The Freedom Fighters

By Bill Twatio

Blacks in Canada had no problem choosing sides in the American Civil War. Enlisting in the Union cause in great numbers, they too fought for “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.” Among them was Harriet Tubman, who made repeated trips into the South to guide slaves north on the Underground Railroad.

Convinced long before Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation that the fight against slavery and the preservation of the Union were synonymous, Henry Jackson, a black Canadian wrote: “I wish to impress upon your mind that the war is a trial between freedom and slavery not only here, but all over the world.” True to his convictions, he enlisted in the Union Army and was killed at Campbell’s Station on November 16, 1863.    

Black Canadians had no problem in choosing sides in the American Civil War. Bred in slavery, they rallied to the Union cause as soon as President Abraham Lincoln issued a directive allowing black enlistments in the Union armies. Maritimers made their way to Massachusetts to enlist in the famous 54th, celebrated in the movie “Glory,” while young blacks from the Elgin and Buxton Settlements in Ontario crossed the border at Detroit to join the 1st Michigan Coloured Infantry. Others, encouraged by Joseph Henson, a schoolteacher at Dresden whose escape from slavery inspired Harriet Beecher Stowe’s book, Uncle Tom’s Cabin, would serve in the cavalry, artillery and navy in every theatre of war. Two of every 100 Canadians who served were black Canadians fighting for the freedom of black Americans.

The Road to Freedom 

Although most black Canadians were American born, blacks had settled in Canada as early as 1629 when David Kirke arrived at Quebec with a black slave from Madagascar who he promptly sold to Champlain’s master-builder, Guillaume Couillard. Little is known about this first black resident of Canada except that he was baptized under the name Olivier Le Jeune, served as a domestic and died, still a young man and a slave, in 1654.     

Slavery was forbidden in France, but Louis XIV gave it limited approval in Canada, informing the colonists that “His Majesty finds it good that the inhabitants import Negroes there to take care of their agriculture.” Blacks were soon set to work as household servants and field-hands and did much of the heavy work in the new fur-trading outposts. Although there would be fewer slave-owners in New France than in the neighbouring English colonies to the south, the attitude to slavery was similar. Enumerated with the animals, a black was a slave everywhere and no one was astonished to find him in bondage.    

Slavery in Canada continued to flourish under the British regime, Jeffrey Amherst assuring the Marquis de Vaudreuil, a slave-owner, that “Negroes of both sexes shall remain in their quality of slaves in possession of the French or Canadians to whom they belong.” This assurance was included in the Articles of Capitulation signed at Montreal in 1760.    

Many prominent citizens acquired slaves. The Reverend David Delisle of the Church of England in Montreal bought a slave name Charles in 1766 and two years later James McGill, a wealthy merchant, bought “a negro woman named Sarah, about the age of 25 years for the sum of 56 pounds, lawful money of the Province.” Much of the dealing in slaves was carried on through the newspapers. When Fleury Mesplet founded the Montreal Gazette in 1778, he announced that his paper would “give notice to the public at any time of slaves deserted from their masters.”    

Slaves accompanied the Loyalists to their new homes in British North America in the wake of the American Revolution. Veterans of Butler’s Rangers who settled along the Niagara Frontier brought slaves with them or bought them from livestock dealers who brought their wares to Canada. A Colonel Clark of Ernestown in Prince Edward Country recalls that “drovers used to come in with horses, cattle, sheep and negroes, for the use of the troops, forts, and settlers in Canada, and my father purchased his four negroes, three males and one female named Sue.”     

Wherever the Loyalists brought their slaves, black settlements began to form – at Birchtown near Shelbourne in Nova Scotia; at York, Kingston and Prescott; at Sandwich, Amherstburg and Chatham. Although they came as slaves, hope was beginning to dawn. In 1791, Colonel John Graves Simcoe, the newly-appointed Governor of Upper Canada, pledged himself never to support any law that “discriminates by dishonest policy between the Natives of Africa, America or Europe.” Two years later he introduced a bill in the Legislative Assembly prohibiting the importation of slaves, which passed “with much opposition but little argument.”

The Underground Railroad

In spite of its limitations, Simcoe’s bill helped to change public attitudes to slavery and by the turn of the century most Canadian blacks were free. Moreover, American blacks, learning that they would not be enslaved north of the border, began a trek to freedom honouring Simcoe’s memory with an abolitionist song:

”I’m on my  way to Canada

That cold and distant land

The dire effects of slavery

I can no longer stand -

Farewell, old master,

Don’t come after me.

I’m on my way to Canada

Where coloured men are free.”

The legendary Underground Railroad, with its mythical “trains” running through the northern states to terminals in Canada, had no track or rolling stock. It was underground only in the sense that it was a secret operation. Quakers and Methodists, free blacks and slaves, “shareholders” united in their hatred of slavery, worked out of border states and used railway terms to confuse the authorities. “Conductors” drove carts and farm wagons with slaves hidden in false compartments and transferred them to “stations” along the many routes leading to Canada. The most famous, Harriet Tubman, called the “Black Moses” of her people, made repeated trips into the South to guide slaves north. Her forays ended at St. Catharines at the home of the Reverend Hiram Wilson, the leader of the local refugee community. Operating informally without reports, meetings and memoranda, the Underground Railroad spirited some 30,000 fugitives to Canada between 1800 and 1860.

Cheers for Massachusetts

Harriet Tubman continued her work during Civil War as a spy and nurse for the Union Army. Discriminated against and denied a pension, her experience was only too familiar to Canadian black volunteers. Black soldiers did not receive the same pay as whites and could not become officers. Many served for long periods without pay until they were grudgingly awarded half the standard rate, prompting the 54th to adopt the bitter battle cry: “Three Cheers for Massachusetts and Seven Dollars a Month!” The men who died in the attack on Fort Wagner were never paid.    

Military hospitals had separate but unequal facilities for black and white troops leading to a higher death rate among blacks. Only eight black surgeons received commissions and they were they were resented by their white colleagues. Dr. Alexander Augusta, who had trained at Trinity College in Toronto, was removed from his position as head of surgery at Camp Stanton in Maryland after his white assistants personally complained to the Secretary of War. Returning to Washington by train, he was attacked by two men who tore his officer’s insignia from his uniform while a mob watched.

Approximately 180,000 blacks served in the Union Army. They participated in over 500 military engagements, 40 of which were major battles. Their most difficult battle, however, was waged against entrenched racial attitudes. American and Canadian blacks alike, faced the fires of war and hatred with courage hoping that they too would finally have the right to “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.”

Reprinted from the encyclopaedia Canada at War and Peace II:  A Millennium of Military Heritage, published by Esprit de Corps Books in 2001.

BREAKOUT FROM JUNO: First Canadian Army and the Normandy Campaign

(Volume 26 Issue 5)

By Mark Zuehlke

On June 6th 1944, the greatest air and naval armada in history struck the Normandy coast of France. Breaching Hitler’s Atlantic Wall was a tremendous feat, but in the days and weeks ahead, citizen soldiers of the world’s democracies had to hone their craft against some of the toughest and most experienced troops of the German Wermacht. This excerpt is from the ninth volume of Mark Zuehlke’s s Canadian Battle Series and tells the story of the Canadian attack on the Carpiquet airport. Although Canadian soldiers achieved the greatest penetration of the first days of June, progress afterward was measured in blood
against dug-in, fanatical resistance.

To indicate the location of a wounded man, the nearest soldier would drive the man’s rifle bayonet into the ground so the butt was visible above the wheat. The rifle markers also helped prevent tanks and Bren carriers from running over the fallen. On the extreme left flank, the North Shore’s carrier platoon rumbled along in their Bren carriers next to the railroad. Their commander, Captain J.A. Currie, thought the “dust and smoke made it like a night attack…and during the clear spots, we could see men going forward, but had no idea so many had been hit. Padre [R. Miles] Hickey was right among them, giving the last rites and so was Doc [John Aubry] Patterson with his medical kit. No other unit had a pair to match them.”

Hickey had waded into the midst of ‘B’ Company, shredded even as it advanced towards the start line. “Everywhere men lay dead or dying,” Hickey wrote. “I anointed about thirty right there.”

‘A’ Company’s Major Anderson thought the “advance through the grain field was little short of hell.” He kept his bearings in the boiling smoke by taking constant compass readings. Behind him, one platoon wandered off at a right angle to the line of advance. Lieutenant Darrel Barker had been mortally wounded, and, unable to see the rest of the company, the platoon drifted out of sight into the smoke before Anderson could bring it back on course.

Many of the fifty 12th SS soldiers deployed in the field west of Carpiquet had been killed or so badly dazed by the shelling they meekly surrendered when overrun. But a few remained defiant.
Their fire added to the casualty toll. “I am sure at some time during the attack,” Anderson recalled, “every man felt he could not go on. Men were being killed or wounded on all sides and the advance seemed pointless, as well as hopeless. I never realized until the attack on Carpiquet how far discipline, pride of unit, and above all, pride in oneself and family can carry a man, even when each step forward meant possible death.”

‘B’ Company’s Lieutenant Charles Richardson had only twenty of the thirty-five men in his platoon left. Lieutenant Paul McCann’s platoon was on his right. Both men were using compasses. When the smoke lifted momentarily, Richardson saw that McCann’s men were now to his left. He had no idea how that had happened. His men emerged from the smoke in an extended line and suddenly faced a field that had been burned to stubble by artillery fire. Charging forward, they wiped out a slit trench defended by five Germans. Richardson saw a pinwheeling stick grenade land in front of him. “I felt a hot stinging in my right side and left hand, then thought it didn’t matter too much.” Suddenly alone, Richardson took on the German position single-handedly and killed its defenders. His batman and two runners had all been seriously wounded by the grenade.

“My side started to bother me badly and my left hand was peppered with shrapnel. I had a long cigarette case in the inside pocket of my battledress and a towel wrapped around my waist. In order to look at my side, which was throbbing, I unbuttoned my tunic and the towel was full of shrapnel. I reached for a cigarette and found the case bent almost double by a large piece of shrapnel. I felt I was not hit too badly but out of nowhere appeared our beloved colonel and I quickly had orders to get back to the first aid post—which marked the finish of my first month in action.”

Two Fort Garry Horse squadrons were riding right on the heels of the North Shores and Chauds. One Sherman rolled up and spun in a full turn that buried Sturmmann Karl-Heinz Wambach to the chest in the sandy soil of his slit trench. He was trying to free himself when a voice yelled, “SS bastard, hands up!” Two North Shores dragged him free and tied his hands. One then punched him in the face. He was taken to the rear, urged along by rifle butt blows, and tied to a fence post for some hours in an area subjected to frequent shelling by German 88-millimetre guns.

Wambach’s complaints about his treatment led the North Shore’s historian to comment that “given the way Canadians felt about the 12th SS, he got off lucky.” During its advance across the field, the North Shores took thirty-five prisoners and killed an equal number.

At 0625 hours, almost ninety minutes after the attack began, the North Shores reached the shelter of a stone wall in front of Carpiquet and reported being on their first objective. The Chauds signalled brigade a few minutes later that they had men on the village edge and among the nearby hangars. Carpiquet was still being heavily shelled, forcing a twenty-minute pause. More casualties resulted when shells burst in the tree canopy next to the Canadian positions. When the artillery ceased firing, both battalions plunged into the village. Most of the small garrison actually deployed within either surrendered, were already dead, or quickly fled. The North Shores sent back twenty more prisoners. In the Chaudière sector, a handful of hard-core 12th SS in the hangar complex were burned out of concrete pillboxes by Crocodiles. At 1056, the Chauds reported their grip on the hangars secure.

Surprisingly, there were French civilians still living in the badly damaged village. Some, who emerged from bomb shelters and basements, had been wounded, and most seemed to be “in a state of severe shock,” Lieutenant MacRae wrote. “One old couple passed me going to the rear with their few possessions in a wheelbarrow. They looked too dazed to know what was going on.” While most of the civilians immediately fled towards the Canadian lines, a few were driven back into hiding when the Germans slammed Carpiquet with heavy and continuous mortar and artillery fire.

Private Feldman manned his wireless in a concrete bunker the Chauds were using as a battalion headquarters. Lieutenant Colonel Paul Mathieu, Major Lapointe, the battalion padre, and Feldman felt pretty secure there until “we heard this big noise and knew it was coming close. I was facing one way and the shell…hit the HQ in another place. I was in the ‘dead zone’ or I’d have been killed by the concussion…I was knocked flat into the bunker and the officers looked at me and thought I’d died…I had landed on my set and that really prevented me from getting hurt, but the set was damaged. We got it going again and it was a miracle.”

To the south, as Fulton’s ‘D’ Company had closed on the first of the three hangars, it began taking heavy small-arms fire in addition to being shelled and mortared. All three platoons were shredded. Fulton was the only officer still standing. “We made a final rush and got into the hangar, taking over the extensive network of deep weapon pits and trenches developed by the Germans to guard the hangars. It was then that the heaviest bombardment I experienced throughout the whole war was brought down upon us. If it hadn’t been for the excellent German trench system, I believe none of us would of survived.”

Fulton radioed Lieutenant Colonel John Meldram. His company held the hangar but was too weak to go any farther, Fulton reported. However, he believed it could repel the likely counterattack. ‘A’ Company had been forced to ground a hundred yards short of the hangars. Meldram decided to feed ‘B’ Company through to the hangar held by Fulton. He also requested that 8th Brigade release some of ‘B’ Squadron’s tanks to accompany it.

Blackader reluctantly agreed to release one troop along with four Crocodiles. ‘B’ Squadron was Blackader’s only armoured reserve, and he intended to have it support the follow-on assault by the Queen’s Own Rifles to clear the control and administration buildings in the northeast corner of the airfield. Because the Winnipegs had failed to clear the hangars and remove the German threat to the Queen’s Own from that flank, Blackader had delayed this phase. He also ordered the Queen’s Own to form up inside Carpiquet for the launch of their attack.

‘B’ Company met the same murderous hail of German shells the two leading companies had endured. Only about half the men reached the hanger Fulton held. Captain Jack Hale had been wounded. Fulton combined the survivors with his own. But the Winnipegs were still unable to clear the Germans out of the concrete pillboxes and trench systems defending the other hangars. The Crocodiles, the Winnipeg war diarist wrote, “proved useless.” As for the Fort Garry troop, its four Shermans met deadly fire from hidden anti-tank guns. Lieutenant Arthur Edwin Rogers and Sergeant Alastair James Innes-Ker were both mortally wounded when their tanks burst into flames. The demise of those two tanks prompted the remaining two to flee.

Wireless contact between battalion headquarters and the forward companies was so erratic that Meldram ordered Fulton to come back for a briefing. “I had no desire to make my way back across the airfield again, a target for the German guns; mine not to reason why, however.” As Fulton ran back, he spotted Rifleman Leonard Miller calmly lying in a slit trench and reading a pocket-sized New Testament. Meldram ordered the lead companies pulled back to a small, sparse wood a few hundred yards ahead of the original start line. Artillery would then plaster the hangars, and a new attack would go in with ‘B’ Squadron alongside. As Fulton passed Miller’s slit trench on his return run, he saw the man had been killed by a mortar round.

At 1600 hours, the new attack went in behind another bombardment. Rifleman Edward Patey, a Bren gunner in ‘C’ Company, had just started forward when mortar and machine-gun fire tore into his platoon. Three men went down. He recognized one as a man in his mid-thirties everyone had nicknamed “Pops.” The man lay “writhing on the ground, his whole stomach ripped with bullets.” Patey “was hit by a mortar piece in the eye and upper chest and…left deaf for a couple of days.”

‘B’ Company’s Sergeant Major Charles Belton suffered a chest wound. “I can remember when we were kids, we watched an Indian-cowboy movie and someone got shot and hit the ground and was dead. When I looked down and saw this blood spurting out of my chest, I thought I’d better lie down, so I did. I was fortunate. The shrapnel came through a book I had in my upper right breast pocket. Otherwise I would probably have had that shot go right through me. But the book stopped the shrapnel, although it took two pieces of cardboard and that book into the wound and that infected it and made it worse.”

As Belton started crawling to the rear, a German sniper in a nearby tree shot him in the leg. One of his men gunned the sniper down. Belton was evacuated to a field hospital. “There were so many of us in that tent that stretchers were only about [six] inches apart, just enough room for the nurses to walk in between…just row, and row, and row of us on these stretchers. I lay so long on this stretcher that my back pain was far worse than the wounds. I finally got back to England on a barge.”

While the infantry had gone straight for the hangars, the Shermans had executed a “sweeping attack” to get around the left flank of the Germans inside. Within minutes the tankers found their planned charge slowed to a crawl by thick bands of barbed wire and other obstacles, as well as anti-tank fire coming from in and around the hangars. Major Christian also reported the squadron was taking heavy fire from Panthers on the high ground behind the village of Verson to his right. The British were to have taken this ground but were stalled inside Verson.

‘B’ Squadron was completely out of contact with the infantry, which, having regained the first hangar, were again stuck there. Christian manoeuvred the squadron towards the hangars but found his tanks caught in a vise between a force of Mark IV and Panther tanks near Verson and other tanks at the hangars. A fierce shootout ensued. Soon burning tanks littered the airfield. ‘B’ Squadron had gone into the attack fifteen strong. When the tank battle broke off, nine remained operational.

The battle clearly stalemated, Meldram told Blackader at 1725 hours that “it would be impossible to hold on without increased [support]. Blackader had nothing more to send. When a mixed force of tanks and infantry approached the airfield from the east, artillery managed to scatter it. But the Germans only “dispersed and rallied” the moment the guns ceased firing. Blackader ordered the Winnipegs back to Marcelet. As the infantry withdrew, the surviving tanks joined them. At Marcelet the Winnipegs dug in. Blackader ordered his battalions to reorganize where they were.

“What had we accomplished?” Fulton wondered. “Possibly the Germans recognized our intention to take Carpiquet and that we would be back. But at what a cost!”

Blackader ordered the Queen’s Own to join his other battalions holding Carpiquet. To reach the village meant running the gauntlet of artillery and mortar fire through the wheat field. En route, ‘B’ Company’s Rifleman Alex Gordon was wounded and left behind. Rifleman J.P. Moore rolled up in his Bren carrier just as the men in Gordon’s platoon realized he was missing. They warned Moore that “the fire was so heavy that anyone in the wheat field would be killed.” Moore gave the carrier full throttle, drove like mad into the wheat field, grabbed up Gordon and threw him in the carrier and brought him to safety.”

As the battalion closed on Carpiquet, one carrier platoon section, operating as foot infantry, sought shelter beside a concrete bunker. Suddenly, a German inside it opened up with a Schmeisser, and Rifleman Art Reid was shot dead. The entire battalion went to ground and called for tanks and Crocodiles to destroy the position.

When the armour arrived, the Crocodiles blasted “with flame the walls about the entrances, which were set in a wide trench on the south side. This treatment merely blackened the [heavy] concrete walls and appeared to have no effect upon the enemy within. Nor were the tanks able to damage the structure,” Major Steve Lett, the battalion’s second-in-command, wrote.

Corporal Tom McKenzie noticed six ventilation shafts poking out of the bunker’s roof and dropped a Mills grenade down one of the pipes. When nothing happened, he realized the pipe was virtually the same diameter as the grenade and this prevented the firing pin from releasing. Flipping the pins free and then dropping the grenades down the pipe worked, but the explosions still failed to convince the Germans inside to surrender.

Because the Germans had killed Reid, McKenzie was getting “madder than hell.” So he stole a carrier’s four-gallon jerry can, emptied the gas down the pipe, and dropped a phosphorous grenade down after. A lot of smoke boiled out of the ventilation duct and there were some satisfying secondary explosions, but still no Germans appeared.

While McKenzie had been taking on the bunker, the battalion’s pioneers had unsuccessfully tried to blow the roof open with a 25-pound demolition charge. “Others tried to blow the steel doors set within the entrances, but here the approach was covered by fire from a sliding panel in the wall through which weapons could be pointed. Several men were killed in this attempt.”

McKenzie took the problem to an engineering officer, Lieutenant John L. Yeats from 16th Field Company, RCE, which was supporting 8th Brigade. When he explained the problem, Yeats showed him a shaped explosive 10-pound charge he had slung on his back. When detonated, this type of charge focused on a wall rather than dissipating the blast in all directions. With McKenzie providing covering fire, Yeats wriggled up to the bunker door, set the charge, lit its fuse, and then both men scrambled for cover. This time the explosion had the desired effect.

A German soldier “emerged from the outer door, announcing himself as spokesman for the remainder, who were afraid to come out, and asking permission to surrender.” Eleven 12th SS troops warily emerged. Several said they had been “told that Canadians take no PW. Consequently they [were] reluctant to surrender, preferring to fight to the last.” The youths admitted “a great hatred for our arty, which is far superior to their own, and never gives them rest.”

Inside the bunker, Lett found the corpses of an officer and sixteen other men, who had been killed by the grenades, burning gasoline, and detonation of the shaped charge. Having cleared the bunker, the Queen’s Own continued into Carpiquet. “Jutting into enemy territory at the tip of the newly-won salient, the village was open to hostile fire from three sides and the three battalions, huddled with their tank squadrons and other supporting arms under the shelter of battered walls, were now being severely shelled and mortared.”

Winning Carpiquet had exacted a dreadful toll. The North Shores lost more men than on any other day of the war—132, of which 46 were killed. The Chauds had 57 casualties, 16 killed. The Queen’s Own suffered 4 killed and 22 wounded. In its failed assault on the southern hangars, the Winnipegs lost more men than during the D-Day landings or when they were overrun at Putot-en-Bessin on June 7–8. Forty of its 132 casualties proved fatal. The Fort Garry Horse lost 8 men killed and 20 wounded—most from ‘B’ Squadron—while 16th Field Company, RCE, had 10 casualties, of which 3 were fatal.

North Shore’s medical officer, John Patterson, and Padre Hickey opened an RAP in a German dugout within the village because “there wasn’t a building left standing, even the trees were smashed to splinters.” Wounded poured in, and the medical teams worked frantically to stabilize people before evacuating them rearward to casualty clearing stations and field hospitals. When Major Blake Oulton was carried in on a stretcher with a bullet in his leg, Hickey said he was a “lucky dog” to have received such a “lovely wound” that would take him out of this hellhole. As dusk fell, Hickey and Major G.E. Lockwood led a burying party during a short lull in the German shelling. You “could fancy how the wheat field had been just like any of our wheat fields back home,” Hickey wrote. But “now the wheat was just trampled into the earth; the ground was torn with shell holes and everywhere you could see the pale upturned faces of the dead. That night alone we buried forty—Carpiquet was the graveyard of the regiment.”

Mona Parsons: From Privilege To Prison: From Nova Scotia to Nazi Europe

(Volume 26-02)

By Andria Hill-Lehr

Nova Scotian Mona Parsons was born into privilege, and married a millionaire – not exactly preparation for the dangers of assisting the Dutch underground in World War Two. Parsons and her Dutch husband, Willem Leonhardt, helped Allied airmen shot down over the Occupied Netherlands to evade Nazi capture. For over a year their efforts went undetected.
Then, traitors infiltrated the network. Willem went into hiding. Mona believed she could deflect suspicion by remaining in their home. That choice nearly cost her, her life in 1941, leading to a prison sentence, and ultimately a dramatic escape from Nazi Germany in March 1945.

At first, Mona thought this was another intimidation tactic, but what she heard shook her badly. The two British flyers whom she and Willem had sheltered had been caught in Leiden. Though Richard Pape made a desperate attempt to tear up his diary and his code book and flush them down the toilet, (as he dramatically described in a book he wrote later, scooping the unflushed pieces out of the toilet and eating them as the Gestapo broke down the door) he neglected to exercise the same precaution with one damning piece of evidence against Mona. In Pape’s pocket was Mona’s calling card. On the reverse was the name of Virginia Tufts Pickett, and the address in London where she was living at the time. Mona had asked Pape to contact Virginia, so that she could let Mona’s father in Canada know of her contribution to the war effort. But Mona’s message was never delivered, and the Gestapo acquired the evidence that directly linked the British airmen to Mona.

During her interrogation, Mona also learned that other members of the little network had been captured. Numb with shock, she listened as she heard the names of people she knew read aloud with others she didn’t recognise: Bernard Besselink, a farmer; Jan Agterkamp, a journalist; Frederik Boessenkool, a teacher; Jan Huese, a businessman; Harmen van der Leek, a professor; and Dirk Brouwer. The thought briefly flickered in her mind that the Gestapo were lying, that the people named had not been arrested, but that the Gestapo were hoping that upon hearing their names, she might betray something. But, she realized, they couldn’t have known the name of the British airmen unless they’d captured them.

The cold terror that started in the pit of her stomach and rapidly engulfed her told her that this was not a Gestapo ruse, and that the arrests were all too true. She gave no outward sign of fear, instead feigning boredom at the unfamiliar names and offering incredulous chuckles when told of the alleged involvement of people she knew. She asked for a cigarette in a bid to buy time to calm her nerves. Lighting it without a tremor, she inhaled deeply, and stared steadily at the interrogating officer. Calmly, she asked him why, if he thought he already knew so much, he was persisting in asking her questions for which she had no answer. Her ploy worked. Angered at Mona’s refusal to be intimidated, the officer ended the interview and tersely ordered that she be returned to her cell. A prisoner she might have been, but she was also a strong-willed woman. And her captors had to admit, even if not to her, a degree of grudging respect for her strength.

ESCAPE 1945

So rapid was the Allied advance into the area around Rhede that a notation in the War Diaries indicated that the military were scrambling to produce maps of the battle zones because they changed so quickly, so frequently. Consequently, Mona and Wendelien’s planned escape to Holland was altered by the Allies’ ever-changing battle plans. The Canadian infantry had been busy liberating northeastern Holland in late March and early April, and the Canadian Armoured Division re-entered Germany to take Meppen on April 8. From there, the Armoured Division set a course for Oldenburg. In the meantime, fighting became particularly vicious after the Polish Armoured Division crossed the Küsten Kanal in an area only a few kilometres from Rhede.

On April 14, 1945, the fighting around Rhede moved closer. The bump of artillery, which had been daily background sound for Mona and Wendelien, became the buzz and roar of shells exploding in their midst – “shells were bursting all around, tanks rattled by the front door and machine guns were being fired from the corners of the house.” The Polish offensive and Canadian efforts sent the Nazis into a rear-guard action. Artillery shells began bursting in the fields as farmers, their families and labourers scrambled for cover. The milchräder’s wife grabbed some food and bedding, and herded her children into the basement. Mona favoured taking her chances above ground to being in the close confines of a cramped, dusty cellar, which reminded her too much of prison. She remained on the main floor of the house until the farmer emerged to check on the battle’s progress during a brief lull. He went outside to speak to a German soldier and offer him food. In a flash, an artillery shell passed within a metre of Mona’s head and landed nearby, exploding on impact and sending a plume of earth skyward. Mona flung herself on the floor before she could see what happened to the farmer and the soldier, and decided that the cellar was preferable to the ground floor of the house if the next shell landed on the building. Joining the rest of the family in the cellar, Mona huddled in a corner on a mat while the battle raged over their heads.

When at last the assault stopped three days later, Mona and the farmer’s eldest daughter were sent out to view the damage. The first sight that greeted them was the farmer’s feet sticking out of a ditch. Near him was the soldier, also dead, a sausage still clutched in one hand. The child began to wail and ran back to the house to get her mother. Mona and the farmer’s widow struggled to carry the farmer’s body into the house. They had only just laid the corpse on the floor when Allied soldiers went through the town, telling the occupants they had 40 minutes to clear out of the area and get over the border into Holland – about a five-minute trip away…. 

