The other day, I needed to get an identification card replaced. The transaction required a password entry. Do you think I could remember it? I kept drawing a blank. Frustrating! If you’ve ever been around me when I can’t remember or have to create a new password, you’ll hear me repeat:
“If I were king of the world, I’d have all passwords eliminated!” (more…)
I was told he was coming. John Watson arrived a few minutes before I began a presentation about a major Second World War story, last Wednesday night in Swift Current, Sask. Watson is a tall man. He wore a red jacket, a scarf, and had a twinkle in his eye as we shook hands.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Watson,” I said. “I understand you’re a veteran, that you served overseas in the last war with the Regina Rifles.”
“Yes, I did,” he said. “But don’t forget the ‘Royal’ part.”
“The Royal Regina Rifles,” I corrected myself, then added, “No doubt ‘Royal’ because of you.”
He laughed and said, “I was just a rifleman.” (more…)
It’s June 1944. Two men in Canadian Army battledress are hunkered down waiting for orders. One’s a soldier with sergeant’s stripes. The other’s a private in a greatcoat.
“Time to move out,” says the sergeant.
“I won’t do it,” retorts the private.
“You will, too. When an order is given, it must be obeyed!” And the sergeant points a gun at the enlisted man. “Do it or else.”
At precisely the same moment, there’s the sound of an artillery shell exploding nearby, and the two soldiers dive for cover. Sgt Johnny Wayne then turns to Pte Frank Shuster and says, “And we’re still in Canada! Imagine what it’ll be like when we get overseas!” (more…)
Some things are just meant to happen. About five years ago, a woman in Port Perry made a decision about the artwork that had accumulated around her home for half a century. A large private collection of sketches, water colours and other paintings created by Carol Hodgkins-Smith’s father, Arnold Hodgkins, suddenly went public. The calendar was approaching Nov. 11, and Carol decided her father’s war art deserved a viewing right then and there in her home.
“I think it’s finally time to share my dad’s artwork with the rest of the world,” she told me. She even decided that she would allow some of the artwork to be sold as individual items. (more…)
I didn’t expect to see him that day. I had a million other things on my mind. But then, in the middle of our Sam Sharpe statue unveiling, Harry Watts came up to say hello. I thought, why had Harry, a veteran of the Second World War – a guy who lived in Kitchener – why had he come to Uxbridge for the unveiling of a statue to a First World War soldier?
“I had to come,” he said. “I had to show my support for a man who gave so much to his troops and then paid so much with his shell shock.” (more…)
We arrived in the late afternoon. Shadows from an encircling grove of trees cast eerie slivers of light and dark across the manicured cemetery grounds – the grass cropped short, the flowers freshly tended. I watched one of my fellow travellers, Valerie Flanagan, move from one line of tombstones to the next. Our walk through La Chaudiere Military Cemetery just below the famous Vimy Ridge, a few days ago, was the culmination of a long journey for her. Then, she saw it – her grandfather’s grave.
“I’m so glad I made it here,” she said. “I didn’t know how I’d feel.” (more…)
This week, we have witnessed two sides of the coming Donald Trump administration and its method of information distribution.
On Monday, the president-elect invited former opponents, friends seeking roles in his transition team and even TV executives to his New York White House, the Trump Tower in Manhattan. Nobody was allowed to report on the meetings. Everything, by agreement with Trump, was off the record.
The next day, Tuesday, the president-elect travelled across town to the offices of the New York Times, tweeting, “I have great respect for the New York Times. I have tremendous respect…” (more…)
There were two young women in his audience, suddenly captivated by what he had to say. He offered words of reflection, remorse and remembrance. Last spring, Harry Watts, in his 92nd year, had travelled to Holland to pay homage to his fallen comrades and to join in the festivities marking the 70th anniversary of the liberation of the Netherlands. During a commemorative event in the Dutch town of Baarn, Harry was asked to address the assembly.
“We were volunteers,” Harry told the thousands gathered in the town’s central park. “Because a lot of our parents and grandparents had come from Europe, we came here to, in a way, liberate our families.” (more…)
Early in May, 70 years ago, a Second World War glider pilot named Martin Maxwell tasted freedom for the first time in nearly eight months. On Sept. 17, 1944, during his second airborne operation, he had delivered British soldiers and equipment in a controlled crash landing near Arnhem, Holland, during the Operation Market Garden, only to be wounded and captured days later. But on May 1, 1945, with the Germans surrendering all over Europe, Maxwell regained his freedom.
“A British tank came into our POW camp,” he said, “and we were liberated.” (more…)
The conversation began much the way many of my chats with men of a certain age do. I got his birth date. The man told me he was born in January 1923. He quickly pointed out he’ll be 91 in the New Year.
Next, I asked about where he’d grown up and because he’d lived through the Second World War, where he’d served. He explained he’d been with the East Yorkshire Regiment on D-Day as part of the Operation Overlord invasion force.
I asked Geoff Leeming if he would be our honorary veteran at the Uxbridge Oilies Remembrance Tournament on Nov. 9 at the arena.
“Fine,” he said, “but you know I didn’t serve in the Canadian Army. It was the British Army.”
“Doesn’t matter to me,” I said. “You’re a veteran in my books.”