A new assault up Juno Beach

Cpl Fred Barnard of the Queen’s Own Rifles.

It’s just 20 years ago I learned about the toughest battle of Fred Barnard’s life. On a spring morning in 1944, our Uxbridge neighbour (then just 22) found himself on a landing craft with the Queen’s Own Rifles of Canada about to storm the Normandy beach codenamed Juno. He had no family in France that needed saving. He knew none of the German soldiers occupying those Norman towns and seaports.

Rifleman Don Barnard of the Queen’s Own Rifles.

Still, he’d felt so compelled by the call for Canadians to help liberate the French from Nazi occupation that he and his brother Don travelled halfway around the globe to join the D-Day invasion on June 6.

“Give ’em hell,” Fred had yelled to his 20-year-old brother on the same landing craft.

Then, moments later, as he dashed for cover, among the first Canadians to penetrate Hitler’s Fortress Europe, Fred faced a horrific dilemma. There, in the sea water not yet ashore, he saw his brother with a bullet hole in his chest – dead before he’d even reached the sea wall. (more…)

Not yet perished

Canadian immigration officials called them “men in sheepskin coats,” but Ukrainian immigrants brought with them something greater than dreams.

The other day I spoke to a west-Toronto business group, but I learned as much as I informed that morning. Not surprisingly, during my talk about Canadians’ service in wartime, the subject of the Russian invasion of Ukraine came up. I remarked how very familiar Putin’s actions were to Hitler’s in the 1930s. Anyway, after my talk, a man from the audience approached me. He introduced himself. “Bo Sirota,” he said.

“Sounds Ukrainian,” I responded. And when he asked how I knew, I said I’d lived and worked in Alberta and Saskatchewan for a number of years and I knew a Ukrainian Canadian named Bohan. “Do you have family caught in the invasion?” I asked.

He nodded and described some of his relatives living in the village of Drohobych, on the outskirts of Lviv, Ukraine. (more…)

Resolve against a bully

Putin, bully in presidential suit.

When I was in Grade 3, back in the mid-1950s, an older and belligerent kid chose me as his victim in the schoolyard one day. He picked on me because I wore glasses. He knew I had just arrived in the neighbourhood, so he teased me for being the new boy. He taunted me because he knew I didn’t have any friends to turn to. He made fun of my name.

“Hey, Teddy Bear,” he kept calling from across the yard.

Bad memories of that schoolyard experience returned to me last week when Russian President Vladimir Putin sent his columns of tanks, trucks and soldiers charging across his western frontier into Ukraine. (more…)

Mind the gap

A Boston cream donut helps reveal what’s needed to return to normalcy.

It’s been a ritual for years. Generally, on Saturdays, I convene adults and kids in the family Donut Club. I rustle up the donuts. They readily eat them. And through most of those years, the orders for the kids have been the same – chocolate-glazed or sprinkled donuts from Bredin’s Bakery in town. Well, the pandemic and the closure of the bakery changed all that. The Donut Club hasn’t met as regularly as it used to. But last Saturday morning, I put out the call for the donut orders anyway.

“Boston Cream, please,” came back one order.

“Boston Cream? Since when?” I asked.

Well, because everything’s been turned upside down for these past two years. And the donut delivery guy (me) has been separated from the donut eaters (them) for quite a while. (more…)

Line in the sand

Carolyn Dunn felt the pressure of convoy demonstrators’ threats.

Until last weekend, I’d become kind of blasé to the words of protest and counter-protest. Every day, I’d read the latest on the demonstrations at Parliament Hill and the border crossings and winced at the deadlock and rhetoric. And, as I pointed out last week, I feared for wider freedom being trampled.

But a TV news story the other night stopped me in my tracks. Carolyn Dunn, CBC’s Alberta reporter, stood adjacent to flashing police cruiser lights, and parked semi-trailer trucks near Coutts, Alta., reporting but also looking over her shoulder anxiously.

Some Freedom Convoy truckers at Coutts, Alta., putting limits on freedom with their taunts.

“Things remain tense for citizens and the media,” Dunn said in her report. She went on to say that some of the demonstrators had directed abusive language at her and other reporters. In other words, in a weirdly Trumpian way, media not just mandates, had become the enemy. And Dunn said she felt uncomfortable having to hide who she was from strangers. “We’ve been told to be careful.” (more…)

Freedom by any other name

Fielding a question about freedom proved to be the toughest.

I’d just finished one of my military history talks, this particular night. I had fielded a number of specific questions about the women and men I’d featured in my presentation. And one of the younger members of the audience put up his hand and asked the toughest question of the night.

“Your books are all about people fighting for freedom,” the young man said. “What does freedom mean to you?”

I asked him if I could collect my thoughts a second. (more…)

Font of history

Sign announcing Frontier Town, opened in 1952, closed in 1998.

My parents, both U.S.-born, often took my sister and me on road trips back across the border in the 1950s and ’60s to visit our American cousins in the summertime. To help break the monotony of the drives to New York City, our parents often found amusement parks for us to visit along the way. One I’ll never forget was in the Adirondack mountains of upstate New York.

“Frontier Town!” announced the big red sign at the park’s entrance. And the marketing subtitle declared, “Where the Wild West begins.” (more…)

Mad dogs and snowstorms

On my morning constitutional, warmed by a toque & scarf (gift from a long-time friend) and surefooted springer spaniel Jazz.

As a general rule – remembering obedience training sessions I’ve attended with most of my canine companions over the years – when I walk a dog, I try to keep the dog on a leash and at my left side. I use the universal command, “Heel,” to keep the dog loping along at the same pace I’m walking. My current canine pal, Jazz, is still learning that command.

But for the first time since I got him about seven months ago, during Monday’s snowstorm, I didn’t care if he heeled or not. In fact, along our walk through the early morning darkness and whiteout of the storm, I encouraged him like Sgt. Preston of the Mounted.

“On Jazz!” I called out to him. “Away you go!”

In the storm, I cast the obedience to the wind because the sidewalks had blown in. There were no footprints for us to follow. I had no footing in the blowing snow. So, I chose to depend on Jazz’s instincts to guide us onto solid surfaces and quite frankly to help me keep my balance. (more…)

The space of the century

The way Uxbridge residents gathered to celebrate the unveiling of Col Sam Sharpe sculpture (May 2018)

We all assembled in downtown Uxbridge that evening. There were politicians of all stripes, bands, a parade of veterans, Indigenous representatives, vehicles, lots of kids running around in the streets and rows of seating spilling out from the curb. The police had to cordon off our main intersection of Toronto and Brock streets. There must have been 500 or 600 people seated, standing, passing by or gathering to witness the unveiling of the L/Col Sam Sharpe memorial sculpture in May 2018. As I organized my MC notes, a friend from out of town poked me in the shoulder.

“Wow, what an event!” he said.

I smiled and nodded, but then he added a comment and a question that cut me to the quick.

“You’ve got a hell of a town here, Ted. But how come we’re sprawled all over the street? Don’t you have a downtown square for this?”

The answer was: “No, we don’t.” (more…)