As Mona travelled through Holland the extent of the devastation of the Dutch countryside began to have an impact. The country was just emerging from the Hongerwinter of 1944-45, precipitated when the Nazis cut off food supplies to the Dutch nation as punishment for its dogged resistance to Nazi occupation. And the battles between advancing Allies and retreating Nazis had laid waste to the countryside. Rotting carcasses of livestock dotted the fields, hulks of military vehicles were strewn along muddy roadsides. In some places, corpses of soldiers and civilians lay amid the rubble and ruins of what once were homes, farms and villages. Those left alive were as thin and ragged as Mona herself.
For the first time, Mona felt defeated and wondered if there was any point in returning home. Would her house even be standing? What had been Willem’s fate? How many of her friends would still be in Laren? She stopped to rest near Vlagtwedde, at a farmhouse in the midst of what had obviously been a battle zone, just a few kilometres from the Dutch farmhouse where she had heard stories of heroic Canadians fighting to liberate the country and bring food to a starving nation.

Exhausted, she tried to ask for a drink at the farmhouse. “I tried to remember my Dutch, but it was hopelessly mixed with German. The people looked hostile, until I assured them I was a Canadian married to a Dutchman – then they couldn’t do enough for me.” She managed to communicate that she needed to find Allied troops, and the farmer’s brother, aged 64, proudly produced a bicycle (one of the few not confiscated in the mad rush by the Nazis to leave the area) and offered to take Mona to what he believed were Polish troops.

The first soldier Mona saw was loading a truck. She approached him hopefully, and with as much confidence as she could muster. A once wealthy woman used to dressing in the height of fashion, Mona now carried only 87 pounds on her 5’ 8” frame, was filthy and clad in shabby clothes, with only filthy bandages on her feet, having discarded the wooden clogs because they had chafed her already tortured feet. The soldier responded gruffly when asked if he spoke English, doubtless cautious because of warnings about Wehrwolf [a Nazi initiative to encourage women to befriend Allied soldiers, steal their food and weapons and, if possible, kill them]. But his brusqueness quickly changed to amazement at hearing that she had escaped from a Nazi prison and then walked across Germany. His suspicion was raised again, however, when she claimed to be Canadian. Where in Canada was she from, he wanted to know. When she replied that her home was in a little town in Nova Scotia called Wolfville, an expletive escaped his lips and he nearly dropped the box he was holding. He told her his name was Clarence Leonard of Halifax, and that she had just met up with the North Nova Scotia Highlanders.

Since arriving in Holland, Canadian soldiers had seen the effects of starvation and years of deprivation on the Dutch people. But little did any of them expect to find a Canadian woman in such condition, who had lived the experiences she had. Mona was greeted by fellow Canadians who eagerly shared their rations with her, treating her to white bread with honey and plum jam, and hot tea – her first since the cup she’d been given in the Amstelveense Prison just prior to her transport to Germany in March 1942. During her incarceration in Germany, the only drinks she’d had were water and, occasionally, ersatz coffee. The other gift she remembered for the rest of her life was from a young soldier who had received a care package from home. In it were some Moirs chocolates (in those days manufactured in Bedford, Nova Scotia). He’d savoured each one, making them last as long as possible, but when he found a Canadian woman in their midst – and a Nova Scotian, no less – he gave her the last three precious chocolates to remind her of home. After years of deprivation, they were more precious to her than any jewels or finery she’d possessed. She did not gobble them up, but cradled them in her palm for a while, inhaling the rich, chocolatey-sweet scent. When they began to melt, she put them in her pocket in order to save them and savour them little by little. In an attempt to follow the precautions necessary in a war zone, the soldiers asked her to wait for the arrival of an officer. But when she declined, they did not persist. Their instincts must have convinced them she was telling the truth. After receiving more clean bandages for her feet, she set out again.

Canada Answered The Call

(Volume 26-01)

By James Joe Bissett

This is part two of former Candian ambassador
James Bissett’s history of Serbian-Canadian
relations during the Great War 1914-18.

While serving as Canada’s ambassador to Yugoslavia in the early 1990s I was asked if I might unveil a plaque honoring the memory of the hundreds of Canadians who came to Serbia during WW1 to serve with Canadian medical missions. It was then that I discovered the amazing story of the manner with which Canadian medical personnel responded to Serbia’s call for help.

 The plaque as unveiled at the entrance of the Serbian Medical Society Museum in Belgrade. After the ceremony I was accompanied by an interpreter to meet and talk to a small group of WW1 veterans. The grizzled old veterans with rows of medals and some with large white drooping mustaches were articulate and dignified and especially proud to have been recognized at the event. They all spoke favorably about Canada and its remarkable WW1 record. It will always be one of the most memorable days of my life.

The plaque was erected by the Serbian Heritage Academy of Canada and is a twin to another similar plaque erected at the Memorial Hall of the Medical Services Building University of Toronto. These two plaques are symbolic of how deeply Serbians still honours those Canadians who traveled to help Serbia during that time of conflict and devastation. The contribution Canadian medical mission made was critical and played a major role in enabling the Serbian military and other allied troops in the Salonika Campaign to carry on the fight against a powerful enemy. 

In addition, there were many individual doctors and nurses who went to Serbia to offer their professional services to the Serbian people in response to an appeal by the Serbian government in 1914 and 1915 for help in dealing with an outbreak of a typhoid epidemic. Doctors from all parts of Canada responded to that appeal. As only one example, in response to an appeal by the Serbian Legation in London, 34 doctors from across Canada volunteered to serve in Serbian hospitals. Many others
followed.

In 1914, Canadian women doctors were prohibited from serving in war zones, so curiously enough, only nurses were considered eligible to do so. The result was that many individual female doctors from Canada joined the Scottish Women’s Hospital Units that were active in Serbia. One of the first to arrive in Serbia in 1915 was Dr. Irma Levasseur of Quebec City, who took charge of the Red Cross hospital in Kragujevac. Later, she joined the Serbian army’s exodus across the Albanian mountains
to Corfu.

Another woman doctor, Dr. Ella Campbell Synge of Vancouver formed her own medical unit and took it to Serbia. Later, she refused to be evacuated with the approach of German forces and was taken prisoner. Fortunately, she was later repatriated to Canada. There were many more women doctors from Canada who responded to the Serbian call for help but their story has yet to be written.

 The major contribution of Canadian medical services to Serbia was through the Canadian Medical Missions under command of Major General Guy Carleton Jones who was asked in 1915 by the British Director of Army Medical Service to send medical help to the Salonika front. It was a desperate plea for help because the allied forces there were without even the basic elements for caring for the sick and wounded soldiers.

Major General Carleton, to his credit agreed to do so, even though there no Canadian were involved in the Salonika campaign.
In late 1915, No.4 and No.5 Canadian General Hospitals were sent to the war zone. No.1 Canadian Stationary Hospital soon followed. All of these hospitals were self- supporting with a full complement of doctors, nurses, orderlies, drugs, medicines, and every thing needed to operate a modern-day hospital, including 1040 beds.

No.1 General Hospital was formed in Valcourt, Quebec and its 104 nurses were mostly graduates of McGill, Laval, and Queen’s universities. No.4 hospital was contributed by the University of Toronto. It was staffed entirely by University of Toronto students and alumni. Its 1040 bed capacity was later increased to 1,540 and then to 2000 in 1917. No.5 hospital was formed in Victoria sponsored by the province of British Columbia. It had 30 doctors and 72 nurses plus all the other staff and equipment essential for a functioning hospital.

The Canadian Medical Missions provided care to thousands of Serbian, British, French and other combatants during the Salonika campaign, without them the wounded would have had to be transported by sea at a dreadful cost of lives. Before their arrival there were no adequate hospitals in the war zone until a later stage in the war. In 1917 the Canadian government decided to transfer all of the hospitals to the Western Front where they would be able to care for Canadian troops. However, their contribution has never been forgotten by Serbia.

BATTLE OF HILL 60: Book Excerpt From "Courage, Sacrifice and Betrayal"

The Great war was an endless nightmare of mud and death fought over ditches and landscape features that barely rated proper names. (Above) Captain Peter Francis Fleming,
60th BN in an advanced post.
(LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA/NATIONAL DEFENCE/ 1964-114 PA-000584)

(Volume 25 Issue 4)

By Richard Pyves

It wasn’t much of a hill. Although located 60 meters above sea level, Hill 60 was just 10 metres high and barely four city blocks in area. It looked more like a knoll than a key observation post that the Germans and Allied forces would contest for four long and gruelling years. It was the graveyard for thousands of soldiers, many just teenagers. The Ypres-Comines Railway ran through a cutting just to the east of the hill. With its lack of vegetation and large craters formed from exploded underground mines, the hill looked more like the surface of the moon than a pile of railway cuttings overgrown with grass.

This was the world that Platoon Commander Lieutenant Robert Matthew and his Second-in-Command Sergeant Edward Pyves and their men entered on the night of 11 August 1916, as part of B Company, 60th Battalion – Victoria Rifles of Canada. Approaching the Canadian held trenches at the base of Hill 60, Edward could smell the sickening sweet fragrance of decaying bodies churned up in no man’s land.

 B Company was deployed in Trenches 42 through 44 as well as in Support Posts 45 and 46 with Lieutenant Matthew’s platoon positioned in a crater considered by Captain Ivan Ralston, in command of B Company, to be the most important part of his company’s frontage.

To Edward, the occasional rumbling of both the German and Canadian artillery sounded like an approaching thunderstorm but in reality it was a clear and warm night. After making sure that his men were properly deployed in the front trenches, Edward sought out shelter so he could rest. Once more in the front lines, he found it difficult to sleep due to the threat of a possible enemy attack. Fortunately for now, the night had become quiet allowing Edward and his men to enjoy a few hours of
sleep.

Private Walter Frederick Beattie (457056)
A Company wounded 12 August 1916.(Photo Courtesy of Steuart Beattie)

Once awake, Edward found the silence of the early morning unsettling. The quiet didn’t last long. At 8:00 a.m., the enemy started to bombard the front line over a front of 2,000 yards. By 8:30 a.m., an orchestra of German 77mm, 4.2-inch, and 5.9-inch high explosive shells along with their heavy trench mortars known as “minenwerfers” built to a crescendo. Soon the deep bass notes coming from the Canadian 12-inch guns intermingled with the German symphony signalling the delivery of a barrage aimed at both the front and rear of the German front line trenches.

At 11:00 a.m. Edward peered cautiously over the parapet. Through the drifting clouds of gray smoke he saw strong battle patrols moving out from the enemy’s front lines. There were almost 200 Germans quickly approaching their position in two waves. At the sight of the approaching enemy a shiver ran down Edward’s back and he intuitively knew that taking action would help dispel his sense of dread. Edward and his men laid down a rapid fire. They were thankful that the battalion’s Ross rifles notorious for fouling in the muddy trenches had just recently been replaced by the more reliable British made Lee-Enfield rifles. 

Lieutenant Matthew assisted his men in repelling the attackers in what was one of the worst places in the line. Fearing that they might be overrun, Lieutenant Mathew decided to personally take the risk to travel while under attack to report his tenuous situation to Captain Ralston. Approaching Ralston’s headquarters which was under heavy artillery fire, he took shelter in a trench nearby and was instantly killed by a high explosive shell.

 With support from the Canadian artillery and machine guns, only a handful of the German soldiers made it to the Canadian front lines. One German managed to get close enough to lob a hand grenade into one of the forward crater posts killing several members of Edward’s platoon. Edward was seriously wounded by the many fragments of the German “Potato Masher” penetrating his body and suffered temporary hearing loss. Although wounded, with the death of Lieutenant Matthew, Edward took charge of the crater posts and assisted in getting up bombs until the attack was driven back.

At the eastern end of Trench 38, Acting Sergeant Charles Bryant, Private C. Mann and Private John Gunn bombed out the Germans and then Private Gunn jumped over the parapet and bayoneted one of the raiders. One German NCO, accompanied by several attackers, also penetrated Trench 41 where Sergeant Carl McDowell, although wounded in the hand, threw a bomb at the raiding party killing all of them. Another party of 15 Germans using the sap into the crater outside of Trench 48 successfully bombed out the Canadian Post holding the craters, killing the occupants. They were driven off by machine gun and rifle fire, which had included fire from Edward and his men.

 Lieutenant H.N. Blake of the 6th Canadian Battery, situated in an Observation Post in The Dump located on the right of Hill 60, moved under fire to Verbranden Molen further west where he successfully tapped into a communications line helping direct battery fire onto the attacking Germans.

Once the German attack receded, Edward managed to walk barefoot to a forward medical clearing station as his boots had been blown off his feet in the explosion. Just three days later he arrived in England and would spend the next two months recovering from his wounds.

Sadly, two officers including Lieutenant Arthur Miles King (27-years-old) and 30 “Other Ranks” from the 60th Battalion were killed in the defence of Hill 60. An additional two officers and 56 “Other Ranks” were also wounded that day including Major Claude William Thompson and Major Gordon Alexander Sampson who would later recall: “My duty in France was of short duration. The First and Second Divisions having been transferred to the Somme area, the Third Division was required to take over the entire Canadian frontage of the Ypres Salient, Belgium. We were spread thin, and thus the opportunity for attack by the Germans. It came Saturday August 12, 1916, directed at Hill 60 and within an hour’s time the front line trenches manned by the 60th Battalion to which I was attached was but a series of shell holes. All communications was cut and but one machine gun remained in action.

Our battery was covering a part of the line known as the Halt. The Halt was really an old knocked down railway station. On the left of it was the beautiful little lake of Zillebeke and on the right Sanctuary Woods, Maple Copse, and a part of the line known as the Cutting. The Cutting was a deep cut about five hundred yards long, and the banks on each side were about twenty to thirty feet high. It was a dangerous place at any time for those going in or coming out of the line. Well, to get back to my little experience. The main body of Canadian troops were on their way to the Somme and our Battery was to be relieved on the 14th, this was our last trip up the line.

The observation officer, the sergeant signaller, another signaller and myself started up on the morning of the twelfth in the best of spirits, never dreaming what we had to go through before we got relieved from this hell-hole of death. The observation officer and the sergeant left us at the Halt. They went to the right on what was known as Zillebeke Ridge; we went along the railway through the cutting up into a part of the line known as Lover’s Lane where we relieved the other two boys from the Battery. The dugout we occupied was part of a dugout used by the tunnellers for keeping their supplies.

The first tunneling company at that time was very busy on a large tunnel right under the German lines and the mouth of this tunnel was in front of our dugout; in fact the cutting in this spot was filled high with bags of sand taken out of the tunnel. The dugout we were using was about twenty feet long, six feet high at the entrance and ran back to a point. On the roof were about six to eight feet of mud and sand bags.

It was a beautiful morning, and I had just got up and relieved my partner on the phone, O.K.’d the observation officer, and sent word to the Battery that everything was going fine. I was sitting looking out of the dugout door and thinking that in a few more hours we would be relieved and away from the Ypres Salient.

While I was thinking, two little canaries attracted my attention. No doubt you know that canaries are used for detecting gas in deep tunnels. Well, these two little birds started a fight over some bird-seed, and as their cage was hanging in the mouth of the dugout I had a good view of the scrap. I was just going to put a mental bet on the one with the black-knot, when Bang! And a big Minniewafer (sic) landed right on the roof of the dugout near the entrance. The poor little bird’s last fight was over. I grabbed the phone and got the O.P. officer on the line and asked him what to do. Things began to get quite lively. Old Fritz was sending over all kinds of stuff by this time and it looked as if we were in for a rough time. He sent word back to get the Battery and send in the S.O.S., which we did. I had no sooner sent it in when another “Bang!” and all our communications were cut off from the outside world. It was a perfect hell outside by this time.  He was sending over everything he had and seemed to concentrate everything on our little part, the Cutting, Lover’s Lane and Bensham Road.

Our old dugout was rocking like a ship in an angry sea. We expected every minute a big shell would land on it and we would all go up together. My chum and myself got back in the dugout as far as possible, as it was absolutely no use trying to get out to fix the line. The strain of expecting to be buried alive is something I never want to go through again. The two dressing stations farther down the Cutting had both been blown in and they brought the wounded and dying into our dugout.

It was sad to see some of the lads they brought in. The Doctor would look at them, inject something into their arm and tell the stretcher bearers to leave them to one side. We all knew what that meant. It spelled “No Hope.” During the time this little drama was being enacted in our dugout, the boys who were left in the line were having a desperate time keeping the Huns out of our front line. He made three desperate efforts that morning to take our trenches, his object being, as we found out afterwards, to get to the mouth of the tunnel and blow it up. He was foiled not by numbers, but by a handful of the bravest of the brave men of the 60th Battalion. This little scrap lasted from eight o’clock till eleven-thirty.

I often wonder to this day how it was our dugout was the only one left standing. What a change when we got out. Everything was changed. Trees that had stood shellfire for months before went down that morning. Dugouts were flattened all along the Cutting and even the Cutting seemed to be level with the rest of the world. Our battery fired something like five hundred rounds of ammunition that morning, the most they had fired for some time. No doubt they were a big factor in keeping the Hun back. This I think was one of my most exciting experiences in the Great War.”

***

Lance Corporal James F. Kelly from B Company and Sergeant Carl McDowell, an American volunteer from A Company, were both awarded the Distinguished Conduct Medal for their actions on August 12. Sergeant Edward Pyves was later awarded the Military Medal on 17 October 1916. Also awarded a Military Medal was Lance Corporal James McCarren.

Although not a major battle of WWI, the defence of Hill 60 accounted for the third worst day of casualties for the 60th Battalion in the entire war.

TURKISH PARTICIPATION IN THE KOREAN WAR: Turkey And Canada Have Fought Side-By-Side For Democratic Ideals

Turkish Army Infantry Brigade arrival at Pusan, Korea,
October 1950.

(Volume 25 Issue 4)

2018 marks the 75th anniversary of the establishment of diplomatic relations between Turkey and Canada. In the midst of the Second World War and despite its active neutrality, Turkey’s decision to join the Allies was the initiation of our diplomatic relations. Our relations have a longer history though, including the Royal Newfoundland Regiment’s participation in the Gallipoli campaign during the First World War.
The Gallipoli campaign has a significance for turning tragedies of the war into friendship between Turkey and the nations which took part in the campaign. It has also been true for Turkey and Canada, which have been close allies during the past 75 years within NATO.

Beginning with the Korean War, our nations defended the democratic ideals where Turkey played a key role. The code name of the Turkish Brigade was “North Star.” The Turkish troop contribution and casualties was fourth after the US, UK and Canada. Turkey and Canada fought shoulder to shoulder for the first time and defended democratic ideals. The 4,500 strong Brigade played vital roles in different parts of the campaign where the most critical of them was at Kunu Ri in January 1951. The counter attack of the encircled Turkish Brigade with bayonets paved the way for a hand-to-hand fight and victory. At the very same hours, the attack against Seoul failed. The Unified Command used both occasions as a conducive environment to start a counter attack towards the 38th parallel – which changed the course of the war.
Total casualty rate in the Turkish Brigade was among the highest with 22 per cent: 734 martyr, 2,147 wounded, 234 POWs and 175 Missing in Action. A total of four different Turkish brigades served in Korea totaling total contribution to 23,000 until 1971. The Brigade at the end received the American Distinguished Unit Citation, the South Korean Presidential Unit Citation and the South Korean Order of Military Merit.

Poster for Turkish movie “Ayla”.

Turkish movie “Ayla” based on a true story and shown at the Senate and Canadian War Museum on the occasion of the Turkish Martys Day on March 18th is a ample proof of the friendly bond and “blood brotherhood” born between Turkey and South Korea. After the war, it was also an interesting coincidence that on September 21, 1951, NATO Council recommended NATO membership of Turkey in Ottawa.

In his “Memoirs,” Mr. Pierre Trudeau while talking about his extensive travels throughout the world, describes his arrival to Turkey in 1948 after difficult journeys in countries under the Iron Curtain in East Europe as: “The gateway to the entire Middle East.” This analysis is still valid today not only for geo-political considerations, but for economic and commercial areas of cooperation. Since the Second World War, Turkey and Canada stood together in various geographies from Korea to Cold War, from Afghanistan to Kosovo, from Libya to the Black Sea, and today against international terrorism where we have been successfully fighting together in the International Coalition Against DAESH in Syria and Iraq.

Turkey is in a tough neighbourhood and we consider peace and stability in this region crucial for the global security and stability. As NATO Allies and two G-20 nations, we have common interests with Canada in the globe where we are all facing security challenges.

Publisher’s Note: On 24 March I had the pleasure of watching the film Ayla at a private screening at the Canadian War Museum. It is a very moving tale and a first class production.

It is also a great reminder of a troubled era in our recent history when Canada and Turkey stood allied in the United Nation’s defence of South Korea. Bravo Zulu to the producers.

INVISIBLE SCARS: Korean War Veterans Were Never Accorded The Treatment They Deserved

: In an effort to maintain morale and keep a tenuous connection to a home front that was ignoring them, members of the Royale 22e Regiment and RCR’s play hockey on the frozen Imjin River.

(Volume 25 issue 4)

By Meghan Fitzpatrick

Fighting on behalf of four different nations, the troops of the 1st British Commonwealth Division lived and worked side by side during the Korean War (1950-1953). They were a unique and close-knit group. While arguments could arise out of national differences, they succeeded in their goals and were much admired by their allies. The medical team was equally multinational in composition and included Brits, Canadians, Australians and Indians. I set out to write a history of military psychiatry in Korea, principally as practiced by the Commonwealth countries. I did so partly as a tribute to the service and sacrifice of Korean veterans. But as the evidence mounted, the argument for exploring the post-war legacy of Korea became stronger and stronger. So it is that the book as completed includes both a narrative of post-Korea developments in government approaches to the handling of war-time mental trauma, as well as reflections on the connection between those developments and the earlier Korean experience. Due to the multinational scope of this project, it has been a challenge to gather and effectively marshal sources over the past few years. Nevertheless, perseverance has prevailed and Invisible Scars is the result.

Like the Vietnam War, Korea was initially a psychiatric success story. The Commonwealth Division had a low rate of psychiatric illness (1 in 20 wounded or sick). Despite enduring many privations, the division was well known for combat efficiency and high levels of morale. Medical officers excelled in returning men to active duty and return to unit (RTU) rates soared from 50 per cent to 83 per cent. However, both Korea and Vietnam were problematic in the long term. Commonwealth officials failed to put support systems in place and have only recently encouraged veterans to seek compensation or psychological counselling. There was no deliberate mistreatment or abuse on the part of government or pensions’ officials. This failure reflected the medical, cultural and social realities of the period.

A Centurion tank provides a lift to Commonwealth troops in Korea. (IMPERIAL WAR MUSEUM)

The Korean War took place at a time when psychiatry was still young and effective psychopharmaceuticals were just beginning to arrive on the market. There was also a strong stigma surrounding mental illness and seeking treatment. In all of the Commonwealth countries, those who struggled with psychiatric conditions were encouraged to deal with their problems privately. Active employment was the best medicine. The pensions and care system was a product of the era and of a conservative society where rehabilitation and treatment programs centred on returning veterans to work and fostering economic independence. Compensation was believed to have a detrimental rather than a salutary effect upon the mentally ill. Financial aid only worsened or prolonged symptoms that naturally diminish over time. While the modern observer might perceive this approach as callous, it was seen as benevolent and generous at the time.

In addition, Korean War veterans were denied other forms of support that had proved invaluable in the past. Unlike many of their predecessors, they were not greeted with parades and acclaim nor were they universally welcomed by veterans’ organizations like the Royal Legion and the Returned & Services League. Responding to inquiries by the author, Ivan Patrick Ryan of the Korean Veterans Association of Australia expressed disappointment in how veterans were received by these groups. Many veterans from Britain, Canada and New Zealand faced rejection as well. Korean War memorials did not appear until the late 1990s and there were no major memorials to highlight the service of those who fought in the Far East. When the Australian government attempted to secure, “royal messages of condolence to the relatives of service personnel killed in Korea,” they were told that such letters were not issued, “in operations of lesser magnitude than a World War.” As Australian historian Richard Trembeth has underlined, “it appeared that grief, like bravery, was measured in degrees, and some wars, like some acts of courage, only deserve lesser awards.”

Neither the Commonwealth governments nor the public at large acknowledged the sacrifices that veterans had made or gave them a public forum in which to grieve. There are a number of reasons why this was the case. The war did not involve the same level of public involvement as WWII and a far smaller group of men were sent to Korea. Over 6,000,000 soldiers from Canada, the UK, Australia and New Zealand were enlisted or conscripted into the armed forces from 1939 to 1945. In contrast, only 145,000 were deployed from 1950 to 1953. Moreover, they had primarily volunteered for the task. US Presidents Harry S. Truman and Dwight D. Eisenhower both referred to Korea as a, “police action.” The Commonwealth Prime Ministers followed suit. They were afraid that the use of provocative terminology would further escalate hostilities and refused to label Korea as a war.
In downplaying the ferocity of the fighting, they helped perpetuate a misunderstanding. Finally, UN forces neither won nor lost the Korean War. Unlike WWII, there was no great victory to celebrate or loss to help focus commemorative events.

Fighting the boredom that is every infantryman’s lot, R22eR private Lambert does some light reading in a rifle pit.
(LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA 3403685)

The Korean War brings up important questions as to why we choose to commemorate one conflict over another. No matter how advanced or attentive military medicine may become, how society responds to returning service personnel is pivotal in how veterans process their experiences and reconcile themselves to loss. WWII veterans were feted as heroes and celebrated for their accomplishments. Vietnam veterans were abused and eventually became symbols of an unjust war. Korean War veterans were simply ignored. There is no quantitative way of measuring the impact of this exclusion. Nevertheless, there is more than enough anecdotal evidence to suggest that veterans were negatively affected. There are countless examples. For instance, Jean Rayner’s husband Louis was a driver with the Australian Army during the war. In an interview with author Joy Damousi, Jean recalled that:

One thing that did annoy Lou was that people called it a pointless action, not a war. Even when I became a war widow, I was asked point blank, ‘How come you’re a war widow?’…And they said, ‘You’re not old enough for the Second World War and you are too old for Vietnam. Now I was asked that point blank. And I said there was such a thing as Korea. And anyway [they said] ‘was that a war?’… If they hadn’t kicked up a stink about Vietnam, would have been the same thing. Put it out of your mind and forget it, it didn’t happen.

Jessie Morland, the wife of another Australian veteran, remembered that, “it was like they tried to wipe it [Korean War] off the earth…no one ever want[ed] to talk about it.” When former Canadian medic Don Leier applied for a home loan in the early 1960s, the veterans’ loan officer refused him, pointing out, “Korea was no war, just a police action. Here’s fifty cents. That’s all you’re getting.”

This widespread lack of public acknowledgement has contributed to why the Korean War has remained neglected as a subject of scholarly debate and interest over the past six decades. Chronologically, Korea is also positioned between two other major wars. As a topic of study, it lacks the scope and scale of WWII or the political controversy of Vietnam. These conflicts have overshadowed and distorted how both academic and popular writers understand Korea. However, the Korean War is historically important for a variety of reasons. In terms of military psychiatry, it represents the last major deployment of Commonwealth forces before a revolution in psychiatric medicine and an example of what practical treatment methods can achieve. It was also the first time that limited tours of duty were uniformly enforced for the purposes of boosting morale. Commonwealth and UN operational goals were constantly evolving and changing from 1950 to 1953. Be that as it may, the Commonwealth Division remained combat effective and morale was high in both periods of rest and intense fighting. As a campaign, Korea shares many similarities with modern operations in Afghanistan and around the world. Working out of static bases, soldiers are called upon to patrol and infiltrate enemy territory on a daily basis. Political necessity dictates the direction of events on the ground and destroying the enemy is not necessarily the end goal. Soldiers, scholars and commentators could all learn a great deal about operations of this nature by studying Korea more closely.

