Father's Day - That's That!

A vivid memory I have of my dad, Reginald George Stofer, from London, England, is the great struggle he undertook to build a home for his wife Violet and we three boys, myself, [Ken], and brothers Eric and Reg. Now I am 'enroute' to age 94 and have built my own house, I fully appreciate the trials and tribulations endured by my father in preparing a home for his family.   

Mom and dad had somehow acquired a small piece of land immediately behind the old original St. Aidans Church on Cedar Hill Cross Road on which stood a shell of half-finished house abandoned by someone else.  My father painstakingly turned this into a home for us.  We moved into 1645 Broadmead Avenue around 1932-33.  

Dad insisted that we three boys each have our own bedrooms, so he made sure there was a second floor.  My room faced the East, {upstairs left}, and brother Eric the North. My brother Reggie's room faced south towards [town] Victoria, about three miles away, and overlooked a country store on Cedar Hill X Road, owned by the Phillips family at that time. 

Reggie, a talented musician, often sat in his room [with his window open in the summer], and sang his head off while playing the guitar and practicing for an upcoming performance. Sometimes he sang in the garden.

Downstairs there was a hall leading to the front door, a bedroom for mom and dad, and right opposite their bedroom was the one bathroom for all of us.  

Beyond the bathroom was the Living Room which led into a sunroom with lots of windows overlooking what was to become our lovely garden.

I also remember the aviary that dad built and where he raised canaries.  He even "piped" music into the aviary and had a mike in there as well to "send" the birds singing back into our house. 

Off of the Living Room was quite a large kitchen [for its day],

and off of the kitchen was a small room into which came one end of a clothes line that reached from the house to the end of the garden.  Over the kitchen sink was a wide window overlooking the roof of our attached garage and into the lovely garden of the neighbour who was the minister of St. Aidans Church right next door.

I remember seeing dad sitting in his garden like this many times. 

His mind was constantly 'on the go' thinking about radios he could build, different varieties of canaries he could raise, or how he could change the garden.

Mom and dad were so pleased when the house was completed.  Mom told me once that she and dad were standing in front of the house side by side one sunny day, and mom said to dad, "Well that's that."  And so they named our house THAT'S THAT!   Sometimes they even used THAT'S  THAT as a part of their mailing address.  

 

I lived in this home until 1941, when by that time WW2 was underway in Europe.  I saved my money and paid my passage to England to join the R.A.F.  For five years mom and dad wrote wonderful detailed  letters to me so that I would always be in touch with home.

So on this Fathers' Day I remember my dad Reginald George Stofer and all of the effort he put into building a wonderful home for his family.

Grandpa 'sits' the twins

Some years ago, my wife went out with our daughter-in-law, so that 'Grandma' could experience a half-day at pre-school with Granddaughter Colleen.

I was left in charge of Colleen's twin sisters,  Lindsay and Heather, who sat quietly on the floor in front of me poking at some infinitesimal thread on a discarded sock. This is going to be a cinch I thought, as I stretched back in the recliner and opened my book.

They loved sitting on the hearth, right in front of the fireplace [usually unlit].  

They looked at me as if to say, "We might go in the fireplace."  With an authoritative wag of an index finger and a gentle, but firm voice I told them "No!"

My problems began when the telephone rang.  While  answering the call I tried to keep them in sight, playing with toys, but disaster had struck!  They were sitting on the hearth.  Their hands were filthy black with soot.  They gave me the sweetest little smiles, and knowing they had done wrong, said, "Hi", in that sweet, husky little voice designed solely to melt a grandpa's heart.  

I scooped them up, one under each arm.  We marched to the bathroom where I held Heather against the side of the vanity with the gentle pressure of an encompassing body and legs.  On the vanity top I held Lindsay with my left arm around her, holding her left hand immobile with my left hand. I turned on the taps.

Have you ever tried to hold and wash the hand of a little child who doesn't want to be washed, using one hand to make lather with a slippery cake of soap?  Cleaned and nice-smelling, I put Lindsay down. Now I gave Heather  all of my concentration and commenced to wash her.  Lindsay now had the toilet paper unrolled and the bath towels off the rack.

Needless to say I gave them an early lunch at 11:20.  I figured they wouldn't budge if they had food in front of them.  The sight of their feeding dishes signalled food and they surpassed themselves with cooperation, climbing into their high-chairs.

They ate well, working their way through a half slice of cheese, an apple, and a half banana each, plus numerous crackers washed down with two glasses of juice. Then came the next big ordeal…change-of-diapers and afternoon nap time.  Pampers - what a wonderful invention - no safety pins to fumble with or fear of drawing blood.

Heather was first into the nursery. I left the door open, thinking Lindsay would naturally want to follow.  "Wrong"  -  Lindsay seized this opportunity to distance herself from the nursery.  It happened to be the hearth.  She stood with a very knowing and almost daring look on her cute little face, suggesting, "I might just get dirty again."  I quickly clutched her up and back to the nursery we went.   I closed the door behind me.

I decided to change Heather first.  While performing this almost-forgotten art, I placed Lindsay in her crib using it as a temporary holding pen.

Placement in the crib meant it was nap time ritual and all that went with it; blanket and dollies etc.  Out of practice, my diaper changing was taking a little longer than Mom's.  Screams of disapproval told me I'd done the wrong thing.  She wasn't being a bad little girl.  I just didn't have the routine quite right.  Aware that neighbours might be concerned, I quickly removed her from 'jail'.

