to be kept onboard provided she was trained. We named the dog Alice and she served onboard the ship for two tours of duty; she was a great mascot that greatly raised the morale of the crew.
Our first United Nations (UN) patrol was escorting a troop ship to the port of Pusan while North Korean troops were within 25 miles of port. On our next mission, we became the first Canadian ship to fire in anger since the Second World War, bombarding the city of Yosu.
The Cayuga, along with a great number of UN ships, took part in the Inchon invasion on September 15, 1950. This resulted in a rapid advance by Allied troops up to the Yalu River. On October 16, 1950, we were leading the HMS Kenya north of Inchon when we had a very narrow escape: We discovered we were in a minefield. We immediately ordered the Kenya to turn to starboard, but we had to proceed, as our forward momentum had us in the minefield already. At one point, we heard metal scraping on metal as we made contact with one of the mines, but it must have been a dud, as we escaped unharmed.
Along with the Athabaskan and the Sioux, while heading to Hong Kong in November of 1950, we ran into a fierce Typhoon Clara in the Formosa Strait. A crewman from the Athabaskan was swept overboard. We turned to pick him up but missed. The Athabaskan also turned, and, through skilful handling, the ship managed to head straight to him—two sailors at the rail grabbed the swimmer just as the wave crested. After Ordinary Seaman Elvidge was safely back on board and dried off, he said, “Now I know there is a God.” That night, about 2 a.m., Cayuga was hit by a rogue wave. The helmsman swung the wheel to starboard to head the ship into the wave to prevent a rollover. We rolled 52 degrees—no Tribal-class destroyer had ever exceeded that degree of roll. Slowly, the ship returned to an upright position—a frightening experience for all aboard.
On one mission, we spent 54 straight days at sea, escorting aircraft carriers that were supplying guerrilla bases on offshore islands behind enemy lines, bombarding shore installations and assisting guerrilla operations raiding enemy-held islands. We had enemy artillery fire directed at us a number of times. Fortunately, they missed but did come very close.
During our second tour, while assisting on a guerrilla raid, three South Korean marines were badly wounded by the enemy. They were brought back to the ship, where our surgeon, Dr. Cyr, operated on them, saving their lives. A reporter wrote a story about this incident and it became national news back home in Canada. Apparently, the mother of the real Dr. Cyr, who was practicing in New Brunswick, contacted Ottawa and suggested there was an imposter aboard. Captain Plomer summoned the doctor to his cabin, where he eventually admitted that his name was actually Ferdinand Demara. He was shipped back to Ottawa and discharged from the navy. Hollywood later made a movie about him, called The Great Impostor, starring Tony Curtis.
At a naval reunion in 1979 in Victoria, we were able to meet Ferdinand Demara again. He told us that he was now a doctor of divinity working in a hospital in Anaheim, California. Over the years, his exploits led to charges of fraud, forgery, embezzlement, theft and vagary. Personally, I found him to be a good, down-to-earth man who was well liked by the crew.
—by Leonard “Scotty” Wells, Scarborough, Ontario
Izzy’s Story
The legacy of a Canadian soldier and the power of love
We mostly think of our soldiers as being tough, dedicated, and highly trained to serve and fight for peace to protect Canada, and to help protect all the innocent victims of war around the world. Little do we know, think or hear about the humanitarian side of each and every soldier who puts his or her life on the line every day in the service of peace.
This is only one story of a Canadian unit—the 1 Combat Engineer Regiment (1CER)—which lost one of their own, MCpl. Mark (Izzy)Isfeld, on peacekeeping operations in Croatia in 1994.
In 1993, while on tour in Croatia with his regiment, MCpl. Isfeld drove into a village and noticed something on a pile of rubble by a destroyed house. Although it looked like a small child, it was actually a life-size doll. He took a photo and, on his next leave home to Courtney, British Columbia, he showed it to his parents, Brian and Carol Isfeld. Mark said, “Look, Mom: A little child has lost her doll and a doll her little child.” Remembering his happy upbringing in Canada, he added, “These kids don’t have a childhood.”
Carol was moved by the photo and felt the need to do something to help her son cope with the daily challenges he faced on duty. Giving a gift of a doll to the children of war, to bring a little happiness into their lives, would also bring joy to Mark as he gave them out. So Carol began crocheting little dolls—girls with yellow pigtails and boys with blue berets. She sent them to her son and, as Mark gave out the dolls, he became known as the soldier who collected little smiles, little handshakes and little hearts.
Tragically, the following year, Mark was killed by an exploding land mine on June 21, 1994, in Croatia. After his death, Mark’s troop named the doll after Izzy and continued giving out Izzy dolls to the children in his honour. Over the years, the Izzy doll has become a symbol of peace, showing the humanitarian side of all Canadian soldiers.
Nationwide, knitters and crocheters joined Carol’s cause to bring smiles to the children of war. Their candid comments expressed the joy they felt in helping the children. Many of the elderly crafters had lived through wartime and the Great Depression. They said they knew what it was like to have nothing, and that creating an Izzy doll for a child who had nothing was something they just had to do.
Our Canada Our Country Our Stories Page 13
