by Robert Hunt
So, on Guy Fawkes’ Night, we headed to the top of Brazil Street to a place we called the Horses Field. It’s where the Cabot Street apartments now stand. We often played baseball and softball there. I ran the length of it many times and sometimes just lay down on its grass and looked up at the sky. It was a large playground about a thousand feet in length and four hundred or more in width.
We had our matches, a few pieces of wood, a drop of oil from the oil tank, some paper, and two containers of water to douse the fire before it got out of control. This was really just an experiment. We wanted to see what would happen if and when the fire really got going.
When we arrived at the field, we were surprised to meet up with several kids who had come over from the adjoining Cabot Street area. They had the same idea as we did, but their materials, all piled into this one spot, rivalled our own. Dickie and I recognized one of the kids as a bigmouth from high school who liked to push younger guys around. Many of us stayed away from him and his crowd.
He didn’t bother us that night. We were just there to start our own bonfire, as small as it may be, and he and his friends were more interested in starting theirs. They had set up several car tires, along with a mountain of wood and paper, in the middle of the field. It looked like they were trying to catch all of St. John’s on fire. Dickie and I were awestruck. The group asked us to add our small pile to their monstrous one, then told us to stand back about forty feet.
We were concerned, but we’d never seen a fire that big before. Besides, these guys were about fifteen years old, and surely they knew what they were doing. However, we played it safe and backed up to let them do their thing.
There were houses all around the perimeter of the field. The backs of these homes bordered LeMarchant Road and Monroe Street, so they had a clear view of the area. They were in no danger, as the middle of the field was at least a few hundred feet from the nearest house. Our new firebugs poured several cans of fluid over the pile—furnace oil, they said—and set a match to it.
When it caught, the fire started out small, but it quickly grew out of control. I could see that adding more and more wood, as the Cabot Street guys were doing, was only making it worse. People were coming out of their houses now to see how this wildfire in their back gardens had begun, and Dickie and I had seen enough. We retreated, not wanting to be held accountable for starting it.
We ran out of the field, down Brazil Street, and hid in our clubhouse. Worrying what was happening up there quickened our decision to go tell our parents. More than likely we would save our own backsides if we got ahead of the news. We went and told them that we had seen the blaze as we were coming down Brazil Street. Our parents phoned the fire hall.
As we started up the street with several adults, we saw that the fire trucks were just getting to the field. Of course, the ones who started it had scattered to their homes as soon as the fire got out of hand. People were now gathering at the top of Brazil Street as we reached the base of the hill.
But Dickie and I had another dilemma. Should we tell the firefighters or our parents that we knew who had started the fire? We didn’t know their names, but we knew they lived on Cabot Street. I’d seen one of them at our school and guessed he was a high school student. Simply put, we felt guilty.
To squeal or not to squeal? We didn’t see why we should start now, but we needed to speak to someone about what had happened. So, we decided to go—where else?—to confession. We knew that a priest had to keep our secrets to himself. Confessions at our church took place on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, so we went that Tuesday night after supper. It was no trouble getting out of the house on a school night if you said that you were going to confession. Our parents didn’t mind that at all. We just hoped we wouldn’t get stuck with Monsignor Murphy. He was strict when it came to penance, and we figured our penance for this would probably be one hundred Our Fathers and one hundred Hail Marys.
When we got to St. Patrick’s Church, we were dismayed to learn that Monsignor Murphy was indeed in the confessional. I told Dickie that I would go in, as I thought Monsignor and I were good buddies. He’d bawled me out many times after hearing my confessions, so what could he say to me now that I hadn’t already heard?
While I was waiting in line, I went over what I was going to say. I didn’t have long to think before it was my turn. Dickie gave me the thumb’s up for good luck. Once inside, I waited until the wicket opened.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” I began. “It has been one week since my last confession.”
“Yes, my son, and what do you have to tell me this evening?”
Okay, here goes, I thought, settling into the darkness and listening to Father’s heavy breathing on the other side of the wire mesh window.