ALAN MCLEOD: Young Artillery Pilot Distinguishes Himself In The Air And On The Ground

ABOVE LEFT: Alan Arnett McLeod at the time of qualifying as a pilot and a commissioned Temporary Second Lieutenant at age 18 in 1917. (imperial war museum, q67601)

ABOVE RIGHT: McLeod presents a more wan appearance when he arrives at Buckingham Palace to receive the VC on September 4, 1918. He proved too weak to accept a luncheon invitation with King George V at Windsor Castle afterward and was soon on his way home. (rcaf)

(Volume 25-2)

By Jon Guttman

Seven Canadian airmen have to date received the British Commonwealth’s highest honour, the Victoria Cross (VC). Of the three awarded in the First World War, two were to fighter pilots, William Avery Bishop and William George Barker. The third, Alan McLeod, earned his VC in the army cooperation role.

Alan Arnett McLeod was born on April 20, 1899 in Stonewall, Manitoba, just north of Winnipeg, the son of Dr. Alexander Neil McLeod and Margaret Lyllian Arnett. Growing up with an almost stereotypical Canadian mixture of self-effacing modesty and rambunctiousness, he took an early interest in the military life, somehow talking his way into a local militia unit, the 34th Fort Garry Horse, in time for its 1913 summer manoeuvres — at age 14.

By the time war broke out in August 1914, McLeod had made up his mind to trade horsepower for the budding potential of air power, but the Royal Flying Corps (RFC) told him he’d have to wait until he was 18. He continued on in the Fort Garry Horse until his birthday in 1917; then, with an enthusiastic hometown send-off, he boarded a train for Winnipeg with his friend Allan Fraser to join the RFC.

McLeod left behind a trail of chatty letters to his family, displaying the demeanour of a small-town teenager eagerly adapting to a rapidly broadening world. During training at the University of Toronto, he revealed occasions of homesickness, but he made friends easily. He sometimes wrote of boredom with military discipline and some aspects of training, but he took it all in stride and wrote, “I’m sure going to work harder than I ever did before so if I fail it won’t be my fault.”

Finally, on June 2, 1917, McLeod announced, “I passed my exams OK and leave for Camp on Monday.” This, however, was soon followed by the more sombre news that his friend Allan Fraser had died in a training crash at Deseronto, Ontario.

Armstrong-Whitworth F.K.8 B5782 of No. 2 Squadron was being flown by McLeod and Lieutenant J.O. Comber on December 19, 1917, when they were attacked by six German fighters and McLeod reported “1 spun away,” possibly inflicting an actual loss on Jagdstaffel 20. The zigzag squadron marking was removed by March 27, 1918, when McLeod fought his most famous action. (department of national defence)

During two hours and 15 minutes of dual control training at Long Branch, Ontario, McLeod fell fully in love with flying and on June 9 he flew his first solo in Avro 504 No. 162. “I made a bombing success of it and did really well,” he wrote the next day, “but I made up for that this morning,” for he took up the same plane again, was buffeted by turbulent weather and pranged it in a rough landing. Nevertheless, on June 17, he was ready for transfer to No. 42 Wing at Camp Borden for intermediate training. On July 31, with 50 hours of flight time, McLeod got his wings and a temporary second lieutenant’s commission — and was made an instructor. Matters accelerated in August, however, as he flew Curtiss JN-4 Canucks with the 90th Canadian Training Squadron at Leaside aerodrome, spent a short leave at home in mid-month, then shipped overseas from Montreal on August 20. Crossing the Atlantic aboard the steamship Matagama — and being chased by a surfaced submarine off the Irish coast — he arrived in London on September 1.

After a time flying nocturnal patrols in Farman Experimental F.E.2b pusher biplanes with No. 51 (Home Defence) Squadron at Markham, Norfolk, McLeod was assigned to No. 82 Squadron, an army cooperation unit organizing at Waddington, equipped with Armstrong-Whitworth F.K.8s. Designed by Dutch engineer Frederick Koolhoven as a replacement for the Blériot Experimental B.E.2f, the F.K.8 appeared at about the same time as the Royal Aircraft Factory’s Reconnaissance Experimental R.E.8. Stolid but reliable, with dual controls that allowed the observer to fly it if the pilot was incapacitated, the “Big Ack” was generally more popular with reconnaissance crews than the trickier-to-fly “Harry Tate” (R.E.8).

Although McLeod described the F.K.8 as “having the aerodynamics of a cow,” he also noted: “I looped one the other day. I was the second person here to do it, they’re perfectly safe but people didn’t know it, you’d think you were riding in a parlour car they ride so smooth, but I’d much rather fly a smaller machine, they are easier to stunt with.”

Having familiarized himself with the Big Ack, McLeod learned that he would not have to wait for No. 82 Squadron to go operational; on November 29, he was assigned to No. 2 Squadron at Hesdigneul-les-Béthune on the Flanders front. Commanded by Major Wilfred Rippon Snow, No. 2 Squadron had been among the earliest RFC units in France and performed its front-line observation duties with an aggressiveness that McLeod enthusiastically embraced, boasting, “this is the crack squadron of France and anyone who is not up to the mark gets kicked out.”

McLeod flew his first sortie the day after arrival. He spent the next few weeks complaining of cold and boredom until December 19, when he flew an artillery spotting mission with Lieutenant J.O. Comber in F.K.8 B5782 and tersely reported: “Unsuccessful shoot on BY-75 owing to mist. Scrap with 8 Huns, 1 spun away.” In ironic contrast to the dubious nature of the aerial victories later confirmed to McLeod, this “out of control” may have had a definite outcome, because Royal Prussian Jagdstaffel 20 logged the loss of Leutnant Walter Braun, wounded at 1405 hours over Faumont (in No. 2 Squadron’s sector), and dying of his wounds at the Dourges hospital in France the next day.

As things soon turned out, McLeod was just warming up. On January 3, 1918, he fired 100 rounds at German troops along La Bassée’s main street. On the 12th, Major Snow noted, he “attacked and dispersed with machine gun fire from 800 feet the crew of a very troublesome anti-aircraft battery at La Bassée.” On January 14, while artillery spotting with Lieutenant Reginald Key as observer, McLeod crossed the lines under cloud cover, then dived on a kite balloon near Bauvin and fired 100 rounds into it. “This appeared to collapse and was seen to fall rapidly,” Snow reported, and both McLeod and Key were mentioned in dispatches for their feat. On the 16th, McLeod again crossed the lines near La Bassée, spotted an anti-aircraft gun, descended to 50 feet and fired 150 rounds at the crew; one German fell and the rest scattered for cover.

“He has shown keenness in his work,” Snow concluded on McLeod, “and I regard him as a most capable and reliable artillery pilot.” On January 16, Lieutenant-Colonel Leslie Gossage, commander of No. 1 Wing to which No. 2 Squadron was attached, responded to Snow’s report by writing, “I desire to submit the name of the undermentioned officer for the immediate award of the Military Cross (MC), for consistent gallantry and devotion to duty.” The application languished for more than two months, then was marked “Cancelled,” most likely because McLeod was being considered for a higher decoration by then.

In March 1918, Key was posted out of the squadron and McLeod was assigned Temporary Lieutenant Arthur William Hammond as his regular observer. The son of Master Mariner Henry Hammond and Alice Kincaid, Hammond was born on August 29, 1890 at Walton on the Hill, Lancashire. He served in the Horse Guards, followed by the Royal Engineers as a temporary second lieutenant in October 1915, before entering the RFC as an observer. On February 18, 1918, Hammond was on a photographic mission with Captain Jack Manning Allport from New South Wales, Australia, when they came under attack by six Pfalz D.IIIs. Coolly manning his Lewis gun, Hammond was credited with shooting down two of their assailants, one in flames. This action took place at La Bassée, while at nearby Armentières No. 2 Squadron lost Lieutenant Alfred Jones Homersham and Captain Sydney Broadbent, both killed in B211 by Bavarian Jasta 23’s Leutnant Max Gossner. Jasta 23b in turn recorded that Leutnant Heinrich Kütt came down wounded, undoubtedly by Hammond. Hammond and Allport were both subsequently awarded the MC for this action and subsequent missions in which “a large number of hostile batteries were photographed, engaged and successfully silenced, as well as some of our long range batteries calibrated on hostile targets.”

The pace of No. 2 Squadron’s front-line activities dramatically intensified on March 21, when the Germans launched Operation Michael, the first of a series of offensives intended to achieve victory on the Western Front before the American Expeditionary Force arrived in full strength. British units in Flanders were in that first onslaught’s path and aerial activity heated up markedly as the Germans deployed their most experienced Jagdgeschwader (fighter wings) to the sector, including JG.I, Rittmeister Manfred Freiherr von Richthofen’s notorious “Flying Circus.”

On the night of March 26, Major Snow designated seven F.K.8s to bomb the Germans at Bray-sur-Somme, near Albert, the next morning. Fog ruined the mission, however, and McLeod damaged F.K.8 B5773’s landing gear while landing at No. 43 Squadron’s aerodrome at Avesnes-le-Comte. By the time the undercarriage was repaired, all other F.K.8s had returned to base, but McLeod decided to carry out the mission alone. In spite of the fog, McLeod spotted an artillery battery from 5,000 feet in altitude and was about to descend on it when a Fokker Dr.I triplane appeared out of a cloud 200 yards away and attacked. McLeod manoeuvred to give a good shot to Hammond, who fired three bursts and saw the triplane spin down. Just as the two were congratulating each other, another Dr.I dropped out of the cloud, followed by six more. Their tails bore the black and white bands of Jasta 6, a component of the Red Baron’s Flying Circus.

What followed is best summed up in McLeod’s citation:

By great skill and coolness in flying, 2nd Lieutenant McLeod enabled Lieutenant Hammond to fire bursts at each machine in turn, shooting down three of them out of control. Up to this time 2nd Lieutenant McLeod had received five wounds. He was continuing the engagement when a bullet penetrated the petrol tank of his machine, which caught fire. He managed, however, to climb out onto the left bottom plane, controlling his machine from the side of the fuselage, side-slipping steeply, keeping the flames to one side and enabling the observer to fire until the machine reached the ground.

Lieutenant Hammond had been hit six times. Machine crashed in ‘No Man’s Land.’ 2nd Lieutenant McLeod, in spite of his wounds and under very heavy machine gun fire from the enemy lines, dragged Lieutenant Hammond, who was more seriously hit than himself, away from the burning wreckage and the bombs on the machine. 2nd Lieutenant McLeod was then wounded by the explosion of one of the bombs while doing this. He managed to get Lieutenant Hammond to comparative safety before he himself fell, through exhaustion and loss of blood.

Rescued by South African troops, McLeod and Hammond had to wait until nightfall before stretcher-bearers could get them to an aid station. One of the South Africans tried to reassure McLeod, “You will be in Blighty in a few days.”

“That’s just the trouble,” the Canadian replied. “I would like to have a crack at that so-and-so who brought me down.”

Then again, maybe not. In spite of Allied perceptions, Jasta 6 lost no aircraft that day. The member credited with dispatching the F.K.8 in flames, Leutnant Hans Kirschstein, downed a Sopwith Camel of No. 73 Squadron five minutes later for his third victory. He would have 27 and the Orden Pour le Mérite by July 16, when he and Leutnant Johannes Markgraf were killed in the accidental crash of their Hannover CL.III. Thus, both McLeod and Hammond outlived their victor.

Taken to Prince of Wales’ Hospital in London, McLeod was joined by his father — in spite of his letters claiming to be “fit as a fiddle.” He had sufficiently recovered by September 4 to receive the Victoria Cross at Buckingham Palace, but was too weak to join King George V for luncheon at Windsor Castle afterward. At the end of the month he accompanied his father home to complete his convalescence.

Arthur Hammond lost a leg, but received a bar to his Military Cross and his record of five victories in two combats made him No. 2 Squadron’s sole ace. Invited to Stonewall by McLeod’s family, he settled in Winnipeg, working for the Great West Life Company and served in World War II as an adjutant in the Royal Canadian Air Force. He died in Victoria, British Columbia, on December 22, 1959. Another of McLeod’s observers, Reginald Key, also immigrated, became a citizen and served in the RCAF.

After all he had endured and accomplished, Alan McLeod’s life abruptly ended in ironic anticlimax on November 6, 1918 — the victim of the worldwide influenza epidemic at age 19. Five days later, the armistice brought the Great War to an end. The remains of Canada’s youngest VC recipient reside in the Old Kildonan Presbyterian Cemetery in Greater Winnipeg.

NO. 2 CONSTRUCTION COMPANY: Breaking New Ground

The No. 2 Construction Company Band was initially used to help recruit African Canadians at rallies and churches. Overseas, the band was highly regarded, even receiving an entry in the War Diary for Dominion Day 1918: “their excellent music, greatly assisted in entertaining the crowd and making the holiday a success.” (black cultural centre for nova scotia)

On May 17, 1917, the newly renamed No. 2 Construction Company (No. 2 CC, formerly the No. 2 Construction Battalion) arrived at Boulogne amongst a convoy escorted by Royal Navy destroyers and the dirigible Silver Queen. They proceeded east to the area of Lajoux in the Jura mountains, the rolling, wooded foothills of the Alps, joining No. 5 District, Canadian Forestry Corps (CFC). Assuming significant responsibilities that included construction and maintenance of waterworks, maintenance of roads and overall responsibility for the district’s shipping and receiving, they quickly became an integral component of the district’s operations. In doing so they were breaking new ground for the Canadian military: No. 2 CC was comprised largely of African Canadians, officered, with one precarious exception, by European Canadians and this was a first for the Canadian forces.

During the War of 1812, Captain Runchey’s Company of Coloured Men fought at Queenston Heights and Fort George. African British North Americans marched to arms with the Victoria Rifles (Nova Scotia) and the Victoria Pioneer Rifle Corps (Victoria), briefly, in the early 1860s. However, a gap of 50 years preceded authorization of No. 2 Construction Battalion on July 5, 1916 as a predominantly African Canadian unit within the Canadian Expeditionary Force (CEF).

Recruiting proved difficult before the unit departed for overseas; many of the African Canadians who had tried to enlist at the start of the war and been turned away refused to join No. 2 CB when it was finally stood up. (esther clark wright archives, acadia university, 1900.237)

Initially, African Canadians found it virtually impossible to enlist with volunteers plentiful and recruiting offices able to be selective. In 1916, a confluence of circumstances — increasing British demands for manpower and a recruiting crisis in Canada — overcame the racism and institutional opposition to African Canadian enlistment. A segregated unit, not destined for combat, represented a delicate compromise between British demands for labour battalions of navvies, institutional and individual opposition to African Canadian enlistment, and African Canadian demands to participate.

In the opening months of the war Canadians flocked to the recruiting offices and targets were quickly met and exceeded. Prospective volunteers could be rejected if they failed to satisfy a diverse array of conditions and ‘race,’ as it was then termed, was one such criterion.

Minister of Militia Sam Hughes was a hard-charging Orangeman with opinions about everything and a seasoned professional at hardball politicking. Astonishingly, he was unable to address this issue of African Canadian enlistment as, he insisted, it was beyond his control. The official explanation held that it was the responsibility of each individual commanding officer (CO) to determine if his unit would attest African Canadians: “Under instructions already issued, the selection of Officers and men for the second contingent is entirely in the hands of COs, and their selections or rejections are not interfered with from Headquarters.” Unfortunately, virtually to a man, battalion COs refused to accept African Canadians.

Their excuses ran the gamut from the sublime to the ridiculous. The CO of the 173rd Battalion (Canadian Highlanders) wrote simply, “Sorry we cannot see our way to accept [African Canadians] as these men would not look good in kilts,” an opinion seconded by the adjutant of the 48th Highlanders. Others complained it was an undue imposition on European Canadians to expect them to serve alongside African Canadians and would even put a further damper on already faltering European Canadian recruiting. The minister’s refusal to intervene meant that widespread racism amongst local officers largely barred African Canadians from enlisting.

General W.G. Gwatkin, Chief of the General Staff, was extremely racist and vehemently opposed to African Canadian enlistment. His disdain played a key role in the military’s unofficial colour line. A memorandum dated April 13, 1916, in the midst of the recruiting crisis reveals his inmost beliefs. “The civilized negro is vain and imitative; in Canada he is not impelled to enlist by a high sense of duty; in the trenches he is not likely to make a good fighter.” Moreover, he continued, “in the firing line, there is no place for a black battalion in the CEF. It would be eyed askance; it would crowd out a white battalion; and it would be difficult to reinforce.” Only the last excuse has even a grain of truth, but everything else is racist claptrap.

Gwatkin’s contempt was laid bare when he attempted to influence the arrangements for the battalion’s transport to Europe. To expedite their travel and quarantine them from European Canadian troops, Gwatkin proposed to the Navy that their troopship, the SS Southland, sail alone and unescorted in mid-March 1917. At the time the convoy system had already been introduced. Moreover, the spring of 1917 was the absolute nadir of the submarine war in the North Atlantic, with ships being sunk on an almost daily basis. The risks were outrageous and only the Navy’s refusal — “The ship cannot possibly proceed without an escort” — euchred Gwatkin’s foolhardy scheme. It remains a proposal that highlights Gwatkin’s disregard for African Canadians and an extreme example of an opinion that was held widely during the first 18 months of the war.

These diverse excuses, paired with the minister’s refusal to act, flew in the face of appeals and offers from both African and European Canadians. Writing from Alberta, Joseph Butler noted, “I have seven years Military experience … with a little schooling in new methods [I] would make an efficient officer.” In the fall of 1915, Alexander Bramah offered to enlist, and “go out there for no wages,” if the CEF would only have him. Contradicting Gwatkin’s assertion that African Canadians were “not impelled to enlist by a high sense of duty,” No. 2 veteran Gordon Charles told historian Calvin Ruck, “Black people refused to accept the attitude that it was a white man’s war. As loyal citizens we wanted to serve our country. It was our duty, our responsibility.”

African Canadians pose with ammunition before loading it into tramway cars to be taken up the line. Most black soldiers who served in the Canadian Expeditionary Force remained segregated in labour units. Few were allowed to serve in combatant roles. (library and archives canada)

Prominent citizens, both African and European Canadians, who promoted African Canadian participation in the military effort were also rebuffed. From Halifax, Nova Scotia, The Royal Canadian Regiment’s Captain J.S. Langford’s offer to raise an African Canadian battalion received a tardy denial as did J.F. Tupper’s similar offer made from Pictou, NS. From New Brunswick, prominent African Canadian Marine Shipping Agent, John T. Richards, wrote the Governor-General complaining African Canadian men ”of good repute” were being refused attestation in Saint John. In similar fashion, from Alberta, Joseph Butler averred that he “could recruit many eligible coloured men” to join him in enlisting. He received no response. In Toronto the founding editor of the Canadian Observer, J.R.B. Whitney, proposed to Sam Hughes that he could recruit 150 African Canadian men from southern Ontario to form a platoon. After multiple false starts, the concept was rejected.

It is hardly surprising that a leading African Canadian publication, the Atlantic Advocate, was an effusive platform for No. 2 Construction Company when one realizes that its founding editor was none other than No. 2 CC’s Acting Company Sergeant-Major Wilfred DeCosta. Other members of No. 2 CC were also contributors to the Advocate, and it became the unofficial organ of the unit. In an article entitled simply “Join the No. 2,” the Advocate argued, “if there are good things coming to you after the war, you may be assured that they will be meted out to you only in proportion to what service you have rendered when those services are needed the most.” The Advocate had a transactional interpretation of the war that matched Canadian national policy. Prime Minister Robert Borden believed the contribution of the Canadian Corps earned Canada a seat at the peace conference and the Advocate believed the contribution of African Canadians to the war effort would earn them a voice in post-war domestic arrangements. Whitney’s Canadian Observer concurred, arguing “the Great War presents African Canadians with an opportunity to prove that they are dedicated citizens capable of upholding the British Empire in its time of need.”

When this pressure from the African Canadian community began to merge with increasing demands for manpower, the idea of African Canadian enlistment was pushed to the fore. The result was the formation of No. 2 Construction Battalion (No. 2 CB). The announcement was not made official until a CO could be found. Two officers declined the position before Lieutenant-Colonel D. H. Sutherland, a Nova Scotia railway contractor, accepted the role and the unit was officially established on July 5, 1916. It was initially headquartered in Pictou, later moving to larger quarters in Truro.

Recruiting was authorized on a national scale. Recruiters set up offices in Windsor and Toronto and other cities. The band was enlisted to perform at civic gatherings and in churches. Persistent inability to reach its complement led to active recruitment of African Americans. Eventually, recruits from the British West Indies and diverse other nations were also added to the rolls.

Canadians only comprised a slight majority (56.8 per cent) of No. 2 CB’s enlisted personnel. The British West Indies accounted for 10 per cent of the men, and 28.3 per cent were from the United States. The vast majority, over 60 per cent, of the Canadian-born personnel of No. 2 CB came from Nova Scotia and slightly more than one-quarter of all Canadian enlistees came from Ontario.

Throughout its existence No. 2 CB had trouble recruiting, getting up to strength and staying at strength. It was downgraded to a company so it could fill its establishment. A good part of this difficulty must be attributed to memories of the ill will earlier attempts to enlist met. Of 17 refused enlistment by the 104th Battalion in Nova Scotia, nine did not pursue opportunities with No. 2 CB. In New Brunswick, nine of 20 men rejected by the 64th Infantry Battalion declined to join No. 2 CB. In a similar vein, a group of four young men refused the opportunity to enlist in Ontario finds that only two attested to No. 2 CB. Based on these admittedly anecdotal numbers it would seem that approximately half of the men who had been willing to enlist during the first two years of the war were not interested in joining a non-combatant element of the CEF later. For a unit that constantly struggled to stay up to strength, this highlights the dysfunctional nature of the African Canadian recruiting situation before the establishment of No. 2 CB and that era’s ongoing negative impact on No. 2 CB.

Racism persisted in another picayune form also. The CO of No. 1 CB, Lieutenant-Colonel B. Ripley, was outraged that his European Canadian battalion shared a unit designation with an African Canadian unit. He argued that it insulted and denigrated his personnel and might even lead people to believe that his unit was also African Canadian. For months, through endless memoranda and missives he waged a campaign to have one of the units’ designations changed.

Reverend Captain William H. White’s amorphous rank also seems to evidence racism. White, the unit’s only African Canadian officer, was its chaplain. Officially, all of White’s documentation attests to his rank of captain. However, communications within the unit frequently preface his rank with acting or honorary. There was no justification for these prevarications and racism may have played a role.

No. 2 CB started its war work before it left Canada. For the first three months of 1917, a detachment of 250 men under Captain Kenneth A. Morrison removed rails and ties from abandoned railway lines in New Brunswick. They were then shipped to France and used in the construction of the narrow gauge railways that serviced the gun lines’ insatiable demand for shells.

The 19 officers and 605 men of No. 2 CB sailed from Pier 2 in Halifax on March 25, 1917, a Sunday, aboard SS Southland, arriving in England and proceeding to Camp Seaford in early April. There they engaged in roadwork, potato harvesting and the excavation of training trenches along with routine drill and inspections.

In England, No. 2 CB was not able to attain the numbers necessary to complete the full complement of a battalion and the British War Office refused to send understrength units to France. At this time, No. 2 CB was reorganized as a British-style labour company of nine officers and 495 other ranks. This brought it up to strength and in May 1917, re-designated No. 2 Construction Company, the unit crossed the English Channel and entrained to the Jura Mountains. (The downgrade in size also compelled Lieutenant-Colonel Sutherland to accept a reduction in rank to Major.)

At Lajoux they quickly became an integral component of the district’s operations. Construction and maintenance of waterworks — requiring a lift of 460 metres through a series of pumps to service a camp of 1,300 men — was No. 2 CC’s responsibility. They also operated and maintained the boiler and generator that provided 125 volts/80 amps DC to the camp. Maintenance of roads was handled by Captain David Anderson and a party of 100 men operating a rock crusher, a steam drill, motor lorries and a steam roller. Overall responsibility for the district’s shipping and receiving was handled by Captain J.S. Grant’s detachment. Other personnel worked with European Canadian units doing everything from felling operations to operating mills and constructing small gauge railways.

The diversity and detached nature of No. 2 CC’s commitment is captured in a War Diary entry of February 1918. It inventories the occupations of the 257 men of No. 2 CC working at Lajoux. There are 30 teamsters; 50 millworkers and another 50 in bush operations; 30 shippers under Captain J.S. Grant; 15 cooks; 20 assigned to district employment; and 62 assigned to miscellaneous tasks.

The number of personnel at Lajoux is so low because the men of No. 2 CC were frequently detached to serve with other units in other regions of France. On November 12, 1917, one officer and 54 other ranks departed to Péronne in northeastern France to augment the efforts of No. 37 Company of the Canadian Forestry Corps (CFC). On the eve of the new year, two officers led a detachment of 180 men to No. 1 District CFC, headquartered at Alençon. Clearly, in terms of labour, No. 2 CC was integrated into the CFC, and African Canadian and European Canadian units and individuals worked together.

Perhaps most remarkable for the era is that the men at the camp messed together. They also engaged in recreation together. No. 2 CC’s baseball team had a full schedule in the summer of 1917. The unit also acquitted itself admirably at Dominion Day sporting competitions. In 1917 they emerged victorious at the end of the day’s competition and the following year they finished a respectable third. In both instances their band made a noteworthy contribution to the festivities, the War Diary noting, in July 1918, “their excellent music, greatly assisted in entertaining the crowd and making the holiday a success.”

Segregation was practically limited to sleeping quarters and hospital treatment, the African Canadians being restricted to a specific ward at the Champagnole Hospital. No. 2 CC can almost be seen as an administrative cloak. Its existence guaranteed de jure and institutional segregation. No. 2 CC was, on paper, a separate and distinct entity. However, in a de facto sense it was integrated into the wider operations of No. 5 District and, as units were detached and moved, the even broader CFC. Integration was further reinforced by the men messing together and sharing recreational pursuits.

The discipline record of No. 2 CC contains some incidents of note. Only hours after arriving in France there was an episode of looting iron rations that led to an astonishing 78 men being charged with “making away with iron rations.” Interestingly, 70 per cent of those charged were of American origin and the remainder were Canadian. The origins of this incident remain murky as the War Diary also details inadequate arrangements to feed the men during the rail trip across France.

There is also veteran testimony to a riot in Liverpool and an incident at Kinmel Park while awaiting demobilization. Both seem to have devolved from racial tensions. In the first instance a European Canadian unit refused to return No. 2 CC’s salute and at Kinmel Park Camp a European Canadian unit demanded to enter the cinema before personnel from No. 2 CC.

The most serious courts martial began on September 5, 1917 when Privates James Allen and Obediah Johnson were charged with, “When on Active Service, Committing an offence against the person of an inhabitant in the country which he is serving (rape)” and “When on Active Service, Committing an offence against the person of an inhabitant in the country which he is serving (theft).” Initially sentenced to death, their sentences were commuted to penal servitude for life. They were discharged from the CEF and imprisoned in England.

One man, Seymour Bundy, died of pneumonia while pulling tracks before the unit left Canada. Another seven men died in France from various maladies. There were no combat casualties. Another two men died in unusual circumstances.

Charlie Some was a 30-year-old labourer, married to Girty but childless. A Baptist, he was hardly a choir boy. He contracted syphilis and was hospitalized for treatment upon arrival in England and was later hospitalized two weeks after having been struck in the head with an iron bar. He had also been AWOL over Dominion Day weekend 1917 and docked pay for drunkenness. On the night of September 23/24, 1917 he was brutally murdered, savagely stabbed and slashed multiple times “by persons unknown.” The murder was never solved. A Court of Inquiry resolved nothing although it noted: “suspicion points strongly to one Barkat Toumi Mohamad #27544 of a French Detachment Quartered in Supt, who was absent at the time of the murder.” As North African troops were suspected, the investigation was handed off to the French authorities. (Investigation of French police records has never been undertaken.) A curious fate also befell Private Sydney David, whose death was attributed to misadventure; specifically, “fall over cliff — accidental.”

Following the Armistice, No. 2 Construction Company was demobilized quickly. The unit left for the UK in December and all personnel were back in Canada by May. The unit was officially disbanded by General Order 149 on September 15, 1920. It remains the only segregated unit in the history of the Canadian military.