Confined to the room, but now happily out of the crib, investigative Lindsay was now attempting to climb on to the changing table via a nearby chair, to reach a convenient roll of tissue and a stack of pampers.  All of these things were soon in various places, while Grandpa hastened to powder and re-wrap Heather.

Of course, during the entire procedure, Lindsay was using all of her baby Esperanto, [the twins understood each other perfectly], which served very well to describe and/or obtain anything she saw.  If you'll imagine the sound of "i" as in the word pit, you'll get the idea of the sound, when I say that the entire period of Lindsay's exploration was accompanied by "i,i,i,".  It's a language which suffices for any situation.  In this case "i" meant, "I want to be changed too." 

I placed Heather in her crib, tucked the blanket around her, along with a first-at-hand, and what seemed to be an appropriate dolly and gave her a kiss on the forehead.  I had Lindsay's diaper on before you could say "i".  Heather was in her crib but I had overlooked one very important fact - "Bay-Bee" wasn't.

Heather was now standing, holding the edge of the crib and crying, "i,i, bay-bee."  Hurriedly I powdered, wrapped and lay Lindsay  in her crib where she immediately took up the chant from her sister, and I now had a duet urging me on to do things right, singing, "i,i,i,baybee, baybee, i,i,i".

These two little cherubs, not yet two had already formed a protest group.  All they needed was the placard, "We Want Baybee".

Suddenly it dawned on me, that those knitted-wool-things, with a sort of face in the middle, that I had seen them hugging, or dragging by one leg, throughout the morning, were "bay-bee".  They each had one.  I rushed from the nursery into the disarranged toy department that was the front room.  Frantically I searched in and under everything, desperately trying to figure where I might have put a knitted-wool-thing with a face in the middle, had I been 15-months-old.

I wasn't sure which would be worse, to return empty-handed or to find only one and to have to make a decision as to who would get it.  From the nursery the volume was increasing and the "i,i,i"  had more of a desperate intonation…And Then I Found Them!  The relief I experienced was akin to finding my lost passport while travelling in Iran, or having my dentist telling me a root canal wouldn't be necessary after all.

Delighted, I quickly returned to the nursery where the sight of the contents in my hands immediately changed the looks on the baby faces and the "i,i,i" had a more approving sound.  I re-positioned each of the "protesters" on their tummies, shoved a "baybee" under a little arm, which quickly cuddled it, tucked their blankets around them, wound up a wonderful pling-kitty-plunk musical thing, which they loved, and left the room.  Silence reigned.

I returned to my reclining chair, picked up my book and commenced to read.  At that moment the front door opened and back from her pre-school, Colleen rushed in with a flashing smile and a "Hi Grandpa," with Mommy and Grandma close behind.  "How did it go?," they asked.

"Oh great," I replied, like an old vet.

 

It's hard to believe that those darling little twins will be 30 years old on May 16, 2014. But I think you'll agree, they are just as cute now as they were then!

Heather

Lindsay

Dear Mum

My Dear Mum  - 

Nothing seemed to daunt her.   She had every reason to be downhearted,  based on her life as she related it to me at times. When she and dad came out from England in 1912 everyone around them, save themselves, were sea-sick.  Mom and Dad cared for them.  

On arrival in Canada they had nothing, other than to be greeted in Victoria, B.C. by dad's two brothers, Rob and Will, who were working at the Empress Hotel.  Dad didn't have any promise of work, but on his first day while still in a suit he got a job right on the street of Victoria digging ditches.  Mom made a lunch for him and they sat on the side of the road and ate together.  Their story for a few years, was one of hardship.  My mom, Irene Violet Stofer was a real trouper and knuckled down to doing all that was required.

It wasn't an easy route for them in Canada, but mom especially made it work.  Work is the key word here.  As I recall the house that dad built for all of us, I recall the work that mom also put into it.  Nearly everything in the home was made by mom and dad with mom as the planner and designer so to speak.  All of the rugs and mats on the floors were made by mom and she shared with all the painting and wall-papering.   I remember very clearly that at the Times newspaper office where dad worked there were long cores of compressed paper almost like drain-pipe, very solid that came from the centre of the huge rolls of the blank white paper that would eventually become news papers.  These solid cores were discarded.  Dad brought them home.  Mom and he worked together to construct a base at one end, then threaded an electric wire up the centre where they affixed a socket for a light bulb and added a shade that mom had made to fit over the top.  We had several of these in our house as standing lamps.

Mom also designed and cut out floor mats from some sort of hard rubber matting that dad had obtained from his work place.  These were cut in such a way as to follow the shape of the hall.  If anything was needed, it was made.  Mom designed and cut out the material to make on her sewing machine, dress suits for myself and brothers and dad.  

Not only did mom design and make things for inside the house, but she also worked in the garden with layout of lawns and flower beds, with dad doing the 'bull-work'.  She was an all-around person. Mom was a religious person and we attended the Christian Science Church on Pandora Avenue.

