Santa came in BLUE

Merry Christmas everybody - here is one of my favorite Christmas memories.

It was December, 1941 during World War Two when i was stationed at Oban, Scotland.
In one of my letters home I had asked Mom for some extra chocolate to give to the many little English kids who thought we Canucks had an endless supply.

 Mom belonged to a radio station club, KIRO, in Seattle. They had 20,000 members who 'listened in' every morning. It was a fun program, but their main purpose was to help the unfortun­ate. Mom sent my name in for membership and my letter to the Time Klock Klub, and it was read over the air.  Through the generosity of thousands of Americans and Canadians in the Pacific Northwst, cases of toys and candy arrived in England.  

   My C.O. kindly granted me special leave to go to London to meet with a Lady Sydney Marsham C.B.E. who greeted me at the Personal Service League headquarters.  She informed me that three 800 pound cases of toys and clothing and a ton of chocolate in two pound tins were at my disposal.  We mutually agreed that St. Andrews Hospital, in London’s East End, would be our target.  Hitler’s bombs had made scores of children there homeless and sad.  Our mission would bring them some happiness.

A nurse who came forward was quite obviously expecting someone in blue with 'CANADA' patches on his shoul­ders

She greeted me saying, "You must be Mr. Stofer." She intro­duced me to the head matron and the three of us went on a little farther and stopped in front of two big doors. They were swung open to reveal a very large ward. What a sight met my eyes! Down both sides of the ward were long tables around which sat scores of little children of all ages. They were having a tea party and enjoying sweets and cakes.

Strung across the ward amongst gay Christmas decorations were several British flags and hanging from the centre of the room was a very large American flag.  At the far end of the ward were three large tables forming a triangle. Piled high on these tables were toys and clothing that must have boggled the minds of these home­less, orphaned children. I had nev­er felt so proud, in all my life to think I was partially responsible for it all.  Now it was my turn to be Santa Claus. It mattered little that I was in airforce blue and not in red and white with downy whiskers.

Over 120 excited children filed by me and were given a toy of their choice. Every kind of toy im­aginable was available to them. One little boy kept coming back to shake hands with me.

Later, with a very large hospital cart overflowing with toys and can­dy, I went on a tour of every ward in the hospital to visit kiddies who were not able to leave their beds.

After my role of Santa was com­pleted I was shown over the hospital and the staff told me of their experiences during the air-raids. We went to the roof where it was evident many incendiary-bomb fires had been fought. Late in 1940, in one raid alone, more than a thousand fires had burst out in the East End.

Every direction we gazed there was rubble and partial remains of buildings, crumbling masonary walls, exposed plumbing, and lone sentinel-like chimneys. Some of the orphaned children to whom I had just given a toy had once lived there.

Finally it was the end of a won­derful day in my life and I left St. Andrews Hospital, Devons Road, Bow, one of the happiest guys in the world. Mission accomplished!

Of all my Christmases that is the most memorable. That was 72 years ago. I often think about those chil­dren. Where are they now? Many will have children of their own. Some may have grandchildren.

If my grandchildren ever ask, "What did you do in the war, Grandad?", I'll tell them, "I played Santa Claus.".
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PS = I was freelance writing after the war and one of the stories I wrote for WestWorld Magazine, December, 1982,  was of the above experience.  One day, shortly after the magazine containing my story was published I received a phone call from a lady in Victoria, who lived just three miles from me,  who had just read the magazine.  SHE WAS ONE OF THOSE LITTLE GIRLS  to whom I had given a toy in St. Andrew's Hospital, London, in 1942, forty years previous.

 I had never ever seen so many ships gathered in one place.  As we slowly steamed in we passed several more destroyers and a battleship, either the Rodney or the Nelson.  The coastal scenery was lush, green, jungle. There was no blackout here and it was a wonderful sight at night to see the coast and the ships lit up.

We had been cooped up in a troopship for six weeks and looked forward to stretching our legs.   Len Brown and I got shore leave until 10:30 p.m. at night.  We were paid four pounds in South African money, about $20 Canadian then. Durban was a very modern city, very untouched by the war and looked spick and span.  Large, glistening-white, high rise apartment buildings lined the sandy-beach waterfront, suggesting the good things in life. This "oasis" city was a far cry from the drab wartime colouring of the U.K. we had left behind us. We were longing to see more of the sights.  We had heard the lights were on and there were plenty of things to be had that were rationed in the U.K.  Sweets, fruit and ice cream were in plentiful supply.

The currency in South Africa was very similar to the English, dealing in shillings and pence. After filling our bellies with goodies, Len and I went to a picture show, but boy was it ever expensive; certainly more than in the UK.  

There were rickshaws everywhere, being pulled around the streets by huge Zulus, as shown.   

The  authorized rate was six pence, 12 cents or so, for one passenger to go up to one mile.  This easily covered most parts of the city that were of interest to the servicemen.  Of course they tried to charge more sometimes, but we soon learned to bargain.  On shipboard and in the folder we had been issued, we were advised of destinations that would fall within the sixpence fare.  Most rates were based on taking a rickshaw from the town centre or the Post Office to places like Albert Park, Marine Parade, Indian & Native Market.  Areas farther out went up to a shilling [about 25cents].   When one required a rickshaw the first question was always, "Marleeney?", meaning HOW MUCH?  The Zulu "driver" told us in his language: Threepence was "teekie" and sixpence was "sispens" or "zukwa".  One shilling was "usheleni" and for some weird reason two shillings was called "Scotchman". On arriving near a spot of interest one would call out, "Eeema!", which meant STOP! Taxis were available for a shilling up to a mile, but not always easy to get.  Many officers and their ladies took taxis, but the ranks stuck to the rickshaws. The rickshaw pullers were powerfully built men and could run like the wind.  They alldressed in colourful uniforms with little clusters of feathers with bracelets on their biceps, wrists, and ankles.  Many wore large fancy hats.  They blew whistles as they ran, warning anyone in their path that they were coming. Driving was on the left.

The modern buildings were very much of a North American structure.  I believe the highest was about 17 stories.  Most of the cars were American with just a sprinkling of English autos.  Before we went back to the ship that night we bought a large bag of apples and oranges to share with the lads who had not been given passes.

The next morning we were roused at 5 a.m. and with full kit left our ship at 10 a.m. and marched to a nearby train, which we boarded.