THE TIFFY & THE SPIT: Both Allied Aircraft Made Their Mark During The War As Did The Canadians Flying Them

A No. 440 Squadron Typhoon taxies on operations at Eindhoven, Holland during the spring of 1945. Minutes later, it would have been delivering its two 1000-pound bombs. This Typhoon, christened “Pulverizer IV,” was F/L Harry Hardy’s last Tiffy of the war. (rcaf)

(Volume 24-12)

By Ken Wright & Anne Gafiuk

In newsreels, newspapers and magazines during the Second World War, the headliner and star was the Spitfire. Lagging behind in coverage, but just as important, was the Typhoon. The exciting ‘Spit’ shot down enemy aircraft. The Typhoon, or Tiffy as it was fondly known to its pilots and to the Canadian and British Armies, provided the men on the ground with aerial support. They just had to ‘whistle for a Tiffy.’ The Spitfire was the beauty, the Typhoon the beast, yet both served the Allies worthily.

Of the 3,317 Second World War Typhoons built, only one still exists today, although there are now a few undergoing restorations. Of the 22,000 Spitfires produced, 35 are still flying, bringing the masses out to air shows, promoting WWII’s sweetheart, keeping her front and centre in the public eye.

There are not many pilots of both aircraft left who are able to recall their contributions to the Allied war effort. Flying Officer Gordon Hill says, “It is the end of an era.”

Four fighter pilots who flew with the Royal Canadian Air Force candidly discuss their experiences, the characteristics of the Hawker Typhoon and the Supermarine Spitfire, and the roles each of the aircraft played during the Second World War.

Flight Lieutenant Jack Hilton, C.D., 98 years old, of No. 438 Squadron (Typhoons) says:

These two RCAF men had a big job on their hands, painting the black and white recognition design on allied aircraft in advance of the D-Day assault. The Spitfire in the picture belonged to No. 402 “Bear” Squadron, one of the Canadian fighter wings. (dnd)

I flew about 100 operations. Our squadron’s nose art was Walt Disney’s Wild Cat. We were flying low level about 100 to 200 feet off the ground to attack our targets including tanks, convoys, and trains. The Typhoon did the job. There were two squadrons with rockets that had RP3 25-pound warheads, four under each wing. They could blow a tank apart. In the beginning, the rockets were very hard to control. The Battle of Falaise Gap in August 1944 was a good example. While the German army was retreating, we were attacking troop carriers, with 30 to 40 men in them. There were so many targets that when you fired at them, you were going to hit something!

Although the rocket-firing Typhoon is commonly regarded as the aircraft that was predominant in the destruction of the trapped German army, it was, in truth, extremely valuable as a platform for strafing and a great morale booster for the Allied troops, but not for its lethal rocket firing capability as detailed in many books on the battle.

The destruction of the trapped German forces in the Falaise Pocket in August 1944 was due to land-based forces. Historians vary in their estimates of German losses. Between 80,000 and 100,000 troops caught in the encirclement of which 10,000 to 15,000 were killed, 40,000 to 50,000 taken prisoner, and 20,000 to 50,000 managed to escape. In the northern sector alone, German material losses included 344 tanks, self-propelled guns and other light armoured vehicles as well as 2,447 soft-skinned vehicles and 252 guns abandoned or destroyed.

According to a subsequent British analysis, RAF Typhoon rockets had not caused as much destruction as first thought or claimed. It has been assessed that only about 100 armoured fighting vehicles were knocked out during the whole campaign, in stark contrast to the Allies’ loss of a total of 1,726 aircraft. The Tiffy’s real contribution, at least as far as the Falaise Gap was concerned, was the sense of panic their attacks caused — the German crews quickly abandoned their vehicles and took cover in the fields at the onset of a strike.

Hilton continues:

People don’t know much about the Typhoon and have asked me about its idiosyncrasies. The Typhoon had a terrible attrition rate because of its specialist role. It carried bombs and it was fast, but it had a poor turning radius. The Typhoon is one of the most difficult aircraft for a pilot to fly.

It killed a lot of pilots at the beginning. The tail fell off, the engine quit, and when this happened, the Typhoon was going nowhere but down. The Typhoon had such a high wing loading that you had no room for safety and turns. You had to turn when you were in a fight and when we tangled with the Messerschmitts; we would dive down and outrun them in the dive. The deadly flaw with the Typhoon was that when we got to low level at high speed, we could not turn. We did not have the radius to get inside them to shoot at them. In addition, carbon monoxide seeped into the cockpit, which if undetected, could be fatal.

So the only thing we had going for us was to go straight at the target, faster than the enemy could go, and then get the hell out of there. The turn is the secret in fighting the German fighters. If I pulled tight turns at 150, the darned thing would spin on me and I would dive straight into the ground. I had no safety margin. It was one of these questionable things. Speed was the only thing you had. One of our guys tried to stay in a fight and didn’t come back. There is no second chance. Get in and get out. You don’t go back for a second look. I never went back for a second look. Those who did never came home.

In this April 2017 photo, Jack Hilton, 98, is looking through his pilot’s logbook. Hilton flew 100 missions in a Hawker Typhoon, including at Falaise during the Normandy campaign. (photo by anne gafiuk)

We always went out in two groups of two. We were very tired with an average of 2 hours a trip from start to finish. Sometimes I did two operations a day. My logbook showed that at one point, I flew 28 operations in 30 days. Imagine the pressure on the pilots to take off and land. During the D-Day invasion, we were right up to our ears. Flying 150 feet over the water, the spray of the water was hitting our airplane. It was a desperate situation.

Flight Lieutenant Harry J. Hardy, DFC, 95 years old, of No. 440 Squadron (Typhoons), recalls:

During the Battle of Normandy (D-Day to August 25, 1944), 151 Typhoon pilots were killed, including 51 Canadians. Casualties were replaced as available from the Operational Training Unit (OTU) in the UK. We were always under-strength after D-Day to VE-Day. As the pilots were being killed, we could not replace them fast enough. There were also pilots on leave, on special duty, in hospital (sick bay).

Hilton continues:

You are shot at going in and shot at going out. So often when we did the dive-bombing, you didn’t see what you hit or even if you got what you were aiming for. We’d go in at 500 or 550 mph — that’s fast for a prop airplane.

A Spitfire and Hurricane could turn tightly. The Spitfire has a low wing loading and thin wings, great for turning. I never flew the Spitfire, but the Tiffy was a great air to ground attack aircraft.

As an experiment, one of our fellows took one of our Typhoons up to 30,000 feet and he put it into a spin. It took him to 5,000 feet before he got out of it! The tail was too small. The weight was too heavy. We had cannons in the wings, armour underneath, and armour all around us. It had a big engine: Napier Sabre 24-cylinder with 2,100 horsepower (hp) on the MK 1A and a 2,200hp engine in the MK 1B. The MK 1 was armed with twelve 0.303 machine guns and the MK 2 had Hispano cannons in the wings plus up to two 1,000-pound bombs or 8 rocket projectiles.

Flight Lieutenant Robert [Bob] Spooner, DFC, 95 years old, served with No. 438 Squadron (Typhoons) added:

I flew the Typhoon for seven months. You really recognize it because of the big air scoop. With its 24-cylinder, 2200hp engine, it needed a lot of cooling. It is a one-person airplane. I was in an all-Canadian wing. We had three squadrons on that wing and we all had identification numbers. Our squadron was F3.

I was given specific targets and I always hoped I didn’t hurt any innocent people and I don’t know whether I did or not. At one time, we were given a target and we were in the attacking dive when my squadron got a message to call off the attack. Seems we were about to bomb our own troops. Pulling out of the dive with a 1,000-pound bomb attached under each wing was not easy. When you are in the dive, you gain speed really fast and there was a chance you could pull the wings off by pulling back too fast.

The Typhoon was a good aircraft but a real tank of a plane to fly because it was very heavy. It was supposed to replace the Hurricane, built by Hawker, but it didn’t fill the role, which was as a mid-to-high-altitude interceptor. Its performance fell off quickly above 20,000 feet and the Napier Sabre engine continued to prove unreliable.

Our job was to go low level armed with our four 20mm cannons and two 1,000-pound bombs or rockets. A devastating package, but it was hungry on fuel. It would go about 150 miles out and 150 back before the tanks were empty.

Flight Lieutenant Harry Hardy of No. 440 Squadron explains:

The Typhoon was well armoured and could take a lot of punishment. I went through four Typhoons. Had any been a Spitfire, I would have been dead. I had a chance to fly 14 different types of aircraft during fighter pilot training and later through Ferry Flight. The Spitfire was intuitive. You just had to think and then it would do what you wanted. It was good in a tight turn and it was cosy. The engine was at my feet and the firewall separating the engine kept me warm.

I had a 20-hour conversion to learn about what a Typhoon could do. We were not allowed to tail spin. We could not get out of it. I never did a loop. I did do rolls. The first dive was from 8,000 to 4,000 feet when I dropped the bomb. The second dive was from 11,000 to 6,000 feet, because we were expecting ground fire. The windscreen is not as important for a Spitfire because the enemy planes would be on their tail. With the Typhoon, we had 1½-inch to 2-inch thick armoured plated glass as our job was to strafe low down. Most of the enemy ordnance sent at us was from the ground in front of the aircraft.

Typhoons were sometimes victims of friendly fire as its profile was similar to a Focke-Wulf 190. For recognition, we had yellow stripes [painted under the wings] to distinguish us from the Focke-Wulf. The black and white stripes painted under the wings were for the [D-Day] invasion —they were put on the night before so our own troops would not shoot us down.

Flying Officer Gordon Hill, 94 years old, of No. 416 Squadron (Spitfires) added:

Now 94, Gordon Hill, in the cockpit of his Spitfire nicknamed “Sweet Sixteen,” flew 1,000 hours and 200 sorties during the war. (gordon hill)

I had about 1,000 hours flying and over 200 trips. We flew 50 feet above the ground or lower when we were engaging air to ground. We were up to 25,000 feet when we were air to air, up to the end of 1944, then the Germans and British came down to more sensible levels of 10,000 to 12,000 feet.

This saved fuel and time. On our approaches, we stalled at 78 mph to drop to the ground. It was easy for us to land. We flew the easiest aircraft. One hand did the job. When it came to ground targets, we flew in groups of six up to a maximum of 12. I was often number 3. Occasionally, we were in a group of just two. We flew 1¼ hours, maximum 1½ hours.

We saw Messerschmitt Me 109s and Focke-Wulf 190s, but never saw a German bomber until the end of the war. By September 1944, though, the Germans had Me 262 jets and another aircraft, the Arado 234 which, in my opinion, were better than the Me 262s.

Most of our casualties were due to air-ground attack from below. We had four machine guns, two cannons and a gun camera. On the Spitfire F. Mk XVI, acquired December 18, 1944, the armament went from 0.3 to 0.5. It made all the difference in the world and I became a better marksman.

Spitfires were the envy of most people in the air — the darling of the sky. It was extremely manoeuvrable with a weight of about 7,000 pounds. Once I got to England, I flew nothing but Spitfires: Mk I, II, V, IX, XVI and XIV, in order of the types I flew. My favourite was the Mk XVI (Sweet Sixteen). The Brits were flying the Mk XIV before the Canadians flew them.

As a Spitfire pilot, we were different than Typhoon pilots. The Spitfire’s primary role was engaging other aircraft. Typhoons were more for air to ground attack. As the war progressed towards the end of 1944, the air war was virtually over. The Luftwaffe was having enormous problems. They were suffering from an acute shortage of fuel, trained pilots and machines, and were hardly able to put up a fight anymore. This situation necessitated changing the role of the Spitfire from aerial combat to attacking ground targets. Periodically, we still encountered German fighter planes.

In September 1944, when the German Me 262 jets came out, they could outrun our Spitfires, but by then it was too little too late.

Every single Spitfire had a limited amount of fuel of 90 gallons, except for the modified versions. This worked out to be about 1.5 hours’ flying time. If we were carrying auxiliary tanks, the rule was to use them first. We had a 45-gallon (plywood tank) and 90 gallon (steel). The steel tank was a blasted nuisance! When we were climbing through cloud in a tight formation, the aircraft tended to move slightly.

The fuel would then start rolling/sloshing in the tank, causing the aircraft to move even more, creating a degree of instability. Auxiliary tanks had to be dropped if engaged in an air-to-air fight, but we had to slow down to 180 mph to get rid of the tank, otherwise it would not fall off.

After June 16, 1944, 416 Squadron went to France and stayed there. Auxiliary tanks were used less and less as we were nearer to the front lines and our fuel supplies. The Allies were well fuelled so we had no restrictions on the number of sorties we could do that I can recall. We did, however, have to always watch our fuel gauge at the end of each flight as four gallons was needed to come in to land.

The Spitfire’s fuel tank was situated directly in front of the pilot, between the engine and the cockpit. If, during aerial combat, the fuel tank holed and the escaping fuel was to catch fire, the flames were blown back towards the cockpit. By opening the canopy to escape the inferno, the forward motion of the aircraft dragged the fire into the cockpit even more.

Hill recalls:

Harry Hardy (left) and Bob Spooner, two veteran Typhoon pilots, each 95 years old, travelled to Beny-sur-Mer for commemorative ceremonies marking the anniversary of Operation OVERLORD and the beginning of the Normandy campaign. 

When I got a new version of the Spitfire, I would take it up for tests to see how it performed. The Mark XVI had a sharp tail and cropped wings. It had a four-bladed prop and the turn rate was excellent. The Mk XIV had a round tail and a five-bladed prop.

Typhoon pilots had more plane to manage and had more weight to handle. Is it comparing apples to oranges? Sort of. Different men were flying different aircraft. Sometimes it came down to the pilot.

The Hawker Typhoon had established an excellent reputation for low-level attacks and lowering enemy morale at the mere sound of its distinctive whining sound. Playing a key role in the Normandy campaign, the Supreme Allied Commander, U.S. General Dwight D. Eisenhower, later singled out the contributions the Typhoon made to the Allied victory.

The Supermarine Spitfire also earned an enviable place in the history of aviation alongside the Messerschmitt Bf 109, Focke-Wulf 190 and the North American P-51 Mustang, but the Spitfire remains the most recognisable aircraft of the Second World War.

NOTE: The writers thank Harry Hardy, Gordon Hill, Jack Hilton and the family of Bob Spooner for permission to use their stories and photographs. Jack Hilton wrote the book The Saga of a Canadian Typhoon Pilot in 2015 and it is available through Amazon.

JTF 2 NEVER SAY DIE: Into The Jaws Of Death At Chenartu

As a component of the American Operation Enduring Freedom, direct action raids were a staple of the JTF 2 Special Operations Task Force. On June 1, 2005, a Canadian SOFT came under direct attack from enemy combatants at Chenartu. An artist’s conception of the Chinook after it was hit by a rocket-propelled grenade (RPG) at Chenartu. (artwork by katherine taylor)

(Volume 24 Issue 12)

By Colonel Bernd Horn

On June 1, 2005, a JTF 2 Special Operations Task Force (SOTF) redeployed to Afghanistan. Despite the meticulous planning and expert training, the environment and enemy together proved to be dynamic and challenging foes. One of these missions required courage, tenacity and superior martial skills.

Jackson, the assault element commander, recalled, “In the CH-47, the pilots gave me ‘one minute out’ [i.e., one minute from touch down at the LZ (landing zone) to allow the chalk to prepare for disembarkation].”

“As we approached the LZ, I saw that the LZ was not good and the pilots started looking for an alternate LZ. They over flew the LZ, turned around and exposed themselves to a ton of fire,” continued Jackson in disbelief. “We then received a burst of bullets from the rear to the front and the C-6 [machine-] gunners opened up.”

Chaos was not far behind.

A Canadian Special Operations Forces (CANSOF) soldier looks to the valley below during a 2011 mission in Chenartu, Afghanistan. CANSOF personnel are trained to conduct high-risk operations in hostile or politically sensitive areas. (dnd photo)

“We then heard ‘fire in the back,’” Jackson said. “I turned around and confirmed fire in the rear port side of the bird.”

The squadron medic recalled events similarly. “I was seated first man port side near the C-6 gunner,” he explained. “As the chopper was flaring and we were inserting into our initial LZ, word was passed that it was not suitable to land.” He continued:

Once I heard that, the C-6 gunners on both sides opened fire. I also heard what sounded like small-arms fire coming through the chopper. Seconds later, I attempted to look out the ramp, but could not see due to large flames coming out the port side of the aircraft. The message was passed up that there was a fire, and that’s when the aircraft started its quick descent. I prepared for a crash landing by bracing myself.

Key to the operation was the reliance on a Blackhawk helicopter to insert a team onto the high ground before the arrival of the CH-47s into the target area. This would allow the CH-47s to come in supported by observation and some covering fire from the ground. However, this did not transpire as planned.

“Right from the beginning things were fucked up,” asserted the JTF 2 linguist.

There was hesitation to land the small team because of the enemy contact. But finally they were put down, albeit too late to help the first Chinook coming in to land. The American pilots struggled to maintain orientation, although they were under fire as they waited for the troops to unload. Things didn’t improve. Once the CANSOF (Canadian Special Operations Forces) operators got out of the helicopter, they were pinned down by enemy fire almost immediately.

“We were taking fire from everywhere,” explained the CANSOF linguist, “the villagers were on their roofs firing everywhere.”

A Joint Task Force 2 soldier hugs the wall as he prepares to reach a corner. Canadian Forces members often came under direct fire from Taliban insurgents during their combat mission as part of U.S.-led Operation ENDURING FREEDOM. (dnd)

The linguist and the snipers he was with did not know what was going on. The communications were pretty much blocked as everyone was trying to communicate their individual dramas happening across the small valley battlefield. The enemy was equally communicating but in a different context.

“Brothers,” encouraged a Taliban leader, “you will be rewarded for your work this day.”

At that point the small isolated team realized something big was going on. Then they saw huge black smoke and the AH-64 Apache helicopters firing everywhere. It was not until Jason Ashburn, the sniper detachment commander, and the rest of the snipers crawled forward to the edge of the cliff that they were able to get “eyes-on” the objective and the calamity that was transpiring below them.

At the same time, the second Chinook was in the process of dropping off a number of CANSOF operators (call sign (C/S) 11) at HLZ Hotel, to form the south block. However, they too ran into problems. The loading of the all-terrain vehicles (ATVs) had not been optimized, and as a result, the pilot reported, “with the ATV in the way, a few passengers took as long to offload as it does a full manifest of passengers — way too long.” The CH-47 then proceeded to “bunny-hop” to the vicinity to the west of HLZ Golf to insert the remaining CANSOF and ANA (Afghan National Army) elements on board. It then loitered, waiting for word that the landing zone was clear for insertion. The aviation commander reported over the radio that he observed RPG fires and instructed the second Chinook helicopter to drop off the passengers into the objective area without delay.

Blair Sturgeon, the detachment commander of C/S 11, and his men, who were responsible for the southern block, had made their way off the helicopter with difficulty because of the obstruction. They adopted a defensive position and waited until the Chinook departed. Immediately after the helicopter was out of ear shot, “we were able to hear noise other than the helo [helicopter] itself,” reported Sturgeon, “we heard MG [machine gun] fire.” He added, “All of the fire was coming from the north of our location. As we were not under contact, we carried on with our primary task.” The detachment commander explained:

At this point it was clear that the AH-64s were engaging something to the North. After observing to the north we saw large amounts of black smoke approximately five hundred to seven hundred metres away. About five minutes later, I received on comms [radio] what I thought was “a chopper is down.” At this point I decided to push my C/S north and forego the blocking position. After establishing comms with the assault force commander, it was clear that a helo had been downed, and this was the cause of the black smoke. As briefed in orders, this was now the primary mission.

The Apache gunship that had escorted the second CH-47 helicopter to HLZ Hotel for its first insertion observed, as they were in the process of moving to their second drop location (i.e., HLZ Juliet), the first Chinook helicopter turn around after over-flying HLZ Juliet and head back south toward their originally intended landing zone. They then noticed four enemy in the river firing and running towards the second CH-47, while another six enemy were running towards the first Chinook helicopter, which was now on fire.

Canadian soldiers gather near a burning Canadian Armed Forces CH-147 Chinook helicopter after it made a hard landing close to the village of Bazaar e Panjway, in the Panjway district west of Kandahar on August 5, 2010. During the CAF’s mission in Afghanistan, several choppers were shot down by RPG or enemy fire. On June 5, 2010 the men at Chenartu had skill, tenacity and luck on their side. (sgt daren kraus, dnd)

“I engaged the enemy with 30mm killing ten as they were firing on both Chinook helicopters,” recalled the aircraft captain. “We continued to observe and cover the burning CH-47 as it landed on fire near LZ Juliet.” He added, “All personnel exited the stricken helicopter before the aircraft was completely engulfed in flames.”

The first Chinook helicopter itself did not notice any RPG fire while it was being engaged. The helicopter’s left fuel pressure light illuminated and the ramp aircrew member reported a fire in the cabin. Crew members extinguished the flames but they flared up again. At the same time, the aircraft started to vibrate heavily, as the controls were getting stiff due to loss of hydraulics.

Jackson remembered, “The CH-47 clearly lost power and dropped a little bit before going back up for few seconds and then lost all power and crashed.”

Luckily, the mortally wounded CH-47 was able to make a controlled crash landing in a field near its original HLZ.

The tragedy unfolded, taking mere minutes, while the command and control helicopter was orbiting the battlefield, trying to bring order to the spiralling chaos. Both the aviation commander and Picard were on board the C2 bird. As the first Chinook helicopter was turning south towards HLZ Juliet, the aviation commander and his right crew chief witnessed enemy running into the treeline. Subsequently they saw an insurgent emerge with a tube on his shoulder. The Taliban fighter then adopted a crouching position and raised the tube to his shoulder, aiming it at the first Chinook helicopter as it flew by. As the right crew chief began to inform the aviation commander of the impending engagement, the enemy fired the RPG. The crew chief saw a puff of smoke come from the tube on the Taliban’s shoulder and, subsequently, flames coming from the bottom of the first Chinook helicopter at its five o’clock position. The flames were at the rear of the aircraft and began to travel up the left side of the fuselage. The aviation commander quickly looked out of his UH-60 Blackhawk and saw that the first CH-47 helicopter was indeed on fire.

“From my vantage point in the UH-60,” said Picard, “it seemed as if it [the first Chinook] was travelling in slow motion as the flames engulfed the rear of the CH-47.”

CH-147 Chinook helicopters fly in formation during a training mission for OP MOSHTARAK in February 2010. Task Force Freedom, Canada’s helicopter presence in Afghanistan, was at that time preparing for its largest air assault since the Second World War. Their mission — to insert British, Estonian and Afghan troops into the village of Nad Ali, an insurgent hot spot — included three Chinook and four Griffon helicopters and approximately 60 CAF members. (mcpl craig wiggins, dnd)

Unfortunately, the pilots flying the C2 bird did not have the same vantage point, so they brought the helicopter around to the right. As the Blackhawk made its sharp turn, more ACM (anti-coalition militia) emerged from the treeline and another tube-launched weapon was aimed skyward, but this time at the C2 Blackhawk carrying the two key on-site commanders. The crew chief could not verify the exact type of weapon that was being aimed at them since they were at approximately one thousand feet above ground level (AGL), but he immediately yelled, “RPG at five o’clock” into the intercom. At the same time, the CMWS (common missile warning system) aboard the aircraft expelled flares from the dispenser on the right side of the helicopter. Both the aviation commander and the right crew chief saw a plume of smoke emit from the weapon and a smoke trail coming menacingly towards them. The crew chief saw the missile narrowly miss the aircraft and fly towards the flare location. The aviation commander and his crew chief later acknowledged that the missile passed underneath the right side of the aircraft at a distance of approximately five to ten feet.

Simultaneously, the pilot banked sharply to the left and away from the missile. The right crew chief also heard what appeared to be a loud “boom” or “thunder clap” as the missile went by. The crew chief had been unable to return fire due to the aircraft’s height and the presence of friendly forces in the vicinity.

As the command helicopter came around, they could see that the burning Chinook helicopter had made a controlled emergency landing and everyone was exiting the aircraft. The scene was surreal, more akin to a scene from the film Apocalypse Now than what one would expect from a mission based on a tempered risk assessment.

This is an excerpt from the book No Ordinary Men: Special Operations Forces Missions in Afghanistan by Colonel Bernd Horn, published by Dundurn Press in 2016. ISBN 978-1-45972-410-5. For more information, go to www.dundurn.com

HITLER'S LAST ROLL OF THE DICE: On New Year's Day 1945, The Luftwaffe Launched Every Plane They Had Into The Air

The destroyed airfield and fighters of No. 403 Squadron at Evere, January 1, 1945. Germany’s Operation BODENPLATTE called for a surprise attack against 16 Allied air bases in Belgium, the Netherlands and France, resulting in the destruction or crippling of as many aircraft, hangars and airstrips as possible. (john le may)

(Volume 24-11)

By Anne Gafiuk & Ken Wright

On September 18, 1944, the advance party of the Royal Air Force occupied the large, hastily evacuated Luftwaffe base at Eindhoven in Holland. Because it was designed to be a permanent air base, to the delight of the new tenants, it was equipped with brick buildings, well-constructed huts, dispersed taxiways and earthen revetments [soil piled on three sides]. During the following months, the Eindhoven-based pilots were extremely busy with ground support tactical reconnaissance and artillery reconnaissance missions, backing the rapidly advancing Allied ground forces.

F/L Wally Ward, who flew Typhoons with RCAF No. 440 Squadron, was at Eindhoven when the Luftwaffe attacked on New Year’s Day, 1945

At this stage of the war, some degree of complacency may have developed among Allied aircrews regarding the Luftwaffe’s ability to mount any meaningful opposition. The German Luftwaffe was starved of fuel, short of aircraft, pilots; morale was at its lowest point. Most of the resistance efforts were, at best, token gestures as Allied fighters virtually owned the skies over war-torn Europe.

Flying Officer Gordon Hill, who flew Spitfires with RCAF No. 416 Squadron, recalls that on December 31, 1944:

Our flight crossed the corner of Germany that we had crossed two or three times a day for a couple of months. We had never seen flak there ever before! I got hit. I felt it and I heard it. My No. 2 told me I was losing a lot of oil. I said, ‘Green 3 leaving formation with Green 4.’ I wanted protection so I dragged Green 4 along with me. I made a force landing on the B78 airfield in Eindhoven south of Arnhem in Holland with my wheels down, which was nice since I ran out of engine oil some time before. My wingman, Green 4 went on home. 

I left my airplane and asked the Royal Air Force Flight sergeant in charge of servicing Spitfires if he could look at my plane. As they were refuelling at the time he said it would be quite a while before he could look at it so I decided to go to the Typhoon Mess. I spent New Year’s Eve with the ‘Tiffy’ boys. I knew a half a dozen or more. I flew with some of them in Canada on the West Coast. As the alcohol was flowing, we rang in the New Year.

F/O Gordon Hill climbing aboard his Spitfire. A stroke of luck — his non-starting aircraft — ended up saving Hill’s life on January 1, 1945.

The Eindhoven airfield was already a hive of activity on the morning of January 1, 1945 as the squadrons were preparing for their early-morning missions. It was shaping up to be a beautiful day with the cold frosty ground sparkling in bright rays of the morning sun. Apart from the sounds of military activity filling the air, everything appeared delightfully peaceful. It was to be, in hindsight, a spurious peacefulness.

Early that same morning, 208 kilometres away at the Gütersloh Luftwaffe airfield in the Westphalia area of Germany, pilots of Jagdeschwader 3 were picked up at their quarters at 0500 hours. After a short breakfast at 0700 hours, the target for the day was finally revealed as Eindhoven. Each pilot had to deliver several attacks and they were to circle the airfield anti-clockwise between each individual attack. No alternative target was given. The pilots received maps on which the course was marked and on which instructions to be followed during flight had been previously inserted.

The return flight was to be made from the target on a bearing of approximately 90 degrees, and pilots were told to head for any of the airfields that had been marked on their maps, according to preference.