When I was overseas  for 5 years during  World War Two, mom wrote letters to me at least every week and many times more often than that.  One thing about mom was that she wasn't going to allow me to miss anything.  Her letters were very detailed.  Because there were so many ships being sunk, mom numbered every letter she wrote to me and I could keep track of what I had missed and so she repeated items I might have missed. Everyone in the district was mentioned when an event affected their lives.   And where possible there was a photo or two.   She kept me up to date with the local newspapers and didn't allow me to miss a thing that was going on in the old home town. Mum and dad both anticipated my letters home to them and read them together.

Mom listened faithfully to a special "do good" type of program broadcast on KIRO from Seattle.  She became so involved that she made me a member of the club, The Time Klock Klub, which resulted in a charity drive she instigated to supply London's bombed out children with a huge quantity of toys and candy, which I presented to the war-orphaned children in St. Andrews Hospital in London's East End.

I had gone to England to join the R.A.F. and now mom learned that it was possible to transfer to the RCAF where my salary would be twice as much.  She did all of the letter writing to Members of Parliament re my status in the R.A.F. resulting in my transfer and being immediately sent home from Burma after my transfer to the RCAF in Bombay, India.

And then there was that wonderful day in August of 1945  when I walked off the boat ramp in Victoria, B.C. and there was my mom, arms open to greet me while dad stood back patiently waiting.    

I often think of my mom and all of the things she did for me, especially on Mother's Day.

Dear Gentle Readers

I know it can be frustrating to navigate the 'leave a comment' on this blog, so if you'd like to comment, you might prefer to email me at:  mr.write@shaw.ca 

Thanks!

Easter on the Mountain

I always remember the week- end of Good Friday to Easter Sunday, because of  the hot cross buns that mom used to heat up and serve, buttered. They tasted really good.   Then of course there was THE big day Easter Sunday.  If the weather was nice, we all got up very early and hiked up Mt. Tolmie just before sunrise.

About 1928, a new illuminated cross had appeared on the mountain.  It was six metres high with a four- metre crossbar, and outlined by single red neon tubing, built by Bill Bayliss of Bayliss Neon.  The modern age had come to the Easter Sunrise Service.  Bayliss built a home on the mountain  many years later.

  

As kids we used to watch for the cross to go up.  Suddenly, one day it was there and someone would cry ‚ "The cross is up!‚"  It was an eye-catching and inspiring sight, as it glowed in the night, 125 metres above the city.  On Easter Sunday everyone dressed in his/her Sunday best, as the saying goes, and, some who could afford it actually bought, or made,  new outfits.  Young and old came to the mountain in droves from all areas of Greater Victoria. 

Many of the youngsters climbed the mountain by a more precarious route, scrambling up the rugged side, enjoying the challenge of forging a new trail.  On exceptionally fine Easter Sundays, many carried blankets and picnic baskets intending to make an outing of it. 

It was somewhat like a pilgrimage, although many on the scene could well have been agnostic or even atheist. All were drawn by the magnetism of the day and the beauty of the mountain.

The B.C. Electric Company arranged for their streetcars to depart terminals at 6:15 a.m. running to Mt. Tolmie.  Because of this special [streetcar] service, a double Tickets were normally six for 25 cents.

When all were assembled, barely a square foot of mountain remained uncovered by human form, waiting quietly for Dr. Davies to speak from the highest point, where he stood facing the East.  Below the cross, on the lower ground, sitting or standing on the uneven terrain, people of all denominations would wait for his words.  The Easter Service touched all of us in one way or another. Even hard-nosed reporters, obviously moved by the occasion, revealed their feelings in their comments:

"The distant sound of a church bell...echoing against the ridge of rocks....was an index of the call Easter was making to the worshippers‚  With Spring flowers in bloom and the buds of the broom turning to gold among the verdant foliage.  The waters of the straits and the gulf, shimmered in the early morning sunshine.  The Olympics were palest blue, capped with banks of snow."

In order to reach his audience spread out around the mountain top, Davies installed an electric amplifier.  Frank Hall was quoted in the Times in 1975, as saying, "We had a Magnavox unit with a vacuum battery set, and horns something like the horns on His Master Voice Victrola, for a loud-speaker system.  Jack MacKay set the unit up, with Leo Main giving advice.

  

"Just as Dr. Davies was ready to start, someone tripped over the connecting wires and we had to work like blazes for a few minutes to get the thing going."

The Mt. Tolmie Sunrise Services continued for nearly 20 years.  The largest crowd gathered was estimated to have reached 8,000.    The smallest crowd was the result of torrential rain that didn't  let up all morning.  Only a few hardy souls stayed around to listen to the service that was shortened to 30 minutes.  In 1937, Dr. Davies spoke to the gathered mountain worshippers for the last time.  He died in 1951, at the age of 61, in Los Angeles, California. 

When World War Two was declared the services were stopped when the mountain was put off limits by the Dept. of National Defence.

Through the subsequent decades, time, tourists and residents have taken their toll on the mountain.  Progress has encroached where songs of many birds filled the air, in those halcyon days, when one could barely step without crushing a beautiful peacock flower, Easter lily or chocolate lily.  Nearly everyone who went up the mountain came down again, boarding the streetcar bearing a bouquet of these freshly picked wildflowers.

Rock-a-bye Baby

Ken Stofer-My Life.

FOUL BAY, VICTORIA, B.C. AS A WEE BABY

The telling of this story is not by me, but from memories of my mother's story telling.  It was 1921. At the time my parents lived in Foul Bay, in a rented house right above the beach, on the bank.  Times were tough.   Dad used to go out in a row boat and fish for just about anything he could catch.  He was actually fishing for our next meal. Mom deserved "a break" so I [just a wee baby] always went along with dad in the boat, all tucked up in blankets, practically at dad's feet. 