“Father, I have a question to ask, if you don’t mind,” I said as calmly as I could.
“A question? Those who come into a confession usually tell their sins. Why are you not doing that?”
Father was starting to confuse me. I had to get to the point.
“I know, Father, but I really need to ask you something that may be a sin, and I can’t tell you mine if I don’t know if what I have to ask you is a sin.”
That sentence confused both him and me, I think. There was a long silence before he spoke again.
“Okay, son. Before I hear your confession, I will answer your question.”
I told him the story of the fire at Horses Field. Father listened intently. I could tell that he was waiting for the story to end so I could get to my question.
“So, you see, Father, my friend Dickie and I have a bit of a problem squealing on someone. There was no damage done, and it was in the middle of an open field, so do we tell on the boys or not? Also, those Cabot Street guys are pretty tough, and we would have to avoid them if they knew that we told on them.”
His answer actually made all my fears of going to confession—and of Monsignor Murphy himself—disappear. To this day, I have the greatest respect for him for the advice he gave to me that evening.
“Son, you do have a problem. On one hand, you want to tell your parents what happened in this field, and you want to tell on the boys who started the fire, which may bring punishment to you by your parents. On the other hand, if you do tell on them, you may have this group of boys from Cabot Street coming after you, and this may have a bad result. Am I correct?”
I nodded.
“Well, what do you think you should do?”
Oh, God. He had put it back on me. How did I know he would do that? I claimed innocence.
“I’m not really sure, Father. I hoped that you could advise me . . . eh, us, on that very thing.”
“Ah, okay. I think that you and your friend should talk it over with one another and look at both sides of this. One, you saw something happen that was wrong, and you both know that it was. Secondly, you have to ask yourselves, what if something had gone wrong with that fire and someone got injured? Would you and your friend be able to live with that? And third, if the crowd from Cabot Street come after you and your friend, then you can tell them that you have spoken to me about this, and you will give me their names and tell them I will go talk to their parents about what really did happen with the fire. Does that satisfy and help you?”
One hundred per cent, father! I felt like saying it out loud and giving him a hug, but I just said yes and thanked him. I left, thinking that, although he had shouted at me before in the confessional box, he was not such a bad guy. I was actually starting to like him!
When I told Dickie what Father had said, even he was impressed. We left St. Patrick’s Church and headed to our clubhouse in the back of Dickie’s garden for a conference. After a short while, we knew what we had to do.
We went to my dad and asked him if he’d heard anything about the fire in the field. He said there wasn’t anything new, and he heard the fi
remen didn’t have a clue how it had started. That was good enough for us.
When school started at Holy Cross on Monday, we searched the playground for any sign of the four boys who were at the fire. We couldn’t find them anywhere. But when we left the building, we saw one of them talking to some friends in the schoolyard by Patrick Street. We approached him and asked if we could talk to him.
“I was looking for you guys, too, and so were my friends. I was just asking these guys if they had seen you.” As he spoke, a few of his buddies entered the picture, and they had us both surrounded.
“It seems we forgot to tell you to keep your mouth shut, if you know what’s good for you. The police and fire department are looking for whoever started the fire, and I’m sure I don’t have to tell you twice to keep your big mouths shut. Savvy?”
Regardless how big they were, we didn’t like anyone telling us what to do. I looked at Dickie, and I knew I had to tell them that I had talked with Monsignor Murphy. Now, even tough guys like these didn’t want their fathers or mothers to know that a priest was involved in what they had done. They’d sooner face the police and firefighters than have a priest come to their homes.
“Listen, my buddy. I don’t like being threatened. You want to go later, then try me first. Just you and me, later on, when you’re alone. Anyway, I will let you know that we won’t squeal on you. We’re not like that. But if you ever threaten me or my friend, we will chat with Monsignor Murphy again. We already did, about what happened. And he will take it from there and go see your parents about the fire. So, if you stay away from us, we will stay away from you, and we will keep your little secret.”
Silence. He conferred with his pals for a moment before coming back over. He looked at Dickie.