At 0822 hours, the first aircraft took off from Gütersloh as part of Hitler’s Operation Bodenplatte. Over 900 aircraft from various airfields began a massive low-level attack on 16 vulnerable Allied airfields throughout France, Belgium and Holland.

F/O Hill continues:

The next morning, January 1 at about 0815, the flight sergeant reported my aircraft repaired, refuelled and ready to go. He drove me out to the airplane and parked beside the Control Truck. This is where the air traffic controller was. Everything was mobile. There was a small tent next to the truck with two men in it. I put on my parachute, helmet and gloves, then climbed into the airplane, worrying that I would not be able to start the aircraft for lack of power. I might possibly need a boost because there might not be enough battery power. I pressed the starter, pushed fuel into the cylinders, but nothing happened, so I climbed out of the airplane. I took my parachute, helmet and gloves off, putting them onto the end of the wing, then went to the Control Truck. I had my hand on the door knob of the truck when I heard a gun firing. I said, ‘Someone has pushed the wrong button.’ The man in the truck said, ‘No! That’s a German button!’

The Eindhoven airfield was about to get a pasting as the aircraft from Jagdeschwader 3 began their first strafing run led by Geshwaderkommodore Heinrich Bӓr. Reports put the time at about 0920 hours. “There was no place to take cover except the Control truck,” remembers Hill. “Why the Germans did not take it out, I don’t know. That would have been what I would have done in their place. This all lasted about 20 to 30 minutes. It was an awfully long time. A Jeep came and picked me up. We drove past my airplane which was totally shot up.”

Flight Lieutenant Harry Hardy, DFC, RCAF No. 440 Typhoon Squadron, explains:

Bob Spooner, photographed before an authentic Hawker Typhoon in Ottawa in June 2014, was with No. 438 Squadron when the base at Eindhoven was hit. BODENPLATTE was nickname “The Hangover Raid,” as many were suffering the morning-after effects of ringing the New Year when the German fighters launched their surprise attack that morning. (rod spooner)

My flight was attending a morning church parade when suddenly: cannon shells started hitting the airfield and I found myself on the floor between the altar and the organ. We all crawled onto the floor; then we made our way to the air raid shelter. The Germans were firing the entire time but, fortunately, we didn’t lose any men. After the raid was over, as I was smoking my pipe, a bomb blew up outside the bomb shelter and I bit right through the stem of my pipe. It was a late bomb going off: one of our own! The Germans thought the airmen would have been recovering from celebrating New Year’s Eve.

Flight Lieutenant Wally Ward, also with No. 440, continues:

I was standing behind some shelter at the edge of the field. I had finished my tour and I was just waiting to be posted out of the squadron to an aerodrome up near Newcastle to instruct on Typhoons. The squadron was lined up to take off when I saw Messerschmitt 110s and Focke-Wulf 190s come over the horizon one after the other.

They shot the hell out of the Typhoons. They circled and went back again. (There was more than one attack.) Our pilots jumped out of the planes and rolled away and looked for a ditch for refuge. A Messerschmitt 262 (jet) was directing the attack. It was circling the airfield at about 5,000 feet. The Messerschmitt and Focke-Wulf were lined up like they were on a game shoot.

The Eindhoven defences, especially the four RAF squadrons manning their Bofors 40mm anti-aircraft guns, did their utmost to defend the airfield and shot down several German aircraft. One remarkable event took place when a Fw 190 was hit by Bren fire operated by the Senior Armament NCO Sergeant Large of No. 438 Squadron and Sergeant McGee. At the time of the first attack, Large was down the road from dispersal waiting to see the Squadron’s take off. Large, serving as ground crew with No. 438, wrote in his personal report:

I saw a number of aircraft making attack on the field and I first thought it was just a German hit-and-run but after the second and third wave passed over, circled and continued their attacks from out the sun, I figured they were playing for keeps. I therefore hurried back to the dispersal area armoury where the Bren guns were kept. There, I saw Flight Sgt McGee and we decided to take a whack at anything flying over the dispersal area. We each took a Bren gun each and two boxes of clips and stood outside the dispersal door and waited for any Jerry that came within range. In all, we believed we fired at 10 or 12 Focke-Wulf 190’s and Messerschmitt 109’s. Strikes was (sic) seen on at least two aircraft. One was coming from the south of us at a height of not more than 40 feet. We both fired a full magazine at him. We saw strikes down the engine in the direction of the cockpit and we saw small bits and pieces fly off. The enemy aircraft flipped over on its other side and we saw black smoke coming from the aircraft.

A few days later, a Fw 190 was found some 500 metres southwest of the village of Oirschot, north of the Eindhoven airfield. The Focke-Wulf had been struck by small arms’ fire on the port side and the wounded pilot, Hauptmann Ewald Trost, had been taken prisoner. He had suffered burns to his face and bullet wounds to his right arm.

“I was in shock,” says Ward of the large-scale attack. “I was astonished. At this late stage of the war, we hardly ever saw enemy aircraft. We had the dominance of the skies. This was my first chance to see so many enemy aircraft … dozens of them all in one place. Afterwards, I flew to Brussels. I saw all these heavy bombers had been all shot up — B17s, maybe — they were destroyed. They had not been dispersed. We never thought it could happen. Fortunately, no one in my squadron got hurt.”

Flight Lieutenant Robert Spooner, DFC of No. 438 recalls:

German aircraft shot up our airfield killing at least ten people and injuring many others. Certain selected Allied airfields were attacked simultaneously. Many aircraft lined up on the parkway were strafed and set on fire. Our squadron had four planes on the runway. Flight Lieutenant Pete Wilson, 438 Squadron’s new squadron leader, and his number two had already opened throttles and were heading down the runway when the attack started. Both were killed before they could get off the ground.

The German planes were having a ball. A row of Spitfires, lined up wingtip to wingtip, were set on fire. Many Typhoons were victims as well. Other planes parked in revetments fared better. Smoke and flames from burning aircraft were everywhere and must have been hard for Jerry to see what to attack. Our squadron did not get wiped out completely so we were ordered to get a flight in the air to let the Germans know that we were still operational. In stressful times like this, things seem to happen in seconds but we were told later that the attack had lasted 25 minutes.

Around 0945 hours, the ordeal for Eindhoven airfield was finally over and the last pilots of Jagdeschwader 3, in small groups or individually, headed for home.

One eyewitness, Flight Lieutenant Bergmann, a Dutch pilot with No. 181 Squadron who was showing his brother around the airfield that day, recounts his version of the attack:

Even with their eyes closed, the attackers would have hit something. Next to about 300 aircraft, most of them parked in line, the airfield was filled with vehicles of every type. In addition, fuel and ammo dumps and stocks of all sorts of equipment. Fires started all over the airfield, Typhoons preparing to take off tried to get airborne, while others aborted their take-off; pilots leaping from the aircraft and taking cover. None of those aircraft remained untouched. One of the Typhoons that managed to get airborne shot down a Luftwaffe aircraft but was himself shot down. Only a couple of metres away from us, a courageous Canadian was firing his Sten gun from the end of the runway at the attackers.

Besides No. 438, other squadrons were also caught taxiing onto the airfield. Many Typhoons of No. 440 were on the runway ready to take off and received a going over by the attacking fighters. Fortunately, all the pilots survived during the 23 minutes of hell that paralysed everyone. Under the circumstances, their escape unscathed was something of a miracle.

While the RAF regiments were trying their best to shoot down the enemy aircraft, fuel and ammunition dumps were set on fire. Thousand-pound bombs exploded every few minutes, individual aircraft were burning in the dispersal area, rockets — possibly slung under the wings of the burning Typhoons — ignited and took off in all directions. Slowly, a thick pall of smoke settled over the area blotting out the early morning sun. The attack had come as a great shock, but it is possible that, after it was over, there may have been a degree of comrades-in-arms admiration that the Luftwaffe could have mounted such a large-scale operation. 

The attack on Eindhoven can be considered a success. In addition to destroying 26 Typhoons and five Spitfires, the Germans also damaged around 30 more Typhoons. However, German losses had been considerable. Twenty-five per cent of the attacking force of 60 aircraft had been lost and three more damaged. Nine pilots were killed and six ended up as POWs.

What documents remain do not accurately record the exact overall tally of the Allied aircraft that were destroyed during Operation Bodenplatte. Estimates of 305 aircraft destroyed and 190 damaged are believed to be much lower than actual loses. Although the Allies could rapidly replace men and material, the Germans could not, especially in pilots. The overall Luftwaffe losses from Bodenplatte totalled more than 250 aircraft and 215 pilots.

Hitler’s Luftwaffe Adjutant, Nicholas Von Below, wrote on January 1, 1945:

A catastrophe befell the Luftwaffe the same day. Goring [Commander-in-Chief of the Luftwaffe] had planned a strike by almost a thousand aircraft on the Western frontier against various [enemy] targets. Preparations for Operation ‘Bodenplatte’ were kept strictly secret; nevertheless, the attack was greeted with heavy Allied anti-aircraft fire. On the way back, our aircraft flew over accurate German flak, the batteries not having been informed of the operation on the grounds of secrecy.

We suffered heavy losses which could not be made good. ‘Bodenplatte’ was the last major operation undertaken by the Luftwaffe.

The only service in the Luftwaffe left capable of offering any effective resistance was the Nachtjagd or night-hunting fighters.

Hitler’s last roll of the dice cost him dearly. As General der Jagdflieger and fighter ace Adolf Galland said, “We have sacrificed our last substance.”

FRANCE'S CINDERELLA CAMPAIGN: Canadian Army Fights To Secure The Channel Ports

As the Germans tried to escape across the Seine, 2 nd Tactical Air Force strikes destroyed thousands of vehicles and killed or wounded many of the soldiers aboard them. (donald i. grant, pa–141883)

(Volume 24-11)

By Mark Zuehlke

In the wake of the D-Day landings, the Canadian 3 rd Infantry Division had the objective of capturing the port of Boulogne. Initial probing attacks proved it would be a tough nut to crack.

In three days, the hell of war was to engulf the old French port of Boulogne. Just as its German garrison was instructed to defend Boulogne to the last bullet and breath, Allied high command had made its capture and opening to shipping a matter of the highest priority. As First Canadian Army advanced out of Normandy on the left flank of the Allied juggernaut headed for Germany, taking Boulogne fell to two brigades of its 3rd Infantry Division, supported by artillery, tanks, and specialized siege equipment.

North Shore (New Brunswick) Regiment soldiers advance on a cross-channel gun position west of Sangatte during Operation UNDERGO. The elevated area surrounding the port of Boulogne was heavily defended by the Germans. If the Canadian advance was to succeed, they would need to eliminate the batteries and pillboxes at La Trésorerie first. (donald i. grant, pa–133139)

Interrogation of German prisoners, information from the Forces Françaises de l’Intérieur (French Forces of the Interior — FFI) resistance movement, and aerial photography analysis led Canadian intelligence staff to believe that Boulogne was defended by 5,500 to 7,000 German army, Luftwaffe, and marine personnel. While the relatively small garrison was considered to be a poor-quality affair afflicted by low morale, the city’s fortifications were daunting. One Canadian report stated that the city was “completely surrounded by high features which [form] a very strong all round defensive system covering the port from landward attack. These defences [are] mutually supporting to a marked degree and command all the approaches to the city.” Each defensive position was encircled by barbed-wire entanglements and minefields, and enclosed at least one large concrete gun emplacement protected by concrete dugouts linked together by underground passages. All roads approaching the city had been thoroughly mined. Every bridge had either been blown or was wired with explosives for destruction when the inevitable attack was launched.

Just to the north of the city, the defences were anchored on an old French fort — Fort de la Crèche — that the Germans had extensively modernized and strengthened with thick-walled concrete pillboxes and defensive works. It bristled with light guns that protected two powerful 210-millimetre guns and four 105-millimetre heavy guns. Despite being designed primarily to face seaward, these six guns could rotate to fire landward, where the destructive weight of their massive shells posed a major threat to any attacker.

Private G.R. MacDonald of 2nd Division’s Toronto Scottish (MG) gives first aid to an injured French boy in Brionne on August 25, 1944. (ken bell, pa–135956)

Fort de la Crèche was designed to protect Boulogne’s main fortifications from northern attack and to threaten the right flank of any force approaching the city from the east. The fort itself was protected by another major strongpoint a short distance to the northeast. Called La Trésorerie, it formed the outermost defensive work in all of Boulogne’s fortifications. Its coastal battery of three 12-inch guns were positioned on a dominating hill. Although these guns could not fire landward, the strongpoint’s other defences made it a potent threat — so much so that the Canadians had decided La Trésorerie must be eliminated prior to the major assault on Boulogne. This task was given to the North Shore (New Brunswick) Regiment of 8th Canadian Infantry Brigade. On September 8, 1944, the regiment moved to a pre-attack position well beyond the range of the German guns and initiated a program of aggressive patrols around La Trésorerie and other strongpoints north of Boulogne that would also have to be taken.

One such strongpoint was the hamlet of Wacquinghen, about a mile and a half northeast of La Trésorerie. On September 14, Lieutenant Victor Soucisse’s scout platoon crept up to Wacquinghen’s outskirts. As this move drew only sporadic machine-gun fire, Soucisse was convinced the hamlet was only lightly held. The moment Soucisse reported this possibility to Lieutenant Colonel Ernie Anderson, the North Shores commander decided to kick off operations early with a stealthy and hurried assault on Wacquinghen.

Consequently, at dusk on September 15, a small squad of infantrymen rushed toward the hamlet. Drawn from ‘D’ Company, the men were led by its Major O.L. “Otty” Corbett. Having joined the North Shores in the midst of the Normandy Campaign’s bitter early-July fight for Carpiquet Airfield, Corbett had emerged from that campaign as one of the battalion’s most experienced company commanders. This night, he also hoped to be one of its luckiest. Just getting to the hamlet undetected would be no mean feat. The company was starting from high ground known locally as Bancres, about two miles east of Wacquinghen. Advancing along the road to the hamlet would be folly because it was overlooked by La Trésorerie. Instead, Corbett led his assault squad in a wide cross-country sweep to approach from the northeast.

Royal Hamilton Light Infantry soldiers on patrol pass abandoned German wagons in Elbeuf on August 27, 1944. (ken bell, pa–138276)

Only Corbett’s most experienced men accompanied him — men he could trust not to silhouette themselves on a crest or make any other bad move that would betray their presence. As an added precaution, everybody had left behind equipment likely to rattle. Their wide sweep took them across gently rolling farm country, hugging every row of trees, delving into any fold of ground, or using the banks of a creek bed for cover. Precisely as night fell, Corbett’s squad reached a small rise overlooking the hamlet. Everything, Corbett later said, “sounded peaceful and quiet.” But he had a problem: the squad’s wireless set had failed. If they kicked over a hornet’s nest, there would be no calling for backup. Yet Corbett figured that if he were to “beat the Jerries to the village, no time could be wasted.”

Corbett led his men down from the high ground and into a couple of the backyard gardens. They then dashed silently through the streets to the other side of the hamlet. “This move was successful. We got [there] ahead of the enemy and quickly sent back for the remainder of the company. Wacquinghen was in our hands.” It was 0130 hours. The race had been narrowly won. Just a few minutes later, a three-man German patrol approached and was sent fleeing by a volley of gunfire.

The rest of ‘D’ Company soon arrived, and Corbett deployed the men into defensive positions that mostly faced toward the German line of approach. Still unable to establish wireless contact with battalion headquarters, Corbett felt increasingly uneasy. This was not because he expected the Germans to counterattack. Corbett was confident his men could repel that. His worries fixed on a hill about a half mile away called Pas de Gay that Soucisse had reconnoitred during the same patrol that convinced him Wacquinghen was ripe for plucking. Soucisse had noted several concrete dugouts on the summit that he suspected sheltered a German observation post. The hill “looked high and menacing in the starlight and I commenced to think what a beautiful time we were going to have when it got daylight with an enemy observation post looking into our mess-tins and seeing every move.” Corbett could easily imagine the Germans calling down deadly accurate artillery and mortar fire.

After another unsuccessful attempt to contact Lieutenant Colonel Anderson, Corbett decided to send a platoon to discover if Pas de Gay was occupied. Summoning Lieutenant Hobart Staples of No. 10 Platoon, Corbett ordered him to climb the hill and secure the dugouts. Hoping to complete the mission before daylight, Staples hurried his men along a road and then across a broad field to where a raised railway hugged the hill’s southern base. “It was hard going,” he related, “as we did not want to make any noise and yet we had to get over some wire fences. They proved a problem, but by holding the wires for each in turn we managed the job without raising any disturbance and finally reached the mouth of a re-entrant … Then we came upon a small dried-up brook and started up the left side — a mistake. But we had nothing to guide us … we simply had to grope along as best we could and trust to luck.

A Canadian soldier examines the inundated area southeast of Calais that funnelled Operation UNDERGO’s line of advance toward the coastal approaches. (donald i. grant, pa–131247)

“It was very dark and we didn’t seem to be getting anywhere except further away from the company, so I decided to withdraw to the mouth of the re-entrant. By that time it was getting near to morning and I left the men under Sergeant [Percy Fielsing] Mitchell and [Corporal Leonard Kenney] Dunne and went back to report to Major Corbett.”

Wanting the hill badly, Corbett ordered Staples to try again and promised to also send No. 11 Platoon up in a left-flanking manoeuvre. Because it would be daylight, Corbett told Staples to lead with just a small fighting section rather than having the entire platoon strung out inside the gully. When Staples called for volunteers, ten trusted men stepped forward. They started climbing at 0700 hours. “Things looked very different in the daylight,” Staples said. “We found and crossed the dried-up brook and this time we started up the right side instead of the left, came to barbed wire entanglements and concrete dugouts set in the hillside. These we had missed entirely in the darkness. We were almost to the top when I saw a German sentry on the skyline 25 yards away.” Staples hissed at his Bren gunner to take out the German, but the soldier was unable to spot him. In the few seconds it took for Staples to point out the sentry’s position, the German noticed the Canadians and ducked from sight.

Staples signalled his men to fan out and then led them up the slope at a run. Scrambling forward, Staples spotted another German and sighted his Sten gun on the man. When he squeezed the trigger, nothing happened. “I pressed the trigger again and again, decided safety was the better part of valour and went to ground. A few minutes later the enemy started to mortar the top of the hill and we were forced part way down the hillside where we had refuge in the concrete dugouts. We waited there and soon the enemy was coming over the top of the hill. We fired everything we had, Brens, rifles and mortar, and it slowed them up. I sent Sergeant Mitchell back to Major Corbett for reinforcements … and we waited there. Luckily the enemy didn’t realize our predicament and Major Corbett came.”

Emerging from their dugouts to charge Staples exposed the Germans to No. 11 Platoon closing from the left flank. The battle quickly deteriorated into a confused melee that allowed Staples and a few men to break into the summit fortifications. Private Eldon Wright got so close to one concrete dugout that grenades thrown by the Germans inside sailed well past him. Wright quickly exhausted his own grenade supply and shouted for more. Another man crawled over with a clutch of No. 36 grenades, and Wright threw two through an embrasure. With Staples closing fast on the dugout from the rear, the Germans suddenly vanished by way of an underground tunnel the Canadians discovered only after the position was overrun. At 0800 hours, Corbett arrived with more reinforcements. “We had the hill,” he reported, “a beautiful observation post which gave control of the ground right to the sea coast north of Wimereux, bomb-proof sleeping quarters, a tunnel leading in the direction of La Trésorerie, and a cable junction box leading toward Cap Gris Nez and Calais. The tunnel entrance was blown to prevent any counterattack and we also used some grenades on the cable box.”

Sherman tanks of 4th Canadian Armoured Division cross the Seine via a pontoon bridge at Elbeuf. (donald i. grant, pa–113660)

After settling in the two platoons, Corbett went to battalion headquarters. He found Anderson “pacing the floor and ready to explode,” for the battalion commander had heard nothing from ‘D’ Company since it went off into the darkness toward Wacquinghen. The adjutant, Captain Bob Ross, had spent the night and early morning assuring Anderson that the lack of news meant there was nothing to worry about, but he refused to accept this. “Now he was so happy over the success of the operation that he didn’t give [me] the chewing out I deserved for not getting some messages back,” Corbett noted. Battalion headquarters staff failed to record ‘D’ Company’s casualty rate or probable German losses. But for what had been gained, North Shore losses were considered well within acceptable bounds.

In fact, when Anderson learned that Corbett had secured not only the hamlet but also Pas de Gay, he realized that a major obstacle to the forthcoming attack on La Trésorerie and the other main fortifications guarding the northern flank of Boulogne had been taken. The destruction of the junction cable box was particularly welcome. Corbett had counted a total of 210 different wires leading from it. Anderson realized the box must have provided a secure communication link between all the German positions north of Boulogne. Had it remained in enemy hands, the Germans’ ability to communicate would surely have compromised the planned operation. With the link severed, the Canadians had gained a critical and unforeseen advantage.

Still, Anderson was deeply worried about the coming engagement. As the North Shores’ Padre R. Miles Hickey later wrote, while men in other battalions usually knew their commander by “names that couldn’t be written on … paper, Colonel Ernie received the endearing title of ‘Uncle Ernie’” because he cared so much about his men’s welfare. Here at Boulogne, Anderson faced the disturbing reality that these men, and indeed the Canadians as a whole, had no experience in assaulting such heavily constructed and mutually supporting fortifications. Breaking through them to capture Boulogne promised to be a slow and costly affair. But it was also a vital and necessary undertaking that must be accomplished with the greatest speed. Indeed, it seemed that the longer it took them to win this and the other channel ports so urgently assigned to First Canadian Army, the more likely that what had seemed an opportunity to win the war before the end of 1944 would slip from the Allied grasp. W

DESTROYER DUEL OFF USHANT: Serving In An International Flotilla, HMCS Haida And Huron Bag A Zerstörer

The Royal Canadian Navy’s HMCS Huron (G24), in dazzle camouflage, sailing out to sea during the Second World War during one of her countless trans-Atlantic escorting runs. The Tribal-class destroyer, commissioned on July 28,1943, also served in the Pacific theatre during the Korean War under the new pennant number 216.

(Volume 24-09)

By Jon Guttman

Among the pivotal consequences of the 1940 Battle of Britain was the island nation’s preservation as a staging base for forces raised throughout the Commonwealth, as well as exiled military personnel from the countries conquered by Nazi Germany, still game to keep up the fight. As the tide of World War II turned, the conflict in Western Europe saw formations go into battle composed of units from various nationalities. A naval case in point was the British 10th Destroyer Flotilla (DF). Formed in Plymouth on January 10, 1944, it consisted of the 19th Division, comprised of the British destroyers Tartar and Ashanti, and the Royal Canadian Navy ships Huron and Haida, as well as the 20th Division, with Polish destroyers Blyskawica and Piorun, and the British Eskimo and Javelin. Led by Commander Basil Jones, flying his pennant from His Majesty’s Ship Tartar, the flotilla was organized specifically for Operation Tunnel, a series of sweeps to interdict German naval activity in the Bay of Biscay in the months leading up to the Allied landings in France. On the night of June 8-9, this mixed bag would have a violent encounter with a German opposite number in what became known as the Battle of Ushant.

His Majesty’s Canadian Ships Huron and Haida, like HMS Tartar, Ashanti and Eskimo, were of the Tribal class, a type of super-destroyer that entered production in 1937, in response to the greater gun armament (six 5-inchers in twin turrets) introduced in Japan’s game-changing Fubuki class in 1929. Besides eight 4.7mm Mark XII quick-firing guns, each of the Tribals had four 21-inch torpedo tubes and 20 depth charges with one rack and two throwers. With a length of 377 feet and a standard displacement of 1,854 tons, the Tribal was propelled by twin-shaft 44,000-shaft horsepower steam turbines at up to 36 knots. Sporting two raked stacks and masts and a clipper bow that gave her excellent sea-keeping qualities, she was a handsome ship, well regarded by her crews. The 16 Tribals built for the Royal Navy had a worldwide variety of ethnic names, while the two Royal Australian Navy vessels to see combat were named Warramunga and Arunta after two of its Aboriginal tribes and Canada’s were christened after First Nations: Iroquois, Athabaskan, Huron, Haida, Micmac, Nootka, Cayuga and a second Athabaskan to replace the first after she was sunk.

The first four Canadian Tribals were produced by Vickers-Armstrong Ltd. at Newcastle upon Tyne, while the rest were home-built at Halifax Shipyards. Laid down on July 15, 1941, launched on July 25, 1942 and commissioned on July 28, 1943, HMCS Huron (G24) under LCmdr Herbert Sharples Rayner participated in convoys to the Soviet arctic port of Murmansk — interrupted by a collision with an oiler that laid her up for a month’s repairs in Leith — until February 1944, when she was reassigned to the 10th DF. Haida (G63) came later, being laid on September 29, 1941, launched on August 25, 1942 and commissioned on August 30, 1943. Skippered by Commander Henry George DeWolf, she too served on the Murmansk run, most dramatically shepherding convoy JW-55B away from danger when word came that the German battlecruiser Scharnhorst was coming out to strike—a venture that ended in Scharnhorst’s being caught and sunk on December 26, 1943. On December 10, Haida was attached to the 10th Flotilla.

The German destroyer Z-32, hard aground on Île de Batz off the Brittany coast the day after the battle. This photograph was taken by a Spitfire of No. 541 Squadron. The vessel’s forward twin turret is pointed in the direction from which HMCS Haida and Huron were firing in the final stage of the battle. She was destroyed later that day by Allied aircraft, including Beaufighters from the RCAF’s No. 404 Squadron.

The 10th DF spent the next several months training in its role and then began conducting periodic sweeps for enemy vessels in the English Channel. An exceptional case occurred on the moonless night of April 25, when light cruiser HMS Black Prince, leading Haida, Athabaskan, Ashanti and Huron, ran into three German Elbing-class torpedo boats — essentially small destroyers — as they were returning to Saint-Malo after laying mines off Sept-Îles. British radar detected the Germans first and a chase ensued. All three Elbings scattered, but Haida’s and Athabaskan’s gunfire blew up T-29’s after funnel. As its crew abandoned ship, they retired north to allow Ashanti and Huron to administer the coup de grâce. Afterward, “Hard Over Harry” DeWolf carved a notch in the bridge rail to mark the first of an eventual 14 enemy vessels in whose demise Haida would have a hand.

The surviving torpedo boats, T-24 and T-27, left Saint-Malo for Brest on the night of April 27, only to encounter Haida and Athabaskan again, patrolling off Île Vierge. As the Canadians fired starshells, the Germans made smoke and turned south, T-24 launching three torpedoes as she did so. One struck Athabaskan, causing a secondary explosion in a magazine. T-24 fled eastward while T-27, hit and on fire, made for the southeast, with Haida in pursuit. More shells took their toll until T-27 ran aground and the torpedo boat was burning and abandoned by the time Haida disengaged. Athabaskan (G07) went down off Saint-Brieuc with LCmdr John Hamilton Stubbs and 128 other crewmen, 44 survivors subsequently being rescued by Haida and another 47 by T-24 as she was returning to harbour.

Relentless attrition had reduced German naval units to four, all based too far south in Brittany when the Allies landed in Normandy on June 6. These were the 8th Zerstörer-Flotille (Z-32, Z-24, ZH-1, formerly the Dutch destroyer Gerard Callenburgh, and the “orphaned” T-24); the 5th Torpedoboot-Flotille (T-28, Möwe, Falke and Jaguar); and the 5th and 9th Schnellboot-Flotillen, equipped with motor torpedo boats (called E-boats by the Allies). Defying overwhelming odds, Korvettenkapitän Heinrich Hoffmann sortied with the 5th Torpedoboot-Flotille on the night of June 5-6 and loosed a spread of torpedoes that sank the Norwegian destroyer Svenner. She was the only warship sunk on D-Day, with four more attempts over the next week achieving nothing before Allied aircraft caught the 5th in Le Havre and sank all its ships but T-28, which managed to escape, accompanied by the Schnellboote, eastward through the Channel and back to Germany.