I was told in later years that the rocking of the boat put me to sleep immediately.  At one time, years later when I could understand, mom told me that I was considered dad's lucky charm.  On one hand I was someone he could talk to, or rather mumble to about the good or bad fishing days, even though my response, if I was awake, was generally just a sort of gurgle.
Whenever I heard that story [and I did hear it many times], I realize what a wonderful experience it was for me, and what a wonderful sleep with rocking of the boat and breathing in of fresh sea air.  It is a wonder I didn't take to the sea and become a sailor. Interestingly enough, I never was fond of the ocean and I never did learn to swim. Many, many years later, as an adult I have never driven by that spot on the Victoria waterfront without recalling all of the story of that time in my parents' life when they were really struggling and I an innocent wee baby in a rocking boat was totally unaware of how desperate they were to make a life for us all; myself and my older brothers, Eric and Reggie.
  

MOBILE SIGNALS UNIT #5836 BECOMES OPERATIONAL

The tank was always kept topped up.  All auxiliary batteries were kept charged and topped up.  While we were near camp we had a long land line that supplied power direct from the camp diesel generators, but we could operate efficiently on our own.   AND THEN! -  one day we were in business, that is, totally operational.  We could go anywhere at a moments notice, and we did, but for now we were located on this high point of ground amid the rice fields about a 20-minute walk from our basha.  We were Mobile Signals Unit # 5836 and from here we commenced to operate three Beaufighter squadrons, 27, 177 and 211, from our own strip, and any other aircraft requiring assistance. 

A small ditch about ten feet wide, which was actually one of the winding little tributaries of the Irrawaddy river, came very close to our tender.  We had to build another little bridge across it on the top of large empty fuel drums.  When the tide was out, miles and miles away, the drums rested on the ground.  When the tide was fully in, the bridge rode high on the drums in the water.  On shift in the still of the night it was quite eerie to hear the gurgle of water as the tide slowly "crept" in.

The airstrip was about a ten minute walk away. Our actual living quarters bashas, were on the other side of the airstrip and were made entirely of bamboo.   We didn't have windows as such; just open areas that could be filled as required with drop-down bamboo windows, but open in the hot season.  There was no electricity, just lamps, candles or flashlights.  We were about eight miles from Japanese lines, but between us and them was a very, very thick, almost impenetrable jungle. 

Some chah wallahs (tea & goodies) who could freely roam the camp were bribed by friends of the Japanese [Indian or Bengalies], to toss grenades in the open-windowed bashas. During my time there I didn't hear of any deaths as a result of this.  It didn't happen to me in my basha.  Some lads elected to sleep on the ground between the bashas and take their chances with snakes.  This (grenade) situation was short-lived and soon corrected.

One nice feature of the camp was that there was practically nothing on which to spend money.  It was easy to save.  If you didn't need,  or didn't want to go on pay parade you didn't  A list was put up in the cookhouse, the Tuesday before parade.  If you wanted some money  you just wrote your name on the list with the amount required.  Then you went and got it,  just like you would at a bank and without all of the coming to attention bullshit, "SIR! Stofer, 801"  It was great.

To begin with we went on a four-watch system, which gave us plenty of time off to write letters home, do our washing etc.  There were quite a few new guys here and I only list their names, so that they will not be forgotten:  Les Warren, Len Baxter, Sid Clayton, Arthur Godfrey, Dick Hawkes, Frank Laundon, Pete Humphreys and Ron Hinton.  It wasn't long before Arthur Godfrey got ex-Burma on medical grounds, then Les Warren was posted on a Combined Ops course.   Then Dick Hawkes left ex-India medical grounds.  Pete Humphreys was posted home to UK as he was nine days over his four year tour of duty.   As a result, our time on shift became more frequent. 

I think this is a good time to tell you what I was doing. Our Mobile Signals Unit was required, at a moments notice to service any aircraft in need at any time. From our airstrip we operated three Beaufighter Squadrons, 177, 211 and later 27.  A squadron consisted of 12 aircraft each when all were fully operational.  

Depending on the age of each aircraft and what damage it had received in action, we were generally operating only about nine of the 12.  This would be about 27 aircraft at one time.  We were a sort of control tower working in conjunction with the operations room that was located right on the air strip.  Missions for the day or night, would be discussed and planned in the Ops room.   We would be given the orders of the day, or night, squadron numbers involved, departure times and approximate arrival times.  We were never given the target destination of our aircraft.

Every squadron had a name and each flight of three or four aircraft in each squadron had a colour, such as BLUE, GREEN, YELLOW or RED.  So if a flight consisted of three,  there would be a Blue One, Blue Two and Blue Three.  Same for the other colours.   Each squadron would also have another designation such as FOXTROT or WITCHCRAFT or TOMAHAWK.  Names were chosen that had a sharp and distinct sound on the R/T.  When an aircraft was about to take off and become airborne, the pilot would call us.  We were called BENTON, while at Chiringa.  The pilot would simply say, "Hello Benton this is Foxtrot Blue One, about to Scramble."  This was his way of telling us his squadron,  his position in the squadron, and that he was taking off on his mission.  Each aircraft would follow this procedure.  When they were all airborne the flight leader would usually be the No. 1 man and on spotting all of his mates, he would chat with them getting them to fall into line and off they would go.  TO BE CONTINUED

INTO BURMA

At least that bit was true. We hoped they would come our way.  Just as they arrived reasonably close, they suddenly veered off in another direction.  It was disputable whether they were in fact nude.  They could have been wearing white blouse and white shorts.   We each had our own little fantasy.  We did try one more time after that but we missed them.  It turned out that they had selected a different time on that particular day.

One day we learned the road had been repaired and that a convoy of seven lorries was going to try and get through.  We would be on it and off to join a satellite of 169 Wing.  We left at 8 a.m. one morning.  I'll never forget that trip.  What a journey!  We took a side trip down a rutted road to the river to meet a barge and unload from it some equipment for 177 Beaufighter Squadron.  

It seemed like days before we reached Chiringa, as we seemed to have several meals en route.  I don't recall sleeping though, and then at about 7 p.m . one evening, after travelling over very muddy, rutted roads that shook the innards out of us, we found ourselves on the outskirts of the camp.  Here we ran over the now familiar wire-meshed roads, all through the camp, similar to the way the Yanks laid out their aircraft runways.   I spent the night in the Motor Transport billet and in the morning reported to the Orderly Room.  I was advised that the D/F station had come in to them damaged, probably from Akyab in a hasty withdrawal, and that some of the lads were currently trying to get it operational.  I went out to where they were working on it, and here I met Eric Foggo, Paddy Magowan Ken Loseby and Don Locke.  They settled me into the crude Signals Billet.  I spent most of that first day getting my dhobi [laundry] tended to and writing some letters home.   

Later, Eric Foggo and I went down to 211 Beaufighter Squadron stores to scrounge some white paint.  We got eight tins of the stuff.  I started to paint the inside of the D/F tender. 

At this point I should tell you that a D/F [Direction Finding] tender can be either just a big square trailer towed by a truck, or on a slightly larger scale can be inside a truck itself.  This makes it very mobile.  More about this later.  At this time Foggo, Magowan and Loseby had been detailed to escort a prisoner, Japanese or otherwise, I know not, back to Calcutta.  That left Don Locke and I to do the painting.  We then got some green camouflage paint and did the outside of the van.  

     Another of my first jobs was to assist in the building of a small bridge across a stream, so that we could drive our mobile signals van farther along and out into a high area among the paddy fields.  This whole area for miles each way was just paddy fields where rice was grown, bordered by dense jungle  It was part of a tributary of the Irrawaddy River and as the tides came and went, hundreds of miles away, so the fields were flooded.  I would have thought that salt water wasn't ideal for growing rice.  

Shortly after I arrived we were hung up with an equipment problem and were waiting for aircraft from Imphal to drop off some supplies.  Because of this lull I was given some time in the Hill Stations and was sent off to Shillong in northern India. It was much colder there and quite a relief from the humidity of a jungle area.  Once again I was amongst pine trees and in territory very much like our parks settings in Canada.  There was a Yank camp there as well and I made good friends with a couple of them.  One was an Everette Cooley from New York City and the other, Harold Roberts from Utica, NY.  We did a lot of walking everywhere, and just talking, about our homes, and life in general.  It was kind of neat for me after hearing the great mix of UK dialects.

Because it was a centuries-old peace-time British hill station nothing had been overlooked.  We were able to rent bicycles, and go roller skating at yet another roller rink with a wooden floor.  I also actually went horse-back riding.  The two Yanks were keen to do it, and I think it was a case of bravado on the part of all of us.  The horses were very slow and plodded along as we went out on the designated trail.  At about the halfway mark they began to trot and then to gallop, no matter what we tried to do. [My days on the Raper ponies stood me well]  One of the Yanks passed me in a hurry and was gone.  The other kept with me and we soon came upon his friend sitting on the ground and no horse in sight.  "What in the hell is the matter with 'em,"  he shouted as we galloped by, trying to rein in our Kentucky Derby contenders.  We soon found out, when we arrived in sight of the stables, from where we had started our little ride.   It seems that all of the horses are fed on return from a hiring out.  They are naturally very keen to hurry back.

Two weeks later I was back on duty. All of our small crew spent time doing a variety of jobs getting this Bedford VHF/DF van into shape.  We had a mechanic from the transport section make sure the engine just hummed and was ready to start in an instant.  In fact, later on we would always start it at the beginning and end of each shift.  TO BE CONTINUED

ARRIVE IN CHITTAGONG

I had teamed up with three other chaps from 35 PTC and we got rations for four, instead of single rations.  This allowed us to have more.  We had biscuits, bully beef, cheese, pickles, sugar and tea.  We had nothing to make tea in and instead bought some tea on the ferry for four Annas a mug.  

In the late afternoon our ferry arrived at a place called Chandpur.  Here we had to wait about 20 minutes in midstream before docking.  After docking we once again required coolies to take our luggage to yet nother train, where we boarded coaches right at the very end of the train. 