That left only Kapitän-zur-See Theodor von Bechtolsheim’s 8th Zerstörer-Flotille in Brest, with his crews repairing damage from air attacks and bolstering his ships’ anti-aircraft gun defences. On June 8, he was ordered to attack the invasion forces and set out that evening. After rounding Ushant, the four warships turned northeast. At 0123 hours on June 9, shadows were sighted off the port bow, 4,000 to 5,000 metres away.

Approaching the Germans on a southwesterly course was the 10th Destroyer Flotilla, which upon learning of their sortie, had departed Plymouth to intercept. Tartar fired a starshell and the battle was on.

The Allies’ radar had detected the enemy first, between 0116 and 0120 hours, but as they turned to starboard, the Germans spotted their light camouflaged sides in the moonlight. Von Bechtolsheim turned northward, ordering each ship to fire torpedoes. His destroyers did, but T-24 held back, unable to make out a target.

A proud souvenir: the torn Battle Ensign of HMS Tartar (F43) carried in her action with German destroyers in the Channel on June 8, 1944. It was in this action at Barfleur that a German destroyer ZH-1 was torpedoed and sunk by the destroyers Tartar and Ashanti and the former was hit on the bridge by three 120mm shells. (imperial war museum, no. 4700-01)

Possessing equipment that could monitor the German shortwave ship-to-ship command net, the Allied destroyermen heard the enemy’s torpedo order and turned to comb the tracks. Although limited to using only their forward turrets, their well-directed gunfire scored damaging hits on Z-32 and ZH-1. A hit in the turbine room, followed by an underwater hit in the No. 1 boiler, brought ZH-1 to a halt with smoke and escaping steam masking her from her primary tormentors, Ashanti and Tartar.

British fire now shifted to Z-24, which took hits to the turret loading room, the wheelhouse and charthouse, killing or wounding all personnel therein. Z-24 made smoke and turned away, but a hit on its second funnel caused a fire that kept her visible. T-24 followed Z-24’s smokescreen and both retreating ships lost contact with ZH-1 and Z-32. Haida and Huron remained hot on their trail until 0150 hours, when DeWolf realized that the Germans were entering QXZ-1330, a defensive minefield that the Allies had laid off the Breton coast. Miraculously the Germans went right through the minefield unscathed, while the Canadian ships wisely altered course to avoid it, consequently falling nine miles behind and losing radar contact. At 0214, DeWolf abandoned the chase and went to rejoin Tartar and Ashanti. Z-24 and T-24 eventually returned to Brest.

Von Bechtolsheim, unaware that he was alone, directed Z-32 north and then northeast until he sighted enemy ships off the port bow at 7,000 metres. This was the 20th Division, led by Komandor Podporucznik Conrad F. Namiesniowski aboard Blyskawica. Z-32, another formidable product of the super-destroyer trend, boasted five of the same 5.9-inch guns carried by German light cruisers, but took the worst of the gun duel, receiving 16 to 20 hits before firing four torpedoes, laying smoke and zig-zagging away. The torpedoes caused confusion as Blyskawica turned to avoid them, while Piorun, Eskimo and Javelin temporarily lost contact with their leader, then followed her in what they mistook to be a torpedo run for 15 minutes. Inexperience throughout the division effectively put it out of the fight.

Having thus shaken off its assailants, Z-32 turned west, only to run into Tartar and Ashanti at 0138 hours. In its third gunfight of the night, Z-32 scored four 5.9-inch hits on Tartar’s bridge and radar, killing four men and wounding 12, including Commander Jones. Ashanti was also hit and slowed to fight fires, but Z-32 also took three hits, one of which penetrated a magazine compartment, necessitating flooding. Z-32 turned away to reload its torpedo tubes and bring up fresh ammunition.

As Ashanti turned to re-engage, her crew spotted ZH-1 emerging from the smoke, virtually dead in the water. While the still-burning Tartar engaged the enemy ship with her after guns, Ashanti launched torpedoes, one of which blew off her bow. ZH-1’s forward gun kept firing and she launched her four remaining torpedoes — in vain — before Korvettenkapitän Klaus Barkow gave the order to set scuttling charges and abandon ship. At 0240 hours ZH-1 exploded. Of her crew, 36, including Barkow, perished; a lifeboat with 28 others reached the French coast and 140 survivors were later rescued by Commander R.A. Currie’s 14th Escort Group.

On Z-32, von Bechtolsheim was doubting the feasibility of a breakthrough to the east when his ship was spotted by Haida and Huron, en route to rejoin the 10th DF. Steaming away at 31 knots, the Zerstörer passed through another British minefield while Haida circumvented it, losing radar contact, but regaining the enemy vessel 20 minutes later. At 0420 hours von Bechtolsheim ordered Z-24 and T-24 to make for Brest — which they were already doing by then — but he was still striving to pass Z-32 between Jersey and Guernsey, with the Canadians eight miles behind and the rest of the flotilla another 12 miles behind them. At 0430, however, von Bechtolsheim turned southwest, abandoning Cherbourg in favour of making Saint-Malo. Fifteen minutes later he reported encountering “two cruisers with high superstructures” firing starshells to starboard. Haida and Huron then opened fire in earnest as Z-32 turned due south.

At 0500 hours the Canadians’ steady fire began striking home, with a shell hit in the after turbine room slowing Z-32 down and three hits disabling the forward turret. Only its No. 3 turret fired back and its last two torpedoes missed. At 0515 the starboard engine failed and von Bechtolsheim ordered Z-32’s captain, Korvettenkapitän Georg Ritter von Berger, to run her ashore on Île de Batz. After doing so at 0520, the big destroyer was subjected to another 10 minutes of punishment before the two Canadians withdrew. The surviving Germans were picked up by the 2nd Vorpostenboot-Flotille later that morning.

The Battle of Ushant eliminated the last major German naval threat to the Normandy beachhead. After two months of hiding and evading, Z-24 and T-24 were located and sunk south of the Gironde River by Bristol Beaufighters of Nos. 404 Squadron, Royal Canadian Air Force and No. 236 Squadron, Royal Air Force. The 8th Zerstörer-Flotille was formally dissolved the next day.

Meanwhile, the 10th DF remained on station. On June 24, U-971 was on her first wartime sortie when she came under depth charge attack south of Land’s End from Haida, Eskimo (which DeWolf claimed did most of the work) and a Czechoslovakian-crewed Consolidated Liberator from No. 311 Squadron, RAF Coastal Command. One German was killed and the remaining 51 captured as U-971 went down for the last time.

Huron and Haida survived the Second World War and served in the Korean War, both being decommissioned in 1963. Huron’s “X” Turret was saved from her scrapping to represent her at the Royal Military College of Canada in Kingston, Ontario. Thanks to a number of individuals and agencies, Haida, considered “the fightingest ship in the RCN” during the Second World War, has been restored and preserved in Hamilton, Ontario. W

Editor’s Note: For more information on HMCS Haida, read Bob Gordon’s article “HMCS Haida Still Going Strong” in Volume 24, Issue 1 (February 2017).

HUNTING BIG BEAR: Bringing The North-West Rebellion To A Close

The growing discontentment of the Indigenous peoples of Saskatchewan led to the North-West Rebellion, which ended with the Siege of Batoche. This three-day battle saw fewer than 300 Métis and First Nations people, led by Louis Riel and Gabriel Dumont, take on the 800-strong North West Field Force, commanded by MGen Frederick Middleton. On May 12, 1885, frustrated by two days of indecisive skirmishing, the militia battalions stormed the Métis position without orders, bringing the rebellion to a close. (“battle of batoche” based on sketches by sergeant grundy and others, toronto)

(Volume 24-09)

By Jon Guttman

Resentment over the failure of the government to live up to their treaty obligations, the Cree rose in armed revolt. The Canadian military response was relentless in its pursuit of the perpetrators.

Although neither as epic nor bloody as the Civil War and the numerous, widespread Indian Wars fought in the United States throughout the 18th century, Canada’s North-West Rebellion of 1885 encapsulated many elements of those tragedies attending its southern neighbour’s westward development. Both nations’ conflicts involved issues of government, nationality, citizenship and justice, as well as the less abstract matter of land ownership.

Even while fighting each other, both Union and Confederate soldiers occasionally had to deal with hostile Native Americans on their frontiers. Likewise, while the Canadian Army fought the Métis, it also had to detach two columns to subdue restive First Nations. As a final parallel touch, on May 10, 1869, the United States completed its first transcontinental railroad and on November 7, 1885, Canada did the same — its progress largely accelerated by the requirements of war.

This Canadian journal’s depiction of MGen Thomas Bland Strange was based on an 1871 photograph, but its rendition of his nominal Wood Cree opponent, Big Bear (Mistahimaskwa), does not match the photograph later taken of him, nor does his demeanor match descriptions of those who knew him. (glenbow archives na-1383-16)

The North-West Rebellion began on March 19, 1885, when Métis leader Louis David Riel established the Provisional Government of Saskatchewan, after which an attempt was made by North-West Mounted Police (NWMP) and Prince Albert Volunteers under Superintendent Leif Crozier to arrest him on March 26th, only to be routed at Duck Lake, 2.5 kilometres from Riel’s self-proclaimed capital of Batoche. While the Métis were fighting for their land and their way of life, however, the region’s First Nations had more existential grievances. A decline in the bison population, combined with lapses in the government’s distribution of rations in accordance with its own Treaty 6 caused widespread hunger that drove many tribes to request renegotiation. Although there is no evidence of a direct alliance between the Métis and the First Nations, influential spokesmen such as the Blackfoot chief, Crowfoot, averted violence among most of the Aboriginals. However, two small bands, largely encouraged by word of the recent Métis success at Duck Lake, became involved in their own concurrent private wars with Ottawa.

On March 30, a band of Cree led by Poundmaker (Pîhtokahânapiwyin) tried to speak to John M. Rae, the Indian agent at Battleford, but were put off for two days. In consequence, some of Poundmaker’s starving people began looting abandoned homes in the area. While the Cree milled about Fort Battleford, Assiniboine warriors from the Eagle Hills, moving to join Poundmaker, killed two farmers along the way, adding to the frightened white residents’ perception that they were under siege.

Hunger and resentment led to an even greater tragedy at Frog Lake in what is now Alberta. There, some 250 Wood Cree nominally led by Big Bear (Mistahimaskwa) camped outside of the Hudson’s Bay Company post on April 2. Big Bear was an old and respected statesman, not least for his refusal to sign Treaty 6, but when his people were forced to settle in reserves anyway, his authority began to decline. Although Big Bear tried to moderate the younger, more volatile braves, the real power in his band was shared by his son, Little Bear (Ayimisis) and his war chief and shaman, Wandering Spirit (Kapapamahchakwew).

Horse Child (left), Big Bear’s 12-year-old son, with Hudson’s Bay Company clerk William Bleasdell Cameron, who survived the Frog Lake Massacre. During Big Bear’s trial, when this photograph was taken, Cameron testified in the old chief’s defence. (saskatoon public library, local history room)

The focus of their resentment was Indian agent Thomas Trueman Quinn, who had long denied them rations with harshness and arrogance. Just before 1100 hours, the Cree ordered all of Frog Lake’s residents to their encampment two kilometres away. When Quinn flatly refused to leave, Wandering Spirit shot him in the head. This touched off several minutes of panic and frenzy marked by more shooting by the Cree, resulting in the deaths of sawmill operator John Gowanlock, farming instructor John Delaney, clerk William Gilchrist, trader George Dill, carpenter Charles Gouin, Catholic priests Félix Marchand and Léon Fafard, and Fafard’s lay assistant, John Williscroft. A tenth man present, Hudson’s Bay clerk William Bleasdell Cameron, survived only because Cree women hid him under a large shawl until the braves’ rancour cooled down. He and widows Theresa Delaney and Theresa Gowanlock were then rounded up with other locals, totalling 70, and forced to accompany the war band as captives. The agent’s nephew, Henry Quinn, managed to escape and report what had transpired.

On April 13, Big Bear’s band surrounded Fort Pitt and issued an ultimatum for its North-West Mounted Police to surrender. Big Bear, however, separately contacted an old friend there, Hudson’s Bay Company trader W.H. McLean, assuring him that his people’s fight was only with the “government people” and advised him to put all civilians under his protection. The next day the 26 NWMP (including Inspector Francis Dickens, son of author Charles Dickens) escaped, save for one man killed, one wounded and one captured. Although the Cree ransacked the fort, true to Big Bear’s word they left the civilians unmolested.

Meanwhile, retribution was on the way as Prime Minister John A. McDonald’s government dispatched a North-West Field Force to deal with the Métis rebellion. Alternately riding on the Canadian Pacific Railroad and marching along the uncompleted stretches, the army divided three ways upon arrival in Saskatchewan. While the main force of 900 soldiers and militia, led by MGen Frederick Dobson Middleton, departed Fort Qu’Appelle for Batoche on April 10, a separate column under LCol William D. Otter left Swift Current on the 13th to relieve Fort Battleford and a third column of more than 500 troops and NWMP under MGen Thomas B. Strange left Calgary for Edmonton, charged with bringing Big Bear to ground.

Otter reached Fort Battleford on the 24th, only to find Poundmaker’s combined band of Cree and Assiniboine long gone — they had retired to his reserve at Cut Knife Creek, 40 kilometres to the west. Angry locals pressed Otter to chastise the Indians for their looting spree and although General Middleton had ordered him to stay in Battleford, he obtained telegraphed authorization from Edgar Dewdney, lieutenant-governor of the North-West Territory, to “punish Poundmaker.” On May 2, the Canadians reached the Cree reserve and attacked, but the 50 braves who opposed them, operating in four to five man squads under the direction of Poundmaker’s war chief, Fine Day (Kamiokisihwew), inflicted stinging casualties and were threatening to outflank the soldiers when Otter, recalling the fate of U.S. Army LCol George A. Custer at the Little Bighorn on June 25, 1876, ordered a withdrawal. The Battle of Cut Knife Hill was the greatest First Nations victory of the war, but everyone involved knew it would not affect its ultimate outcome. After the fall of Batoche and the capture of Louis Riel on May 15, Poundmaker and his starving tribesmen began giving themselves up. By the end of the month, only Big Bear and his Cree remained at large.

MGen Frederick Middleton, on white horse, MGen Strange (on the left), Adjutant-General Walker Powell (on the right), and various commanding officers of the North-West Field Force, circa 1885. Born in India and a veteran of the 1857 Indian Mutiny, Strange helped form the Canadian Army’s artillery, earning the nickname of “Gunner Jingo.” In 1885 he was called out of retirement to deal with a different sort of Indian uprising. (painting by william blatchly, library and archives canada, mikan 2953015) 

The man on their trail, Thomas Bland Strange, had been born in Meerut, India, on September 15, 1831. A veteran of the 1857 Indian Mutiny, he later became a founding officer of the Canadian Army and particularly of its artillery, where he earned the nickname of “Gunner Jingo.” By 1885, he had retired to Calgary to raise cavalry horses, but when war broke out an old friend, Minister of Militia and Defence Adolphe-Philippe Caron, cajoled him out of retirement to organize a field force in Alberta. He did so, though most of his 375 infantrymen and 100 mounted ranch hands were woefully inexperienced. Fortunately for Strange, his three Assiniboine scouts and 25 Mounted Police were not, especially their commander, Inspector Samuel Benfield Steele, a founding member and already a legend of the NWMP. When Strange summoned him in early April, Steele was feverishly ill and otherwise engaged, dealing with 1,200 unpaid railroad workers threatening to strike. At one point facing down some 700 angry workers and reading them the riot act, Steele managed to defuse the situation and maintain peace until April 7, when — largely through his own pleas to the Canadian Pacific — the workers’ long-overdue pay finally arrived. Soon afterward, he joined Strange at Calgary. Strange ordered the NWMP to affect cowboy dress, claiming that their conspicuous red uniforms made his eyes ache. He made a unique exception of Steele, who he said, “could not give up the swagger of his scarlet tunic, and I did not ask him to make the sacrifice.”

On May 25, Strange’s column reached Fort Pitt, which the Cree had burned before retiring into the nearby hills. Strange’s pursuit was punctuated by minor skirmishes until the night of the 27th, when his troops reached Frenchman’s Butte. On the hill east of it, Wandering Spirit ordered his warriors to dig trenches and rifle pits.

The next morning, Wandering Spirit selected 200 braves to man the defences, while the rest, under Little Poplar, guarded the women and children two miles to the east. Strange advanced on their position at 6 a.m. and opened fire with his cannon, to which the Cree replied with a fusillade. As the Canadian troops advanced, however, they discovered the valley to be a morass of muskeg, followed by a stretch of open hillside rendering a frontal assault suicidal. Strange pulled them back and redeployed them with the RCMP on the left flank, the 65th Battalion, Mount Royal Rifles and Winnipeg Light Infantry Battalion in the centre and the Alberta Mounted Rifles on the right.

Strange then ordered Steele and his Mounties to ride along the creek on the Crees’ right, find a crossing and flank them. Wandering Spirit, however, took four or five men and led them along the wooded ridge, firing on the NWMP whenever they tried to cross the creek. After a mile and a half of trying, Steele pulled back, reporting hundreds of Aboriginals along the ridge — thoroughly deceived by the actual number he’d faced.

Meanwhile, other Cree managed to get around the Alberta Mounted Rifles and almost overran the supply train. At that point, three hours into the engagement, Strange, like Otter at Cut Knife Hill, expressed concern of “committing Custer” and retreated back to Fort Pitt. Frenchman’s Butte was a virtually bloodless victory for the Cree, but it only bought them a short reprieve from pursuit by Steele’s relentless Mounties and mounted militia he’d formed called Steele’s Scouts. In an encounter on May 29, Steele’s Scouts exchanged fire with some Cree and killed one of them, Mamenook.

Strange’s inexperience with the Canadian frontier was more than made up for by the expertise of Inspector Samuel Benfield Steele (pictured), who was already a legend among the NWMP. (lac, mikan 3432981)

On June 3, General Middleton arrived at Fort Pitt with 200 troops and assumed command of Strange’s column. Meanwhile, Big Bear’s band had withdrawn into the swampy wilderness to the northeast, hoping the terrain would discourage the Canadians, but Steele, leading 47 NWMP, Steele’s Scouts and Alberta Mounted Rifles, remained determined to “get his man” (or in this case, men). He caught up with 150 of them at Loon Lake. Though low on ammunition, the warriors made a spirited stand, wounding seven men, including Steele’s long-time deputy, Sergeant Billy Fury. Anywhere from four to 12 Cree were killed and dozens wounded, before they disengaged and withdrew into the woods, their ammunition all but spent. Loon Lake, since renamed Steele Narrows, was the last battle fought on Canadian soil.

With their position clearly hopeless, the Cree released some captives on June 18, with a message entreating “our Great Mother, the Queen, to stop the Government soldiers and Red Coats from shooting us.” Soon thereafter, they turned themselves in, along with their remaining captives, at Fort Pitt. A notable exception was Big Bear, who, with his 12-year-old youngest son, Horse Child, somehow slipped through the NWMP cordon and walked 100 miles to Fort Carleton, 100 miles to the east, before surrendering to a surprised sergeant on July 2.

The North-West Rebellion was over, save for the retribution. In the trial that followed in Regina, Wandering Spirit, Little Bear, Round the Sky, Bad Arrow, Miserable Man and Iron Body were sentenced to death for their part in the Frog Lake Massacre. They and two other Cree warriors convicted of murder were hanged in Battleford on November 27, the largest mass execution in Canadian history. Big Bear was spared their fate, largely through William Cameron’s testimony that he had opposed the shootings and had saved his life. However, in spite of Henry Ross Halpin’s testimony that he considered Big Bear as much a captive of the warrior band as he had been, the old chief was convicted of treason on September 11 and presiding judge Hugh Richardson sentenced him and Poundmaker to three years in Stony Mountain Penitentiary. Released due to failing health in February 1887, Big Bear spent his last days with his daughter at the Little Pine reserve until his death January 17, 1888, aged 62. Having been baptized while in prison, his remains were buried in the reserve’s Catholic cemetery.

ST LAMBERT-SUR-DIVES: Major David Currie Puts The Plug In The Jug Of The Falaise Gap

This August 19, 1944 photograph illustrates the close cooperation between the armour of the 29th Reconnaissance Regiment (South Alberta Regiment) and the infantrymen of the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders of Canada. Protected but able to give support, a Sherman M4 tank lurks in a laneway while an infantry section advances along the roadside.
(lt donald grant, dnd, library and archives canada)

(Volume 24-08)

By Bob Gordon

Most Canadians can recall the shooting rampage in and around Parliament Hill on October 22, 2014: Michael Zehaf-Bibeau fatally shot Corporal Nathan Cirillo as he stood as the ceremonial guard at the National War Memorial, then, still armed, entered the Centre Block of the Canadian Parliament where he was eventually killed.

Far fewer Canadians recall that this was not the first instance of violence within the precincts of Parliament Hill. Almost 50 years earlier, on the afternoon of May 18, 1966, 45-year-old Paul Joseph Chartier died when a bomb he was arming in a second floor washroom exploded prematurely. Parliament’s Sergeant-at-Arms, LCol (ret’d) David Vivian Currie, was one of the first men on the scene. He later told his son simply, “The poor bugger was all over the walls.”

The CBC hastily produced a 30-minute news special that aired that evening, only hours after the shooting. The program concluded with an interview with the Sergeant-at-Arms. With otherworldly calm, Currie dismissed the day’s events as small potatoes, concerning, of course, but no need for panic. “Apart from stopping everybody and searching everybody, and asking for an ID card, the sort of thing you might expect from a police state, I don’t know what more we can do really.”

Unexpected though his calm might seem, it was hardly out of character for Currie. Twenty-two years earlier that attitude had carried him through one of the fiercest and most important small-unit actions the Canadian Army fought in Normandy. Then a 32-year-old Major commanding “C” Squadron, 29th Armoured Reconnaissance Regiment (The South Alberta Regiment), in August 1944, troops under his command were assigned the task of putting the plug in the jug that was the Falaise Pocket. They closed the Falaise Gap. Currie’s “coolness, inspired leadership and skilful use of the limited weapons at his disposal,” as the citation reads, earned him the only Canadian Victoria Cross of the Normandy campaign and the only one awarded to a member of the Canadian Armoured Corps in the Second World War.

A Sherman burns while a second inches past it. The number 45 painted on the tank designates the vehicles are part of the 29th (SAR) Armoured Reconnaissance Regiment. The fighting devastated the hamlet too. On the left, metal roofing and siding from a collapsed building litter the ground, while the brick building on the right was hit by an AP round. (lt d. grant, dnd, lac)

David Vivian Currie was born on July 8, 1912 in Sutherland, Saskatchewan, a few kilometres north of Saskatoon, where he attended King George Public School. He travelled south to Moose Jaw to attend Central Collegiate and then Technical School to learn his trade as an automobile mechanic and welder. In 1939 he joined the militia and in January 1940 he enlisted in the regular army with the rank of lieutenant. He was promoted to captain in 1941 and to major in 1944.

The South Alberta Regiment (SAR) did not arrive in Normandy until seven weeks after the invasion. On July 29, passing through Caen, the unit war diary innocently reported, “The destruction and stench of the city finally brought home to all ranks that they were nearing a battlefield.” Currie’s first experience under fire was Friday, August 4. The SAR War Diary notes, “Major CURRIE found it necessary to dismount and lead his tanks into position while mortar bombs were landing all round the area.” A mere two weeks later, the SAR were leading the 4th Armoured Division as it attempted to close the Falaise Gap and “C” Squadron found itself at the sharp end.

The day the SAR arrived in Normandy was also the day the German front cracked. Since D-Day the Germans had held a line across the base of the Cotentin Peninsula running west 90 kilometres from Caen at the mouth of the Orne to Coustance. Operation COBRA, launched west of St Lo on July 23, was designed to press the German defences back out of the bocage and their anchor on the western coast of the Cotentin Peninsula. The objective was the capture of Avranches, at the southern end of the peninsula, on high ground overlooking the bay forming the corner between the peninsulas of the Cotentin and Brittany, and its bridge over the See River. It fell on July 31 and the next day Patton’s Third Army exploded west into Brittany, east towards Le Mans then Paris beyond and north turning the German flank. This last pincer created the Falaise Pocket.

When their left flank collapsed and armoured forces raced north behind their defences while the Canadians and British drove east from Caen, the Germans were threatened with the loss of the Seventh Army and the Fifth Panzer Army. Hitler, demanding a counterattack on Avranches, exacerbated the threat by pushing forces, particularly armour, deeper into the pocket, rather than preparing for an orderly withdrawal. When the Canadian Army captured Falaise and the Americans pushed north from Argentan, the only German escape route was the Falaise Gap, a seven-kilometre stretch running along the Dives River from Trun south to Chambois.

The only bridge that could support armoured vehicles over the Dives between Trun and Chambois was at St Lambert. On the afternoon of August 18, General Guy Simonds ordered the 4th Canadian Armoured Division to push on from Trun through St Lambert-sur-Dives one kilometre to Moissy. At 1500 hours Currie was summoned to regimental headquarters and given his task. In what can only be described as a backhanded compliment, his regimental CO, LCol Gordon “Swatty” Wotherspoon, later noted that Currie “wasn’t a brilliant tactician, but he was very stubborn, and if you gave him an order to do something within his capabilities, he would do it — period.” Three months later Currie told the CBC, “I remember thinking at the time that it was the toughest job the regiment had ever been given.”

Currie had only very limited forces at his disposal. “B” Company of The Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders of Canada (Major Ivan Martin) was placed under Currie’s command and accompanied his “C” Squadron of the South Alberta Regiment. His “C” Squadron was down to 15 tanks and the accompanying Highlanders mustered only 55 effectives. It has been erroneously reported that a troop of M10 tank destroyers accompanied Currie’s force. In fact, they remained laagered with the HQ Company, actively participating in its defence when it risked being overrun. In total Currie’s small force numbered approximately 130. Additionally, as supporting artillery had not kept up with the advance and flying conditions were temporarily abysmal with rain and cloud blanketing the area, the small force had to attack ‘naked’ without supporting arms.

This portrait captures Currie’s calm, abiding demeanour. Asked his response to being awarded the Victoria Cross, he responded, “Well, I was staggered. I sat down and had a cigarette and thought it over.” According to his son, “He was always a cool guy. Absolutely no flapping, no matter what.” Currie’s medals, including his VC (one of only 12 awarded to Canadians fighting in Canadian units in WWII), will be auctioned off on September 27, 2017 in London; opening bid is $500,000. (dnd, lac, mikan 4233304)

They set out at 1800 hours on Friday, August 18. Having covered four kilometres with neither casualties nor contact as they were approaching the north edge of St Lambert, flares lit up the Norman night, an 88mm antitank gun barked, and Currie’s small force was down to 13 tanks. Both crews survived, but half a dozen were wounded. Currie proposed deploying his tank crews as combat infantry and to immediately start fighting into the village. However, his regimental CO, “Swatty” Wotherspoon ordered Currie to retreat 1,000 metres to Pt 117 and renew the attack in the morning. Demonstrating the courage that would carry him through the next two days, Currie, alone and on foot, reconnoitred the German positions locating armour, antitank guns and weapons pits.

At first light on August 19, Currie’s small band attacked St Lambert again. Almost immediately a Sherman was hit and brewed up. According to the Highlanders War Diary, “C.S.M. Mitchell, together with Pte. M. R. Holmes ran forward out of cover, and under the direct fire of the enemy, climbed upon the tank. After a full five minutes, during which they ran the added and imminent risk of death or injury from exploding ammunition, they managed to pull the driver out alive.”