Our train then waited until about 7 p.m. until another ferry arrived.  They sure believed in packing the trains to the hilt.  Once again our impatience and hostile mood was tempered with more beggar boys providing entertainment.  One little group sang to us, believe it or not, "Hold tight, Hold tight, Want some sea food Momma.", which was one of the American hit tunes of the day. Finally about 8:15 pm we were on the move.  So crowded were we in our coach, that once again our bed rolls stayed rolled.  There was no lighting in the coach, and the issue of candles to us when we left HQ now made sense.  We of course lit them so that we could see what was what.   I made myself a drink of milk by pouring my condensed milk in my mug and adding water from my flask. Ugh!! I would say now, but then it was nectar.   This liquid was needed to wash down dried bread, pickles and cheese. 

  The rain continued.   At 4:15 a.m. we arrived in Chittagong.   It was pitch black and pouring with rain - STILL!  The stationmaster told us a lorry would be along to take seven of us to 224 Group HQ.  The lorry arrived.  We boarded and after a hell of a ride over bumpy soggy, muddy "roads?" we arrived 20 minutes later at Group.   The guardroom SP [police], told us that at about 6:30 a.m. there should be showers turned on.  Showers! Hell, all we needed to do was strip in the rain and soap ourselves down as we did at Risalpur.  Ah! but we were pleasantly surprised.  When he had said showers, he meant hot water.  Yes Hot Water!  It was a real treat, and we were also able to shave.  Ah luxury!   I received another pleasant surprise at Group.  The first one was that I had missed my posting to Akyab farther south.  WHY?  It had been captured by the Japanese.  Well that was a near miss!  Next little lot of pleasantries were as follows:  Group was very organized.  They had maps showing the war's progress.  The cookhouse food was good.  There was porridge, although it contained weevils, but heck they were dead and added a bit of colour and a bit of protein didn't hurt anyone.  After I had checked in I was told that I would not be staying there but was being moved farther inland.     

At Chittagong I was informed I was to join 5836 Mobile Signals Unit at Chiringa in Burma.  At 4 a.m. the next day I was roused to eat a hurried breakfast with a jeep driver and his dog.  He took me and my luggage to the ferry.  It was a miserable dark morning and still raining. 

At the ferry there were a dozen or more lorries waiting to unload West African troops.  A coolie grabbed my kit.  I said goodbye to my jeep driver, and slogged through mud to board the ferry.

We pulled out at 7 a.m. and by 3 p.m. we were anchored off of Cox's Bazar.  In relays we were loaded, baggage and all on to several invasion barges which took us about a mile up a narrow canal to a sort of jetty where the bow of the barge dropped and we walked off.    There were no coolies here so we were forced to carry our own kit.  It was no easy chore hefting a large tin box to your shoulder while a Sten gun hung around your neck. Maybe this is why we had the Commando training, to toughen us.  When I think back on that time,  I am often amazed that I was able to do it.  At Cox's I was told that the rains had been very heavy and the "road" to my next posting had been washed out.  I was taken to a transit billet to be "on hold" until I could proceed.  The "roads" to the billet were covered in a wire mesh to hold the soil together.

At the billet, water was obtained from a pump in the centre of a clearing.  Who should I run into here, but Horace Baldwin and John Simmons who had preceded me by a couple of weeks.  They were both operating a D/F tender on the out skirts of the camp.  Horace took me to see John who was on duty.  He was surprised to see me.  I switched my billet as Horace arranged for a cot in their billet.  Much better. 

My stay at Cox's turned into a few days.  While there I was told by the boys that there were two British nurses who rode horses early in the morning on the beach, AND IN THE NUDE, because they then went in for a swim.  I didn't believe it. Sounded like a likely story from guys who had been in Burma too long.  Anyhow, along with Horace and another chap I can't recall now, we did spend an early morning at the beach lying in the water [lovely and warm], like preying crocodiles, waiting for the

horse riding nurses.  We waited some time and then we were rewarded with the sight of them on their horses, in the distance.  TO BE CONTINUED

OFF TO THE FORWARD AREA AND A GUN-TOTIN' YANK

 Fortunately our C.O., Squadron Leader Noble,  a Battle of Britain pilot who had suffered burns in a crash, and whose present facial skin had once been his buttocks, appreciated the agony we had experienced.  In fact he told us a cute little story about kissing WAACs and then informing them they had just kissed his arse.  He was very sympathetic and our punishment was one weeks loss of pay.   

While at Madras I received a letter from mom, with a copy of a letter she had received from some big shot in the RCAF in Ottawa, saying it was now possible [I knew that], for Canadians in the R.A.F., to transfer to the RCAF, as from Mar 3rd, 1944.  I at once made yet another three applications which had three places to go before reaching RCAF Overseas Selection Board.

At this time I was due for some leave but it was cancelled due to a war situation and being shorthanded. I was due for another Hill Station trip, but with this cancellation I became fed up and PUSHED for my Forward Area posting and got it!   I made a quick trip in to the YMCA in Madras to say goodbye to Mrs. Chave.  Mrs Chave seemed to know my movements as she told me that one of the chaps I had met at her home, a Harvey Bantin was off on the same train as me.  Harvey and I met and proceeded to get the coolies cracking on our kit.  We each now had a tin trunk a kit bag, and a bed roll,  not to mention Sten gun and ammo.  A lot to try and carry and catch a train and get in the right coach.   

What's new?  The train was crowded and we had to travel 3rd. class,  wood seats and very smelly. We had a hell of a restless night, hot, sticky and smelly.  The next morning we woke covered in soot and feeling really dirty.  At the very next station we stripped off as much as we dared, and at a nearby platform tap we soaked ourselves and then soaped ourselves and rinsed off.  A little Indian girl was giggling and looking at me and pointing.  Then she showed me where I had left some soap up around and in my ears and back of my head. I splashed it off and then she laughed and  pointed again at another spot, and I splashed that off.  She was getting great entertainment from it.

The entire time I was washing, using both hands she kept operating the tap, as it was one of those kind on a spring that you had to hold open.  Of course she wanted some buckshee, a tip, so I gave her a couple of Annas, big deal.  She was keen on having some of my soap.  I had a few bars, so gave her one.  She immediately got herself all wet, little dress and all and then soaped herself all over, washing her dress at the same time.

Later that morning a Yank army type, a courier got on our train and in our compartment.  He had a brief case which was chained to his wrist.  He carried a pistol on his hip A La State Troopers in the U.S.A.    At one point on our journey he was very talkative about his job and made comments on the wogs  in the countryside as we sped along.  It was as though he had just been given the job, and was basking in his authority and the weapon on his hip.  He pulled it from its holster and took great pleasure in showing it to us.  Then he insisted on showing us how it fired and took pot shots out of the train window, at squatting "wogs" in the distance.  It was doubtful he could have actually hit any of them, but then there was also the remote possibility that he could.  He didn't seem to care.  He then put the revolver back in its holster.   We were stopped at a place called Dasawada Junction.  I was watching a scrawny dog run down the tracks toward me sniffing the tracks looking for food. A fast moving freight came up behind him and he went underneath. The poor dog tumbled and turned under the train, getting mangled.  After the train had passed the dog lay there still alive and in agony, a crippled bloody lump, whining, moaning - one ear missing - one leg missing, a back leg dangling.  The dog cried out in agony.  Then our "wog shooting" American Army courier jumped from the train, pulled out his gun again and shot the dog in the head to put it out of its misery..  The agonizing whining stopped.  What a lesson.  From shooting at wogs to feeling sorry for dogs.  Our American friend was a strange mixture.

TO BE CONTINUED

MADRAS, INDIA - SUNBURN AND PUT ON A CHARGE

       I will just touch on the sun burn and the Chaves.  On February 4th, my 23rd birthday, John McTaggart and I decided to go to Elliot's Beach "to swim" and then to the Toc H where Mac insisted on buying supper.  We were fully aware of the danger of the sun and we did not sun bathe.  We undressed [wearing suit underneath] and ran into the water cavorting about for a few minutes.  There was an Indian guard, sort of lifeguard on duty who was supposed to ring a bell if sharks were spotted. 

He was just there to get some buckshee. There were two red flags up and a floating barrier area behind which one must stay because of sharks.  There was also a warning of a strong undercurrent, so we simply sat in the water up to our chins and talked.  I cannot recall now for how long, but it was not long.  We came out got dressed and went to the Toc H.  By this time we were both looking pretty red all over.  It was at this point we both began to feel very hot and a little dizzy.  We consumed lots of non-alcoholic beverage. Time passed and then I  mentioned to McTaggart that I thought I had better leave as I wasn't feeling that great and I had an appointment. 

It so happened that I had been invited to dinner at the home of Mr. & Mrs. Chave, [he a civilian surveyor], from Vancouver, B.C.  I had met Mrs. Chave at the YMCA Canteen in Madras.   I do not recall what MacTaggart did.   About 5:30 I left Mac and got a rickshaw out to Chave's. Their home was named TORFELS and they lived at Nungambakam High Road, Madras.   They entertained their many guests by playing lots of outdoor games.  Badminton was on the program, along with table tennis. 

On this particular occasion I didn't feel in the mood for anything.

I ate only a small portion of my meal,  and told Mrs. Chave I wasn't feeling well.  She told me to go into their front room and lie down.  I now had a headache. She plied me with liquid, non-alcoholic and kept me in the cool under the fans and gave me some aspirin.  They wanted me to stay overnight.  I said I could not as I was on duty the next morning.

I took a rickshaw to Chetput Station and just missed the train to camp.  I had to wait a half hour for the next one.  I felt horrible and very sorry for myself.  The next train was full and I had to sit cramped next to a drunk Yank airman.   Every time the train swayed his weight was thrust against me.  So much for sitting quietly.  Finally I got to Grundy Station and wouldn't you know it, the Yank and I shared a rickshaw to 41 Bungalow where I was billeted.  He was going on farther to No. 2 Camp.

      In the morning I could hardly move.  My skin felt taut.  My joints felt stiff.  When I first moved to get out of bed I realized that my entire body [except around my privates] was burnt red. I was barely able to slip on my shorts.  I hobbled across the median over to the mobile van where I was to go on duty.  I think I met up with McTaggart on the way.  We were a fine looking pair.  Mac and I were relieving George Thornton and Ken Yates.  George helped us off with our shirts.   

We struggled through and endured the day.  Our shift ended and with more groaning we put on our shirts and headed back to the billet.  I went right to bed and spent another horrible night. 