Subsequently, Captain John Redden located a Panzerkampfwagen (PzKpfw) IV and rushed to Currie’s tank and pointed it out. Currie’s gunner destroyed the Panzer, earning the SAR’s first confirmed kill (and a bottle of rum from “Swatty”). The advance slowed and a PIAT team from the Highlanders 10 Platoon set off to stalk a second German tank, a Panther. Team leader, Lt Gil Armour, was able to disable it. The War Diary reports: “Lt. Armour climbed on top of the tank with a 36” grenade in his hand. Just as he was about to drop the grenade in the turret, a Jerry officer looked out. Lt. Armour was the first to recover from their common shock. He forced the Jerry to come out. But the Jerry was armed with an automatic pistol and closed with him.” The officer was quickly shot by another Highlander. A second crewman was Sten gunned when he opened his hatch and finally the patrol was able to get a grenade in an open hatch. Individual battles like this typified the day’s combat. After six hours of fierce fighting they were only halfway through the village.

Early that evening Currie was reinforced by “C” Company of the Argyll’s and “C” Company of The Lincoln and Welland Regiment (with a platoon of “D” Company under command) at 1800 hours. But in the face of the bitterest opposition from superior numbers, his force could make no further progress. Currie’s force now amounted to only a dozen tanks and 60 infantrymen. It dug itself in and was soon battling furiously against one counterattack after another, refusing to give ground and accounting for hundreds of the enemy. The Argyle’s commanding officer, Major Ivan Martin, was fatally wounded that day; while conferring with a German medical officer about handling wounded German prisoners, an artillery shell struck nearby killing both.

The close combat and absolute confusion was captured by Highlander Arthur Bridge in a post-war memoir: “Our section moved into a house and took positions in the ground floor windows covering the main street. During the night one of our boys went upstairs and found five fully armed but very weary Germans having a sleep.” Throughout the night German infiltration efforts persisted.

August 20th was the fiercest day of the Falaise Gap battle. From the other side of the hill a German daily SitRep [Situation Report] stated, “At St. Lambert-sur-Dives the battle for a breach lasted for five hours.” An order issued that day by Montgomery made clear that the key to the battle was the Canadian blocking force at St. Lambert-sur-Dives. Headed, “General Instructions for completing the destruction of the enemy in the Normandy ‘bottle’ Point Seven” stated, “The bottleneck is the area Trun―Chambois. Canadian Army will be responsible for keeping this tightly corked; the cork will not be withdrawn without authority from me.”

An infantry section of the ASH hustles down the verge of a laneway on the edge of St Lambert-sur-Dives. Note the field dressing under the mesh on the helmet of the figure mid-shot. (lt grant, dnd, lac)

At one point a Canadian tank, overrun by German infantry, was compelled to swivel its turret to wipe them off the hull. Currie himself used a rifle from the tank turret to fire at snipers while the main gun engaged German armour at a greater distance. The SAR’s War Diary reported the confused situation: “At about 0800 hrs waves of German Infantry began moving against the positions. It could hardly be called an attack as there was no covering fire plan, simply a mass movement of infantry.” It went on to note, “From a PW it was ascertained that the idea behind the attack was a mass recce to find any holes in our lines to enable the large forces trapped in the pocket to find a way through.”

Interestingly, the War Diary also notes a dozen reinforcements arrived from an unusual source: “C Sqn freed 12 American PW from the Jerries and put them to work with ground weapons.” Bridge reports that at one point his platoon encountered a Universal Carrier whose driver was being held hostage by two Germans and who were forcing him to drive them through the Canadian lines to their own lines. As night approached on the 20th the disorganized but desperate German assaults began to taper off.

Calmly the Argyll’s War Diary for August 21 notes simply, “The heavy fighting in St. Lambert ended today.” In total Currie’s troops destroyed seven tanks and 40 vehicles. A total of 300 Germans were killed, another 500 were wounded and 2,100 others were taken prisoner. Currie’s force of less than 150 personnel had caused almost 3,000 German casualties. By plugging the last escape route from the pocket, they played a key role in the capture of thousands of other troops and prevented the withdrawal of innumerable more tanks and vehicles.

Three months after the battle, upon the announcement of his Victoria Cross, Currie was interviewed by the CBC where he revealed his preternatural calm and understatement. Asked by the interviewer about his immediate reaction, Currie said simply, “Well, I was staggered. I sat down and had a cigarette and thought it over.”

Side bar:

German prisoners trudge into captivity on August 19, 1944. Major David Currie is third from the left, with pistol in hand. He is talking to Trooper Lowe who had part of his uniform burned off when his machine gun jammed and exploded the day before. This photograph is taken on the Trun–Chambois road, facing south-southeast toward Trun. Official historian C. P. Stacey wrote: “This is as close as we are ever likely to come to a photograph of a man winning the Victoria Cross.” (lt donald grant, dnd, library and archives canada, pa-111565)

On the morning of August 20, despite the desperate struggle Major David Currie’s troops were waging in St Lambert-sur-Dives, all eyes were focused on Chambois, a few kilometres south. It was expected that the Polish Armoured Division would link up there with the American and French forces driving north from Argentan, completing the encirclement. Anticipating this moment and wanting to capture it for posterity, a Canadian Film and Photography Unit (CFPU) team headed south from Trun towards Chambois.

Lieutenant Don Grant, MC, a still photographer, led the small group that also included Sergeant Jack Stollery, MM, a motion picture cameraman, Sergeant Lloyd Millon and their driver. Arriving in St Lambert-sur-Dives during a brief lull in the fighting, they quickly realized that advancing further south was impossible and, also, unnecessary. Surrounded by brewed up Shermans and shattered houses, they had found the heart of the action already. Dutifully they set to shooting the scene.

Moments later a German officer riding in a sidecar and a halftrack full of troops were captured by Highlanders as they tried to flee. ‘The photo’ preserves the moment these prisoners were marched into St Lambert-sur-Dives. Grant, facing south towards Chambois, snapped the photo. In the words of official historian C. P. Stacey, “This is as close as we are ever likely to come to a photograph of a man winning the Victoria Cross.” Currie, in the left middle ground, holds a pistol. On the left of the frame Stollery can be seen capturing the scene on his motion picture camera. (That footage can be seen in Canadian Army Newsreel No. 40 and is available online.)

Confusion surrounds the identity of the man speaking to Currie. In South Albertas: A Canadian Regiment at War (1998), author and historian Donald E. Graves identifies him as Highlander Corporal G. L. “Pete” Woolf. This is mistaken. The distinctive metal holster riding low on his right hip clearly identifies him as an armoured trooper not a Highlander. A year later, on the basis of careful physiological examination of the photo, Canadian Military History identified him as Trooper R. J. Lowe. He is in only an undershirt because his shirt and tunic were burned off him the day before when the hull machine gun in his Sherman jammed and exploded.

CAMP X: Canada And The Allies' Clandestine War

At Camp X, people learned extensively about guerrilla warfare. Agents received a great deal of instruction in the art of sabotage and warfare prior to being sent overseas. Once deployed behind enemy lines in occupied Europe, the agents trained local resistance fighters in the basics of weapons handling as well as other espionage and sabotage techniques.

(Volume 24-8)

By Chris Murray

South of Highway 401 on the edge of a busy industrial park, along the north shores of Lake Ontario east of Toronto, lies a little notch of land with a monument called Intrepid Park. What once stood there is a little-known part of Canada’s Second World War history; an incredibly important top-secret hub for the Allied clandestine war effort.

Known officially by the British as ‘Special Training School 103’ (or STS 103), to the Canadians it was known by a number of names — ‘Project J’ or ‘J Force’ and sometimes ‘Special School J’ or even ‘Installation J.’ To the ‘Baker Street Irregulars’ at the Special Operations Executive (SOE) however, it was simply known as Camp X. The buildings are gone but during the Second World War Camp X, nestled outside of (then sleepy little) Whitby, Ontario was arguably the most important ‘black site’ in North America, engaged in training hundreds of spies and would-be saboteurs. 

During the early ‘Phony War’ days of the Second World War, the scale, direction, and shape of the coming conflict was still largely uncertain for both the Allies and Axis powers. Britain, along with France in particular, was busy trying to determine possible courses of action, shore up peripheral regional concerns, expand alliances, and prepare for various eventualities.

When the Phony War was shattered by the German blitzkrieg, the reality that the continent might be lost and His Majesty’s British Government (HMG) might be forced to fight the war on her own began to set in. HMG was not blind to this reality and had begun planning early on for this ‘Certain Eventuality.’ In a report by the Chiefs of Staff Committee entitled “British Strategy in a Certain Eventuality” dated May 25, 1940, HMG outlined a plan to sow “the seeds of revolt within the conquered territories.” Out of this report emerged a plan for fomenting revolt and creating “a special organisation … to put these operations into effect” with “all the necessary preparations and training [proceeding] as a matter of urgency.”

Major William Fairbairn demonstrates how to disarm and counterattack an enemy at Camp X in July 1942. Fairbairn was Camp X’s expert on silent killing and the man in charge of teaching “ungentlemanly” techniques to the Special Operations Executive (SOE) — the secret agents who supported resistance movements in enemy-occupied countries.

Soon after, HMG’s aim of igniting and fanning the flames of resistance behind Germany’s lines of occupation led to the formation of the SOE. Officially formed by the Ministry of Economic Warfare on July 22, 1940, SOE brought together the Secret Intelligence Service’s (SIS, also known as MI6), Section D (‘D’ for destruction), MI(R) — the War Office’s research department focused on guerrilla warfare — and the Foreign Office’s Electra House (EH, ministry of black propaganda). SOE was then tasked with espionage, sabotage and reconnaissance in occupied Europe against the Axis, and most notably tasked with aiding burgeoning resistance movements.

Shortly after coming to office, in May of 1940 Prime Minister Winston Churchill had authorized SIS to establish a covert intelligence mission in North America, known as British Security Coordination (BSC). BSC was to become a joint operation that would eventually bring together MI5 (Home Security), SIS, SOE and the Political Warfare Executive.

With the British declaration of war against Germany, the Neutrality Acts of the 1930s forced the UK and U.S. to ‘officially’ break off their intelligence cooperation. With more than a year before the U.S. would enter the war, BSC was, with considerable help from the Canadians, filling the void. The RCMP, for its part, played an active role by vetting all Canadians (of which there were many) assigned to BSC. As the war progressed, the RCMP’s role would, like the BSC itself, expand considerably.

Headed by the now-famous “quiet Canadian,” Sir William “The Man Called Intrepid” Stephenson, BSC was set up with an unofficial nod from elements of U.S. government to serve as the administrative centre for British intelligence operations in the Americas and a back channel for communication and liaison with U.S. military intelligence. Officed in Rockefeller Center, New York, it was disguised as the British Passport Control Office. Its early goal was to monitor enemy activity in the Americas, protect British interests, and through the use of propaganda, mobilize pro-British support. BSC’s role, however, would grow rapidly and by the end of the war, it was handling a huge portfolio across North and South Americas with programs that would influence the course of the Allied war effort globally.

The establishment of BSC, combined with SOE’s mandate “to set Europe ablaze” (as Churchill once famously describe it) led BSC to take a more ‘military’ hand in the war effort with the creation of Camp X. ‘Officially’ established December 6, 1941, planning for the camp had begun in July of 1941 when the Ministry of Defence had ordered the establishment of a secret camp inside Canada for training subversives. Initially used to train Allied personnel, Camp X quickly took on a decidedly darker and more aggressive air.

SOE quickly began pushing towards the recruitment of recent immigrants to Canada that could be trained and sent back to their homelands to raise all sorts of hell. Camp X was to become one of some 60-plus SOE camps scattered across the globe as part of HMG ‘ungentlemanly war.’ However, as a key training centre of would-be subversives, Camp X would come to have particularly special importance.

While Ottawa kept it quiet by ‘officially’ turning a blind eye to Camp X, the British led a major cooperative effort with Canadian (and later U.S.) military and intelligence agencies to turn this quiet chunk of land on Lake Ontario’s north shore into the epicentre of the Allied  ‘ungentlemanly war’ effort. 

Camp X became the destination of recruits from countries like Yugoslavia and Czechoslovakia who were to be trained and parachuted back into their ancestral homeland to wage a guerrilla war against the Axis occupation forces. These individuals were trained in a wide variety of special techniques and general chaos-making. Skills including map reading, survival skills, sabotage, partisan support, intelligence gathering, Morse code, assassination and silent killing along with advanced combat and weapons training, resistance recruitment, and demolition were all core curriculum at Camp X. The moniker “the school of mayhem and murder” was well earned.

Camp X would eventually train hundreds of agents for clandestine operations which held considerable military as well as political impacts for the course of the war and would go on to have tremendous post-war implications. Indeed, one could argue that what occurred at Camp X would have a profound effect on the landscape of the post-war world.

On September 5, 1945 Russian cypher clerk Igor Gouzenko defects from the Soviet Union and is brought to Camp X for his safety. To protect his anonymity, Gouzenko wore a trademark white hood whenever he appeared in public. 

SOE had quickly expanded Camp X beyond simply training Allied officers for clandestine missions. Through the BSC’s Canadian contacts in External Affairs, National Defence and with the help of the RCMP, SOE began recruiting recent immigrants to Canada (many of them with dubious credentials) to drop back into their occupied homelands. With the help of the RCMP, BSC was supplied with lists of known subversives suitable for the task at hand. This had logically and inevitably led BSC to known communists.

Who else would be on the RCMP’s watch list of potential subversives than members of the Canadian Communist Party (CPC)? And who else would be of a suitable disposition than Communists? Indeed, they had actively been sought out by SOE because of this very fact. This suited the RCMP just fine who were happy to see their problem solved for them. For this reason, the RCMP would come to play a central role in recruiting agents for the SOE from among various dissident political groups inside of Canada.

Canada was particularly fertile ground for recruiting such individuals. In the 1920s, waves of immigrants had arrived in Canada driven by hardships and hunger, rather than any concrete desire to permanently abandon their ancestral homes. Many were still citizens of their homelands and had strong links to both their ethnic community in Canada as well as that of their birthplaces. Many were quite active in left-wing, labour, and Communist movements. These tight-knit communities were concentrated in small pockets scattered across the country and the RCMP carefully maintained extensive files on these potential “subversives” and “agitators.” 

Communists were uniquely well prepared to confront the challenges of the clandestine war. With the invasion of the Soviet Union (June 1941) the Comintern had placed Communist parties in occupied countries on a war footing. With underground networks and connections to immigrant communities in Allied countries already in place, these groups were able to quickly adapt to their new reality. These cadres were well versed and experienced in the art of subterfuge, subversion, and clandestine activity. When the invasion was announced, most Communist networks had managed to remain intact by having made quick their escape into the mountains and forests to wait until the opportunity to wage their preferred war of the subversive presented itself. In other words, the life of the Communist left them well prepared to confront occupation. 

It is herein that the problem lies with regards to the profound post-war implications Camp X would come to play a role in. BSC was never duped by these Communist agents and at all times knew what they were dealing with. They had been sought out for this purpose. From SOE to Winston Churchill himself, all were aware of the undesirability of these individuals from a political standpoint, but they were none-the-less pragmatists. In the immediate, these forces were needed, however undesirable, or because of this undesirability, they could provide the chaos required behind Axis lines. The problem came when these individuals were unleashed and handed back to their Communist underground networks and supplied with arms and support.

Although these individuals had a shared enemy in the present, their post-war vision of what would come with victory was quite different. Often enough these irregular forces were not simply fighting Axis occupation, but simultaneously engaged in civil war and revolution. At war’s end, the Allies found themselves at odds with these agents whom they had skilfully trained. They were, by now, built up with combat experience and had captured equipment from retreating Axis forces and had become the de facto rulers in the wake of Axis retreat. In countries such as Yugoslavia, the Communist takeover was something of a fait accompli, or in the case of Greece, led to intensive post-war divisions, civil war, and chaos.

The Camp X training program was undeniably a resounding success. The small cadre of individuals who graduated from this ‘university of ungentlemanly warfare’ went on to hold a profound and disproportionately large role in steering the events of the war on the ground in occupied countries. This military success is however chained to post-war political implications that leave Camp X rarely, or selectively, spoken of. Regardless, the remarkable role Canada’s clandestine ‘college of subversion’ had as profound an impact on winning the war like other little discussed secret programs we are only now beginning to appreciate such as the Government Code and Cypher School (GC&CS) at Bletchley Park that cracked Enigma.

After the war, Camp X would be used by the RCMP in the early years of the Cold War as a secure site for such activity as interviewing the Soviet embassy cypher-clerk Igor Gouzenko, who defected to Canada. His revelations concerning the extent of Soviet espionage operations in Canada would be hugely significant. Camp X would later become a wireless intercept and listening station run by the Royal Canadian Corps of Signals before being demolished in 1969.

Camp X’s most enduring legacy will, however, always be its wartime program of “mayhem and murder” that involved such individuals as William ‘The Man Called Intrepid’ Stephenson, William ‘Wild Bill’ Donovan of the OSS, and possibly even Ian Fleming (creator of James Bond) who was inspired by these real life James Bonds. It was here where Canada’s long tradition of military planning, improvisation, and resiliency, which had made it so indispensable during the First World War, was ushered into the era of modern warfare and gave birth to the long-standing tradition and dedication to unconventional war fighting that remains close to the heart of the Canadian Armed Forces ethos.

GERALD BIRKS: ACE KILLER OVER ITALY: Part 2: Enemy Aces Fall Victim To No. 66 Squadron's Canadian Pilots

LCol William Barker VC, Canada’s most decorated service member, poses beside Sopwith Camel B6313, which underwent several changes in markings and configurations in the course of its long career as Barker’s mount in Nos. 28, 66 and 139 Squadrons. 

(Volume 24-7)

By Jon Guttman

Born in Montreal on October 30, 1894, Gerald Alfred Birks served as an infantry officer in Flanders and the Somme in 1916, and subsequently qualified as a pilot in the Royal Flying Corps (RFC). Posted to No. 66 Squadron in Italy, he flew a Sopwith Camel and was credited with bringing down two Austro-Hungarian aircraft by April 1, 1918, when the RFC and Royal Naval Air Service were amalgamated into an independent arm, the Royal Air Force. Then, on April 10, he got a new flight leader in the person of Captain William G. Barker from Dauphin, Manitoba. From that time on, Birks’ combat career took a decidedly more bellicose turn.

On May 2, Birks and two comrades attacked an Austrian Oeffag-built Albatros D.III over Levico and Birks was credited with shooting it down. His opponent, Leutnant der Reserve Kajetan Kosinski of the recently formed Fliegerkompagnie 68/J, was wounded and, in spite of a dead engine, managed to force-land in his own lines.

Flik 55/J lineup, July 24, 1918. Although Sandor Kasza had transferred to Flik 15/F earlier in the month, his D.IIa 422.14 in left foreground still bears his three white bands and red heart. István Kirjak’s two-banded plane is next in line, followed by the L-marked plane of Franz Lahner (5 victories). The M-marked plane (right row) was flown by the commander, József von Maier (7 victories).

On May 4, Birks became embroiled in another engagement with Flik 68/J over Vidor, during which he brought his score up to five and acedom. Many decades later, he vividly recalled that dogfight:

Four of us were on patrol, led by Bill Hilborn from British Columbia. We were attacked by two flights of six planes. Most of them (if not all) were Albatros D.IIIs.

Both of the enemy machines that I shot down landed on our side of the front lines — the only two that did. Franz Fritsch was the only name that I knew of at the time. I was very sorry for him. I shot his machine out of control at about 14,000 feet. All the way down he knew that he had to crash. Italian soldiers on the scene of his crash told me that his plane burst into flames at about 1,000 feet, and that he climbed out on a wing. They told me that he had jumped from about 300 feet, missing a large haystack by about one yard. They said that he lived for two or three hours. I have never met such a fine-looking or handsome young man.

The other fellow, Karl Patzelt, was more fortunate. Ten seconds after I opened fire on him, he was burned to a crisp.

Of the six victories claimed by the British in that dogfight, Birks accounted for Oberleutnant Karl Patzelt and Flugzeugsführer Franz Fritsch. Patzelt, a Bohemian, had previously been credited with five victories before getting command of Flik 68/J. In addition, Lieutenant George Mason Apps sent Stabsfeldwebel Andreas Dombrowski down to crash-land, after which Dombrowski was strafed and seriously wounded by Lieutenant George D. McLeod of No. 28 Squadron.

Curiously, Dombrowski was credited with a Camel in flames before he was brought down, for his sixth and final victory. In fact, Birks attested, “the four of us from 66 Sqdn. all got back to our airfield. None of us was wounded, although Apps’ machine was badly shot-up. He and his adversary had gone at each other three times before Apps finished his opponent.”

On May 7, Birks was awarded the Military Cross. Four days later Barker, Birks and Hilborn each claimed an enemy fighter shot down over Torre di Mosto, Birks’ victim falling in flames. The Austrians’ only loss was Zugsführer (senior corporal) Slavko Gyurgyev of Flik 61/J, killed when his Albatros fell in flames south of Torre di Mosto.

On the morning of May 19, Phönix D.I fighters of Flik 14/J took off to intercept an Italian bomber squadron, only to tangle with their escorts, probably Hanriot HD.1s, over Cismon. Three victories were credited, including one to Austrian Stabsfeldwebel Karl Urban as his fifth. As the Flik 14/J pilots were returning to base, however, they were jumped at 0730 hours by Camels of 66 Squadron and in the next five minutes Birks destroyed two of them, killing the commander, Oberleutnant Karoly Benedek, andFeldwebel Ferdinand Czerny.

At noon the next day a flight of Camels from 66 Squadron encountered a photo-reconnaissance plane of Flik 57 being escorted by eight Albatros D.IIIs of Flik 42/J. Birks and Hilborn were each credited with a fighter, but the only casualty was Albatros 153.163, which force-landed with a dead engine near Piave di Soligo; its Hungarian pilot, Korporal Sándor Szijjartó, was unhurt.

On May 24, Birks became involved in a classic dogfight that would end the career of Offizierstellvertreter József Kiss de Ittebe és Elemer, the leading Hungarian ace with 19 victories.

Birks got his last two victories in Ruston Proctor-built Camel D8101. Gordon Apps and William C. Hillborn subsequently scored one victory each in it.

“One or two days before the final fight with Kiss,” Birks commented, “Barker and I were on patrol when we were attacked by two enemy aircraft which completely dominated the situation. I was not able to fire a single bullet. When they had had enough, the two planes flew away. Neither Barker nor I were wounded, nor were our own planes hit. At the time, we felt certain that the attackers were Kiss and his partner. My memory does not serve me well, but I believe that in the first meeting Kiss and his partner attacked from above, and in the second meeting Barker and I had the advantage of being above. I remember our first meeting quite vividly!”

Unknown to Birks, it is unlikely that Kiss could have dominated him and Barker that day. Grievously wounded on January 27, 1918, Kiss, who was obsessed with earning a field commission from the Austro-Hungarian army (in spite of the fact that its conservative-minded high command had never bestowed one before), had not taken sufficient time to recuperate before rejoining his old unit, Flik 55/J. Comparing photographs before and after his wounding shows Kiss to be still in shaky health in May 1918.

More likely the enemy pilot who so impressed Birks with his skill was another Hungarian ace, Sandor Kasza, who had been an infantryman and later a flight instructor before joining Flik 55/J in August 1917. Displaying a natural talent as an aerobatic pilot, Zugsführer Kasza was credited with bringing down a Camel in enemy territory south of Cima Maroa for his fifth victory on May 22. Very likely he — and the Austro-Hungarian XIII Corps, which confirmed the victory — had misperceived an evasive spin or dive by Barker or Birks to be fatal, an error commonly made by both sides throughout the war.

On May 24, word of Italian Caproni heavy bombers crossing the lines reached Flik 55/J at Pergine, and Kiss was ordered to lead Feldwebel István Kirják and Zugsührer Kasza to intercept them. All three Hungarians were flying Phönix D.IIas, new fighters of Austrian design noted for ruggedness and a good climb rate, but not for manoeuvrability — intrinsically, no match for the Sopwith Camel in a dogfight.

On that same morning Barker, flying his usual Camel B6313, led Birks, in B6424, and Apps, in B5190, on patrol. At 1040 hours, according to Birks’ account, he and his squadron mates were flying at 17,000 feet, “in good weather and fair visibility,” when they saw “three EA [enemy aircraft] over Grigno.” After pursuing what Birks identified as “two [Albatros] D.Vs and one Berg,” Barker’s patrol engaged them and “three other EA, D.Vs, over the valley at the southern foot of Mount Coppolo.”

While the RAF pilots were unfamiliar with the Phönix D.IIa — as made evident by Birks’ combat report, among others — their opponents had previous experience fighting Camels, and had worked out tactics for dealing with them. As agreed in their pre-arranged plan, Kiss and Kirják dived away, seemingly to avoid combat, while Kasza stayed to attract the three Camels, using his outstanding skill to evade their fire. With their attention thus drawn to Kasza, Kiss and Kirják would zoom up and attack from behind.

Initially the Hungarians’ feint worked, with all three Camels concentrating on Kasza. As his two comrades came up behind the Camels, Kasza went into a 1,600-foot dive, then pulled up to rejoin the fight. As he did, however, he thought he saw three more Camels join the engagement. These could have been any of four three-plane flights sent up by Nos. 28, 45 and 66 Squadrons at that time, although none of them reported seeing, let alone engaging, any enemy aircraft.

At that point, reports from both sides become confused in the heat of combat, as noted in No. 66 Squadron’s report: “Barker got under the tail of one of these EA unobserved and after firing about 40 rounds, EA went down out of control and crashed on some hutments in the valley and burst into flames.” This would have been Kasza, who was still flying, but the stratagem devised by the Flik 55/J pilots was coming undone at the hands of equally combat-seasoned adversaries. At that time, Apps had four victories to his credit, Birks had nine and Barker had claimed his 29th the day before.

Re-entering the fray, Kasza saw Kiss’ Phönix spraying tracers into a Camel when another got on his tail. The first Camel dived with Kiss in pursuit, but Kasza thought Kiss’ movements to be uncertain, suggesting that he was wounded or his plane damaged. Getting on the tail of Kiss’ pursuer, Kasza fired and saw his target go down, but then “three” more Camels got behind him. Bullets penetrated the wooden fuselage just behind Kasza’s seat and his Phönix suddenly fell into a spiralling dive. Kasza managed to recover, then nursed his stricken plane to Feltre aerodrome.

According to Birks’ account, he “attacked the Berg and after a very short flight EA went down with wings off. This was observed by Captain Barker.” Barker claimed that his first victim fell in the Val Sugana, while Birks’ victim crashed nearby at Lamon.

The British combat report continues: “Lieutenant Apps engaged one of the remaining two EA of the first formation, who was on Lieutenant Birks’ tail. Lieutenant Apps fired a long burst when EA was doing a climbing turn and EA went down out of control and crashed in the valley … the remaining D.V of the first three EA was an exceptionally skilled pilot and Lieutenant Birks fought him for a long time. Then Lieutenant Apps joined in the attack. Neither pilot could get EA down so Captain Barker joined in the fight and got on tail of EA. Captain Barker fired a short burst at EA who went down out of control and dived vertically into the same hutments where Captain Barker’s first EA burst into flames.”

After all three Camels returned to No. 66 Squadron’s airfield, Birks summed up the claims: “Two EA shot down by Captain Barker, one EA shot down by Lieutenant Birks and one EA shot down by Lieutenant Apps. The pilot of one of the D.Vs shot down by Captain Barker was exceptionally skillful.”

Of the three Flik 55/J pilots who took off from Pergine that morning, only Kirják (with two victories, the only non-ace of the six combatants) returned to his airfield. He was unhurt, but few parts of his plane were not full of bullet holes, and he was probably the “D.V” that Apps claimed over Mount Coppola. Kasza returned in his repaired fighter that afternoon. Apparently his first intentional dive and his second out-of-control spiral had caused Barker to claim him twice!