The next day we were on duty at 8 a.m. I awoke to find I was covered all over in lovely ripe blisters; all over my back abdomen, arms and thighs.  We were in such agony that we stayed on watch all that day and until 11:30 at night.  We didn't want to budge or eat or anything.  We would normally have been on watch that night but Bill's Brown and Fisher did it for us. The next morning, Monday, February 7th, Mac and I reported sick and were sent to the British Military Hospital in the Fort in Madras.  Here we were literally dipped in a dark solution of some sort and just laid on top of a bed.  A sort of crust formed and we stayed like that, more or less "until we were done". Our Indian doctor was quite surprised that we had sunburn.  He could not seem to fathom this.   We were in hospital for two weeks and CHARGED WITH SELF-INFLICTED INJURY, a serious offence in wartime.   Fortunately our C.O., Squadron Leader Noble,  a Battle of Britain pilot who had suffered burns in a crash, and whose present facial skin had once been his buttocks, appreciated the agony we had experienced.  In fact he told us a cute little story about kissing WAACs and then informing them they had just kissed his arse.  He was very sympathetic and our punishment was one weeks loss of pay.  TO BE CONTINUED

Flood, Sunburn- Mrs. Chave from Vancouver.

Our living conditions changed quite drastically from Risalpur.  Our actual beds, [charpoys, made of rope for springs], were in old horse stables.  This had been an old estate, taken over when war was declared. Two beds to a stable.  There was no running water.  All water was fetched from a well and had to be boiled before drinking. All washing and shaving was done in cold water.  No showers or baths.  The rule was, to wash down as far as possible, up as far as possible, and POSSIBLE, when

possible.

We were taken to all meals by lorry a total  trip of 18 miles a day.  If requiring a shower [and who didn't?] you had to be out on the road to catch the shower lorry at 6:30 p.m. each night.  This took you to the main aerodrome where better facilities were available.  At Madras I was on a Mobile Signals Unit attached to #4 Operations Room, St. Thomas Mount.  Len Brown and I were on the same radio shift here on the R/T Tender handling all squadrons in and out, working with the control tower and giving bearings to any aircraft requiring same.

     It was a very busy station.   There was a mish-mash of aircraft here; Liberators, P38's, Mitchells, Blenheims, Beaufighters and Hurricanes.   After only a short time there, Len Brown and Alec Cox were posted again.  I wasn't to seeLen Brown again for 35 years. 

Our shifts were changed quite often from day to night and different crews came and went.  At one point Ken Yates came into my life and we had many good times together while on shift.  Ken was most interesting as he had been a reporter on a Manchester newspaper. I spent a New Year's at Madras with Ken Yates and we both said we were not going to just sit there and do nothing about it.  Along with Bill Brown, a friend named Dormer and Ken Yates we each put in Rupees 6 Annas 8 and bought one small bottle of Parry's Navy gin and a large bottle of Snowflake gin.  A large bottle of Special Whiskey and a bottle of cordial[lime] for a mixer.  We bought a pound of tongue and a pork pie. Well the four of us got quite merry and after emptying the large bottle of gin we filled it with water, tied it to a string, went outside and christened the Mobile Tender, "Gertie".  After that we took turns going over to the canteen at #41 Bungalow to see the off-duty boys [Most flights were down for the holiday], and the WAACs who were celebrating.  All the Ops Room officers were there including our C.O. Squadron Leader Noble.   Squadron Leader Noble was kissing a WAAC a Happy New Year.  I asked him if he had any more right to kiss a WAAC than I did.  He said, "No, go right ahead, and this is how you do it."  He then kissed another WAAC.  Of course he was tight as I was.  In fact everyone was loaded.  Good job operations were down for the night.

      I should say at this time, that "our canteen" was self-made.  Much had been done before I arrived on the scene of course, but  everyone took a turn at running the canteen.  We had shifts in the canteen just as we had shifts with our war work.  This included ALL RANKS, no exceptions,

so it was not uncommon to be stoking up the fires for the tea and making sandwiches with a Flight or even a Wing/Co on some occasions.  We were all equal in the canteen when off duty.  It was a nice tight little unit. To my surprise one day, I met John MacTaggart and George Thornton, posted down from Risalpur and I was to be on shift with Mac, once again.

      The things I remember about Madras are a bad flood in which many of us lost a lot of our belongings; having to drive a total of 18 miles a day for all three meals; meeting a very nice Canadian family the Chaves from Vancouver.  Getting a terrible sun burn over my entire body and being put on a charge.  I will just touch on the sun burn and the Chaves.  On February 4th, my 23rd birthday, John McTaggart and I decided to go to Elliot's Beach "to swim" and then to the Toc H where Mac insisted on buying supper.  We were fully aware of the danger of the sun and we did not sun bathe.  We undressed [wearing suit underneath] and ran into the water cavorting about for a few minutes.  There was an Indian guard, sort of lifeguard on duty who was supposed to ring a bell if sharks were spotted. 

He was just there to get some buckshee. There were two red flags up and a floating barrier area behind which one must stay because of sharks.  There was also a warning of a strong undercurrent, so we simply sat in the water up to our chins and talked.  I cannot recall now for how long, but it was not long.  We came out got dressed and went to the Toc H.  By this time we were both looking pretty red all over.  It was at this point we both began to feel very hot and a little dizzy.  We consumed lots of non-alcoholic beverage. Time passed and then I  mentioned to McTaggart that I thought I had better leave as I wasn't feeling that great and I had an appointment. 

It so happened that I had been invited to dinner at the home of Mr. & Mrs. Chave, [he a civilian surveyor], from Vancouver, B.C.