József Kiss (left), István Kirják (centre) and Sandor Kasza pose before a Oeffag-Albatros D.III. On May 24, 1918 these three Hungarians of Flik 55/J engaged Camels of No. 66 flown by Bill Barker, Gordon Apps and Gerald Birks. Credited with 19 aerial victories, Kiss was the most successful Hungarian ace in the war until he was bested by Birks. (all photos courtesy aaron weaver)

Sometime afterward, Austro-Hungarian troops found Kiss dead amid the wreckage of his Phönix 422.10, on a hillside near Lamon, where Birks had claimed his “Berg” had fallen. Kiss’ wristwatch had stopped ticking at precisely 1100 hours.

Posthumously made a Leutnant (the only Austro-Hungarian, alive or dead, so commissioned), Kiss was buried at Pergine on May 26, during which an Allied plane flew over and dropped a wreath with a message in English: “The Royal Flying Corps sends a last greeting to the brave foe, Jos. Keash (sic), who, in an air combat over Campolongo, died the death of a hero.”

On June 3, Birks added a bar to his Military Cross. One day earlier he had received D8101, a replacement for his faithful but battle-weary Camel B6424. “It was also marked ‘P,’” Birks commented. “It had a more powerful engine. I requested that the machine guns which were on B6424 be transferred to my new machine. My commanding officer granted my request. I still have the bullseye (the blue, white and red cockade) from the right-hand side of B6424.”

At 1030 hours on June 9 Birks tested his new mount against a flight of Albatros D.IIIs of Flik 9/J east of Levico. Two were claimed by Barker and one by Birks. Flik 9/J’s only documented casualty was Feldwebel Lajos Telessy, a Hungarian with four victories before being wounded that day, dying in hospital the next.

On June 15, the Austro-Hungarians launched their last offensive, directing their main thrust against the Italians on a 25-mile front along the Piave River. At the same time, the Austro-Hungarians assaulted French forces at Mount Grappa, and threw four divisions against the British 23rd and 48th divisions on the Asiago plateau.

The Italian army, recovered from the Caporetto debacle and its soldiers thirsting for revenge, held its ground, as did the French and British. At the same time, the three Camel squadrons engaged enemy planes, strafed reinforcements and bombed Austro-Hungarian pontoon bridges across the Piave. At 0900 hours on June 21, Birks had his twelfth and final success in a dogfight in which Apps claimed one and Barker two enemy fighters destroyed over Motta di Livensa. The Austrians lost Albatros D.III 153.188 whose pilot, Oberleutnant Friedrich Dechant of Flik 51/J, died with two previous victories to his credit.

By June 22, the Austro-Hungarian commander, Feldmarschall Svetozar Boroevic Freiherr von Bojna, conceded defeat and began evacuating his surviving troops across the Piave. From that time on, the Allied armies would go on the offensive, until the final capitulation and demise of the Habsburg Empire on November 4, 1918.

On July 1, Birks was posted out of No. 66 Squadron. He recalled with some satisfaction his commander’s parting words: “As I was leaving, (No. 66 Squadron’s commander Major J. Tudor) Whittaker said to me: ‘When you arrived I thought that I had drawn a lemon, but I have been forced to change my mind.’”

Birks went on the RAF unemployed list on March 13, 1919. The once formidable fighter ace went on to be a philanthropist, an avid patron of the arts, and an artist in his own right. He lived by a professed philosophy of “Keep well, keep smiling, have fun,” right up to his death in Toronto on May 26, 1991, at age 96.

Part 1: http://espritdecorps.ca/history-feature/gerald-birks-ace-killer-over-italy-part-1-from-jewellers-son-and-trench-warfare-to-fighter-pilot

THE BATTLE OF CUT KNIFE HILL: Fine Day Teaches Canadians A Lesson In Fire & Manoeuvre

Although W.D. Blatchly’s illustration — based on the battlefield sketches of Fred Curzon — shows Canadian forces, with the 2nd Battalion, Queen’s Own Rifles in the foreground, sweeping all before them at Cut Knife Hill on May 2, 1885, the battle’s ultimate outcome was not so triumphant. Fearing a repeat of Custer’s Last Stand, Col William Otter, who had used his wagons to form a U-shaped cover from Cree chief Poundmaker, ordered his men to retreat from their exposed position. (canadian military heritage)

(Volume 24-7)

By Jon Guttman

For the 18-year-old Dominion of Canada, the North-West Rebellion of 1885 was its closest parallel to both the Civil War and any of the Indian Wars that raged across its southern neighbour, the United States.

When on March 19, 1885, the half-blood Métis leader Louis David Riel established the Provisional Government of Saskatchewan, an attempt by North-West Mounted Police (NWMP) and Prince Albert Volunteers under Superintendent Leif Crozier to arrest him ended in an embarrassing rout at Duck Lake, 2.5 kilometres from Riel’s self-proclaimed capital of Batoche, on March 26. While John A. Macdonald’s government in Ottawa and the Métis, under the capable leadership of legendary buffalo hunter Gabriel Dumont, mobilized for war, an added dimension to hostilities concerned the First Nations of the territory. Would they rise up alongside the Métis?

Poundmaker, also known as The Drummer, was a Cree chief, later adopted by Crowfoot of the Blackfoot Nation. Although imprisoned for treason, Poundmaker insisted that he had only wanted justice for his people. (library and archives canada, c-001875)

The Aboriginals would have had their reasons. A decline in the bison population, combined with economic troubles back east and consequential lapses in the government’s distribution of rations in accordance with its own treaties caused widespread hunger that drove many tribes to request renegotiation. Although most First Nations, most notably the Blackfoot spokesman Crowfoot, appealed against violence, a relative handful of Cree and Stoney (Assiniboine) became involved in the fighting. Even so, while the Métis certainly sent emissaries among them, there is scant evidence of any First Nations outside of the Batoche area striking any formal alliance with them. What essentially transpired, then, were two parallel conflicts. Such was the background to the Battle of Cut Knife Hill, a victory for the First Nations that, but for the fears generated by the Métis revolt, should never have occurred at all.

On the night of March 30 a band of Cree led by Poundmaker (Pîhtokahânapiwyin) approached Battleford, wishing to parley with the Indian agent John M. Rae. Coming as it did after the Duck Lake skirmish, their presence only drove some 500 frightened residents into the nearby fort. Rae did not respond to Poundmaker’s request for two days, during which many of his starving band — against his orders — plundered abandoned houses in the area. In addition, Assiniboine warriors from the Eagle Hills, 30 kilometres to the south, moving to join Poundmaker, killed two farmers along the way. On April 2 another band of some 250 Cree nominally led by Big Bear (Mistahimaskwa) descended on Frog Lake and, allegedly at the instigation of his war chief and shaman, Wandering Spirit (Kapapamahchakwew), killed nine settlers. They then overran and burned Fort Pitt, holding the local residents hostage.

A painting of General Sir William Otter, third commanding officer of the QOR (1875-1883) and one of its Honorary Colonels (1915-1929). The original painting, by Canadian portrait artist John Wycliffe Lowes Forster, still hangs in the 2 QOR officer’s mess.

When the North-West Field Force arrived in Saskatchewan to deal with the rebellion, it perceived three separate opponents and divided its attention accordingly. While the main force of 900 soldiers and militia, led by Major-General Frederick Dobson Middleton, departed Fort Q’Appelle to march on Batoche on April 10, another column under Lieutenant-Colonel William D. Otter was dispatched to relieve what Middleton thought to be the besieged fort at Battleford. A third column of about 400 soldiers and NWMP under Major-General Thomas Bland Strange left Calgary for Edmonton, aiming to bring Big Bear’s band to ground. Troop movements during that bitterly cold spring were expedited by the Canadian Pacific Railroad, although uncompleted stretches necessitated the soldiers marching from one section of track to the next. One important by-product of the North-West Rebellion was to spur the railway’s final completion by November.

Departing Swift Current, where the rails ended, on April 13, Otter’s column consisted of 763 men from 2nd Battalion, The Queen’s Own Rifles of Canada (2 QOR); B Battery, Royal Canadian Artillery; C Company, Infantry School Corps; some sharpshooters from 1st Battalion, Governor General’s Foot Guards; and a NWMP contingent led by Percy Neal. Only 50 men were mounted, but Otter also had 48 horse-drawn wagons at his disposal.

On April 24 the swelled populace at Fort Battleford greeted Otter’s arrival with elation, unaware that Poundmaker’s combined band of Cree and Assiniboine had long since retired to his reserve at Cut Knife Creek, named for a Sarcee warrior slain in a skirmish with the Cree, 40 kilometres to the west. Angry locals pressed Otter to pursue and chastise the Aboriginals for their depredations, and many of his inexperienced militiamen expressed disappointment that they had “missed out on a good fight.”

Otter, the only Canadian-born among the three commanders (Middleton was born in Belfast, Ireland and Strange in Meerut, India), had already seen a “good fight” in his time. Born in The Corners, Canada West, on December 3, 1843, he had joined the Non-Permanent Active Militia in Toronto in 1864. He was a captain serving as adjutant to the 2 QOR by June 1866, when the Niagara area was invaded by a force of Irish-American Civil War veterans called the Irish Brotherhood, or Fenians, seeking to seize territory to ransom for an independent Irish republic. On June 2, 1866 the Fenians clashed with the militia at Ridgeway, just east of Fort Erie. After 90 minutes of holding their own against their more battle-seasoned opponents, the 2 QOR either mistook mounted Fenian scouts for attacking cavalry or redcoated 13th Battalion of Hamilton militia for a relief force. Whatever the cause, the 2 QOR’s formation fell into confusion and Fenian skirmishers, seizing the opportunity, drove them and the entire militia force from the field. Besides the humiliation of hearing its initials frequently interpreted as “Quick, Over to the Rear,” the 2 QOR suffered nine dead and 25 wounded, four of whom died soon after. Notwithstanding this battle won, the Fenians ultimately lost their campaign. Seeing their position untenable, they withdrew to New York, where they were arrested for violating the Neutrality Act of 1818.

In the succeeding years Otter continued his military career, joining the Permanent Force when Canada established its first professional army in 1883. Now, in 1885, he could not have ignored the opportunity to redeem his old unit, the 2 QOR, a company of which accompanied his column. Although Middleton had ordered him to stand fast in Battleford, Otter telegraphed Edgar Dewdney, lieutenant-governor of the North-West Territory, for permission to “punish Poundmaker” and duly got it.

Leaving about half of his force at Battleford, Otter departed at 1600 hours on May 1 with a flying column of 392 men, 75 of whom were NWMP, with a rearguard contingent of Battleford Rifles. Whoever was not mounted rode in the wagons. Besides their single-shot Snider-Enfield and repeating Winchester rifles, Otter’s men were supported by B Battery’s two 7-pounder rifled cannon and a Gatling gun. The weather was cloudy and drizzling, but the force made good progress through low wooded hills. Scouting reports had pinpointed Poundmaker’s band east of Cut Knife Creek, but when Otter’s force reached it early on the morning of May 2, they found the camp deserted. Poundmaker’s people had in fact settled in on the far side of Cut Knife Hill to the west.

Poundmaker’s war chief, Fine Day, was delegated the task of defending their village, which he achieved by masterful use of the local terrain. Shown in 1896, after his return on a government pardon, his memories of the rebellion were published by the North West Historical Society in 1926. (library and archives canada, mikan 3258171)

Neither force was aware to the other’s proximity until Jacob, a Cree elder who habitually went for an early morning ride, spotted the Canadians and galloped back to alert the camp. As sleepy Cree and Assiniboine hastily dressed and stumbled out of their teepees, Poundmaker, the Cree’s political leader, deferred command to his war chief, Fine Day (Kamiokisihwew). With a mixed bag of bows and arrows, muzzle-loaders, shotguns and a few up-to-date rifles and limited ammunition available to his warriors, Fine Day selected about 100 braves and relegated half of them to escorting the women, children and elderly from danger and guarding them. The rest he divided into squads of four or five.

Meanwhile, Canadian scouts were advancing just north of Cut Knife Hill. At about 200 metres to their left, they spotted the teepees and lodges. Dismounting, they sent their horses back and took up positions just below the brow of the hill. Upon sighting the scouts, the First Nations likewise dropped to the ground and at 0500 hours hostilities commenced with a mutual fusillade.

To his preponderance in infantry firepower Otter soon added his 7-pounders, which began firing into Poundmaker’s abandoned encampment, followed by the Gatling gun. Fine Day had a more intimate knowledge of the terrain, however, and also recognized that, as long as they kept their heads down, his braves were under the trajectory of the crew-served weapons. As Canadian troops advanced up the hill, he could also see that the best place for his warriors was in the coulees, ravines, trees and bushes to either side of them. Signalling his squads using a hand mirror, he directed an alternating but deadly accurate fire that convinced the Canadians that they were facing more warriors than were there.

Behind the firing line, brigade surgeon F.W. Strange formed the wagons into a hollow square, in which he set up his medical station. Soon he was treating 16 wounded, two of whom would die later.

At least one of the elderly 7-pounders broke up upon firing, its barrel rolling down the hill. The crew retrieved it, bound it back together with bits of wood and rope, and fought on. At one point Fine Day signalled a frontal assault on the guns, only to face a countercharge by members of the 2 QOR, NWMP and some gunners. A Nez Percé, probably a refugee from the 1877 war in Idaho who had settled among the Cree, fell dead alongside another warrior, and English-born Corporal Ralf Sleigh took a fatal round in the head before the Canadians retreated with several more men wounded.

Wadmore R. Lyndhurst depicted a rather more accurate version of the less-than-tidy Battle of Cut Knife Hill. (library and archives canada, icon 98677)

After six hours of fighting on a day that became increasingly hot, Colonel Otter took stock of the situation. His 2 QOR had acquitted itself well, but it and other advancing units were in danger of being enfiladed by the First Nations who he noticed advancing on either flank. Familiar with what had befallen Lieutenant-Colonel George A. Custer’s 7th U.S. Cavalry Regiment at the Little Bighorn River on June 25, 1876, he had the wounded piled on the wagons and ordered a general retirement, covered by two lines of Battleford Rifles, joined by the Gatling and remaining operational 7-pounder once they got east of Cut Knife Creek.

Although Otter’s retreat was in commendably good order, his exposed troops were still vulnerable to a follow-up attack by the First Nations warriors. Poundmaker is generally given credit for ordering Fine Day to let the soldiers go, though it is just as likely that Fine Day judged his warriors too few or too low on ammunition to make it worthwhile. Whatever the case, Otter’s decision to quit the field and the Aboriginals’ decision to let him prevented a battle that never should have been fought from becoming an even bloodier tragedy. As it was, the fight cost the Canadians eight dead and 14 wounded, while the First Nations, left victors on the field, paid with six lives and three wounded.

The day after the battle a local Jesuit priest, Father Louis Cochin, visited the site and found the remains of Private William B. Osgoode of the Governor General’s Foot Guards. The only soldier, alive or dead, not recovered during Otter’s withdrawal, he’d been shot on a knoll at the left side of the Canadian line and rolled down the hill toward the First Nations, whose women stripped and mutilated the body. Father Cochin also found the Nez Percé’s remains, unburied because, unlike the Cree and Assiniboine, he had no relatives. Cochin buried both men where he found them; the latter’s grave now bears a marker identifying him only as a “Nez Percé Warrior.”

Cut Knife Hill was the most successful battle fought by the First Nations during the North-West Rebellion, but like the Fenian victory at Ridgeway it was rendered moot by the conflict’s final outcome. After the fall of Batoche and the capture of Riel on May 15, all of the starving tribesmen caught up in the fighting gave themselves up, one by one. Convicted of treason, Poundmaker was sentenced to three years in Stony Mountain Penitentiary. Although he was released after seven months, it so affected his health that he died of a lung hemorrhage on July 4, 1886. His remains were eventually buried at his old reserve near Cut Knife Hill in 1967.

William Otter went on to a distinguished military career, including command of the Royal Canadian Regiment during the Boer War and Acting Director of Internment Camps during the First World War. He was a general and a Knight Commander of the Order of the Bath when he died in Toronto on May 5, 1928, at age 85.

Fine Day, whose skilful execution of fire and manoeuvre tactics dominated the battle, escaped to Montana. After a few years he returned to spend the rest of his life on the Sweet Grass reserve near Battleford. He got to meet King George VI in 1939 and was into his 90s when he died in 1941.

GERALD BIRKS: ACE KILLER OVER ITALY: PART 1 From Jeweller's Son And Trench Warfare To Fighter Pilot

Second Lieutenant Gerald Alfred Birks, shortly after obtaining his flight certification in the Royal Flying Corps. The son of Canadian jeweller Henry Birks, Gerald would master the Sopwith Camel in short order. But aerial dogfights were not Birks’ first brush with danger. Having enlisted with the Black Watch’s 73rd Battalion in Montreal on August 31, 1915, he would be wounded at the Battle of the Somme on July 1, 1916. (gerald birks via jon guttman)

(Volume 24-6)

By Jon Guttman

Although Britain only committed three squadrons of Sopwith Camels to Italy during World War I, they produced a lot of aces, a disproportionate number of whom were Canadian — starting with William George Barker, whose tally of 43 aerial victories was the highest of any nation’s over that front, and who would subsequently receive the Victoria Cross for engaging 60 German aircraft, of which he was credited with shooting down four, on October 28, 1918. Among the many other Canadians who flew with Barker with their own share of distinction was Gerald Birks, whose 12 credited successes included two enemy aces.

Gerald Alfred Birks was born on October 30, 1894 in Montreal, Quebec. The son of William Birks, owner of the jewellers store Henry Birks and Sons, Gerald was educated at Montreal High School (Junior Section), later attending Lower Canada College, also in Montreal. During part of 1914–15, Gerald was a part-time student at McGill University’s Department of Agriculture, during which, in an intercollegiate ski meet held at Dartmouth, he won two second prizes in cross country and jumping, and took third place in the slalom.

On August 31, 1915 Birks enlisted in the 73rd Battalion of the Black Watch, Royal Highlanders of Canada, and took the Infantry Officer’s Training Course at the Citadel in Halifax, Nova Scotia. During the winter of 1915 and 1916, he trained with the 73rd Battalion in Montreal and at Camp Valcartier, near Quebec City. When the battalion went overseas, however, Birks was left behind because, at 21, he was considered underage. That age standard would soon be revised, but in the meantime Birks used the influence of his uncle, who was the head of the Young Men’s Christian Association in Canada, to expedite matters.

Of the pilots of No. 66 Squadron RFC photographed at San Pietro in Gu in March 1918, Birks remembered the following: standing, second from left, Lt. Christopher McEvoy (9 victories); third, 2nd Lt. Charles C. Robinson; fifth, Lt. Francis S. Symondson (13), sixth, 2nd Lt. Herbert N.E. Row (3), seventh, 2nd Lt. Robert G. Reid (3), ninth, 2nd Lt. Henry B. Homan (killed in crash, 4 April 1918), twelfth, 2nd Lt. Gordon F. Mason Apps (10);  and thirteenth, 2nd Lt Gerald A. Birks (12). Seated, first from left, 2nd Lt. Norman S. Taylor (3), second, Captain William Topham, recording officer, third, 2nd Lt. Stanley Stanger (13 victories), fourth, Capt. John W. Warnock, “my first flight commander” (1), fifth, Maj. John TudorPowell Whittaker, squadron CO; sixth, Capt. Hilliard Brooke Bell (9), seventh, 2nd Lt. Alan Jerrard, who on 30 March was taken prisoner in an action that earned him the only Victoria Cross awarded to a Camel pilot (7); eighth, Capt. Peter Carpenter (24); and Lt. Harold R. Eycott-Martin (8). (gerald birks album, courtesy jon guttman)

“I proceeded overseas on my own,” Birks said, and found employment driving concert parties and entertainers to Canadian military camps in the Folkstone area for the YMCA. “While in Folkstone,” he said, “I received a telegram from the adjutant of the 73rd Battalion, saying that the colonel wanted me to rejoin the battalion, which I did. Our training continued at Camp Bramshot.”

In July 1916 Birks’ battalion departed Folkstone for Flanders. “We had our first casualties while leaving Ypres at night,” he said. “We were in Belgium and northern France for some time before moving south to the Somme.”

Begun on July 1, 1916 with a mammoth artillery barrage, the Battle of the Somme had been intended as the great breakthrough on the Western Front, but became just another meat grinder for the hapless soldiers who walked across no man’s land to assault the well-entrenched Germans. As his unit was committed to the faltering offensive, Birks said: “I was wounded by two pieces of lead from a German dum-dum bullet which shattered the left wrist of my company commander. When I got to him, he was holding his left hand in his right hand. It looked as if his left hand would drop off if he let go. He was losing blood at a frightful rate. With a knife which I had just received as a Christmas present from my family in Montreal — and which I still have in my trouser pocket — I cut his trench coat, tunic, coatsweater, shirt and underwear until I was able to get my thumb on the artery at his left elbow. I was able to almost stop the bleeding. Because we had been first over the top, the last man in the company caught up with us. I shouted to him to have the stretcher-bearers come back, as the captain had been hit. As they started to climb out of the trench, I could see the blood starting to flow again. Against my will, my thumb was letting go, so I knew that I myself had been hit.”

Birks would spend a month in London hospital recovering from his wound. “When I was about to be discharged from the hospital I applied for sick leave to Canada,” he said. “I thought that there was no chance of my application being granted. But it was granted and I sailed for Halifax and took the train to Montreal.”

Newly arrived in San Pietro in Gu and yet to be assembled, Sopwith-built Camel B6424 was flown by Birks (standing before it) to score five victories from March to May 1918, including Austro-Hungarian aces Karl Patzelt (5 victories, pictured at left) and József Kiss (19). (gerald birks via jon guttman)

While convalescing at home, Birks decided to pursue a new endeavour. “When in France,” he said, “I had talked about transferring to the Flying Corps. Our medical officer said, ‘Gerald, there is no use of you applying for transfer. Your medical card, which I have, shows that you have astigmatism and the Royal Flying Corps will not have you.’”

When Birks returned to Montreal, however, the British military was clamouring for Canadian pilots, so he applied. The recruiter warned him, “You will have to give up your commission in the Canadian infantry to join up as a cadet,” a grade equivalent to a second-class mechanic. “That is all right with me,” Birks replied. “If I cannot earn a commission in the Flying Corps, I do not deserve one.”

Before he could start over again, however, Birks faced a major obstacle. “I had to pass a physical examination,” he said. “The doctor examined me thoroughly and then sent me into the next room to have my eyes tested, which was being done by a corporal. He had me cover one eye and read the test card in which I rated 20 — perfect vision. I covered the other eye and read the card again. Again I scored 20. So both eyes were perfect and I passed, as he did not notice the astigmatism.”

Upon acceptance, Birks reported to the RFC headquarters in Toronto. “I was billeted in a building which still stands on College Street,” he said. “I was made to drill the youngsters in elementary infantry drill. They gave me one stripe — a lance corporal. Then they gave me two stripes — a full corporal. Then they wanted to make me sergeant, but I refused. I felt that a sergeant must cooperate with the officer so much that he ceased to be ‘one of the boys.’”

Birks remembers that, “After ground school I was sent to Camp Mohawk near Deseronto. There I had a total of two hours and 20 minutes before going solo. The two hours included my first flight, when the instructor said: ‘Do not touch the controls. I will show you your flying field, the Bay of Quinty, the town of Deseronto, the railway tracks and a few of the features to the west.’ When I had a total of 35 hours, I was made a flying instructor and sent to Camp Borden, where I instructed all summer. I was posted for overseas on November 16, 1917.”

In England Birks flew Avro 504Ks with “A” Flight, 4th Training Depot Squadron at Hooton Hall. He then moved up to Sopwith Pups and Camels with No. 54 Training Squadron at Castle Bromwich, near Birmingham. “There,” Birks recalled, “the English instructor said to us: ‘You damned Canadians put your machines into a gentle glide and think that you are diving. There are two pieces of canvas laid out in the next field. They represent an enemy machine for you to dive at; now get well over it before you start your dive.’”

And so he did. “When I looked over the target through my sight, I was not diving quite steeply enough. I moved my joystick forward very slightly, but it was enough to make my machine suddenly turn upside down. I was hanging in my belt and the seat cushion was out behind my knees. When I tried to half loop, the elevator slowed up my forward speed and I started to spin on my back, I put my controls into neutral and stopped the spinning.”

Not giving up, Birks attacked the target a second time. “When I tried again, I started to spin in the opposite direction. Then I thought, ‘If I cannot half loop, I will try a half roll.’ By that time the trees below me were coming up very fast. The half roll worked. I was not very far from the tops of the trees. I flew around the airfield several times before landing. I had been with 66 Squadron at the front quite a while before I heard that you can often pull out of trouble by using your engine.”

By the time he was sent to an operational assignment, Birks had the good fortune to have amassed 138 flying hours, including 10 hours 30 minutes on the tricky Sopwith Camel — nearly twice the amount accumulated by most Camel pilots before they were sent to the front.

On March 10, 1918, 2nd Lt. Birks joined No. 66 Squadron which, with Nos. 28 and 45, had been sent to northern Italy following the catastrophic rout of the Italian army at Caporetto on October 26, 1917. “Our field was located in San Pietro in Gu,” Birks said, “east of Vicenza, west of Citadella, between the Brenta and Astico rivers.” The commander was Major J. Tudor Whittaker, who Birks described as “an efficient squadron commander. He had few rules and they were sensible ones. And he was a good sport.”

Birks was assigned to “C” Flight, led by New Zealander Captain John Maxwell Warnock. Other flight members with whom Birks would do much flying in the next few months were 19-year-old Lieutenant William Carroll Hilborn from Alexandria, British Columbia, and 2nd Lt. Gordon Frank Mason Apps from Kent, England.

Birks flew five different Camels in his first weeks with No. 66 Squadron, but the one that would eventually be his “personal” plane was B6424, bearing the fuselage letter “P,” which he described as “a true Sopwith (built by the Sopwith Company),” as opposed to one of numerous Camels produced by subcontractors, and had been with the squadron since October 15, 1917. “It had a 130-hp Clerget engine,” said Birks. “It was not new when allotted to me, but it was a very sweet machine to fly.”

On March 18, 1918, Birks and Warnock reported encountering a “Rumpler” over Pravisdomini aerodrome and both attacked. One of Warnock’s guns jammed, but he pursued the descending enemy for 500 feet until he used up all his ammunition in the other weapon, claiming to have seen the observer slumped in the rear cockpit. Birks kept after it to 100 feet, at which point he saw it crash near the aerodrome, to be confirmed as his first victory. In actuality, his quarry was an Austro-Hungarian-built Hansa-Brandenburg C.I, serial number 161.69, of Fliegerkompagnie (Flik) 43/D, whose pilot was wounded. Upon learning those particulars, Birks wrote back: “One thing that strikes me at this time is how very poor our identification of enemy aircraft was. We had very small drawings of the various types of our opposition. My log book states that my first victim was a Rumpler two-seater and my second an Aviatik two-seater. Your list, which I assume is correct since it is based on Austrian records, states that they were both Brandenburg C.Is.”

Birks remembers his first kill. “My first enemy machine, though a two-seater, had only the pilot in it. I did not intend to kill or wound him after he was on the ground, but the bullets from my machine were not going where my sights were pointed. I tried to destroy his machine. But he was hit although a short distance from his craft. After that first patrol, I had my machine put on the target range very frequently.”

Birks’ second victory came southeast of Conegliano on March 24, and was over Brandenburg C.I 69.81, both of whose crew members, Sulski and Poelzi of Flik 50/D, were killed. Again, Birks had been at the controls of B6424, and on March 29 that was officially designated as his regular Camel.

On April 10 Nos. 66 and 28 Squadrons had an exchange of flight leaders, with Warnock transferring to take over “C” Flight at No. 28 while its “C” Flight leader took over No. 66’s “C” Flight. Birks’ new flight leader was Captain William G. Barker. For Birks, this change marked a turning point. Under Barker’s contagiously aggressive leadership, his combat career was about to transition from honourable to downright deadly.

Part 2: http://espritdecorps.ca/history-feature/gerald-birks-ace-killer-over-italy-part-2-enemy-aces-fall-victim-to-no-66-squadrons-canadian-pilots