“You guys are lucky that we don’t hold grudges. So let’s just drop it and forget this ever happened. Okay?”
We both nodded, and they were on their way.
After they left, Dickie said he still didn’t trust those guys. But we were satisfied. We figured they could get us one way or another down the road, but if they did we would go back and chat with my new-found buddy, Monsignor Murphy.
We let it go. No harm was done, and no one got hurt. Though we should have told someone in authority, we chose not to. The guys from Cabot Street never did bother us again. And we never lit another fire, even on Guy Fawkes’ Night.
Fort Pepperrell: Another Assignment
When some people talk of the Americans who were here from the 1940s to the 1960s, they say the “Yanks” were pompous and full of themselves. But the Americans that Dickie and I knew were far from that. Actually, we found them to be kind. Many of the Newfoundlanders who worked for them would agree. Some are divided in their opinions of the Americans, but I would fully disagree with anyone who spoke badly of them.
The main complaint Newfoundlanders had was that the Americans were always chasing their women, whether it was those who worked for them on the base or the women they met at dances or nightclubs. After all, the Americans were charming. They had plenty of charisma, and they loved to party. Newfoundland women were enthralled by them, and it caused many a fight with their counterparts from this province.
During our time running errands for the Americans at Fort Pepperrell, not once did an American raise his voice to us. We always took them as courteous, easygoing, and genuinely interested in us. Many, if not all, were well-educated.
When we were hungry or looking to run a message, we always headed down to Fort Pepperrell, across from Quidi Vidi Lake, to see if we could do something for the Yanks in order to earn a meal or make extra money. Dickie and I rarely left the base empty-handed. At the very least, the American servicemen and servicewomen always had a snack for us, even if we hadn’t done anything to earn it.
Even my dad, who travelled with these men and women when they travelled on the Canadian National Railways’ “Newfie Bullet” or Caribou, said they were polite—and big tippers! They always answered with a “yes, sir” or “no, sir” when asked a question by the railway employees. Dad said they were class acts.
We had nicknames for all of these men, but we never uttered them while in their presence. To do so would have been disrespectful. Though we joked about some of their habits, we knew not to bite the hand that fed us. Strangely, they showed more respect for the people in Newfoundland than the townies or baymen showed them.
Another thing we noticed: they loved their flag! The stars-and-stripes was a symbol of freedom to them, and it flew everywhere on the base at Fort Pepperrell. We saw it on the buildings, in the mess hall, and when we entered the base from the Boulevard and the Bally Haly Road entrance. Every soldier who walked by a flagpole saluted it.
In the course of doing favours for their men and women, we met two lady officers who would feed us at the mess hall where all the soldiers ate their meals. Both women were very kind to us. We nicknamed one of them Corporal Cook because she was a corporal and also a cook. We found out later her name was Corporal Harrison. She worked with another lady, a Corporal Jesperson, who also worked in the mess hall. We carried messages for both of them for food or coin. They baked the best pies, especially blueberry!
We wondered how we had gotten onto the base so easily, but we didn’t give it too much thought. After all, we were just kids and not a security threat. We started going down there when we were about seven or eight years old, and we continued until they left in 1961, when we were young teenagers. There was never a dull moment there.
Corporal Harrison would tell us stories about her hometown in Ohio. We were fascinated by these tales of far-off places. The stories took Dickie and me to another world we had never known. We were pirates going into a strange land. Captains of our own ships. These people were so interesting!
One summer’s day, we decided to head to Pepperrell to see what we could muster up in business. We could make more money in a day dealing with the Americans than by doing a few odd jobs around town. When we arrived at the mess hall, we met Corporal Andrews, a man we also did messages for, and he sent us over to Corporal Jesperson to do an errand. While there, we found out that Corporal Harrison’s mother had passed away and she had gone home on leave for a few weeks. We felt bad for, so we asked Corporal Jesperson if we could do anything for her when she got back from Ohio.
“You guys think of something to do for her. After what she is going through, I’m sure she will appreciate anything that you can do.”
For days Dickie and I racked our brains trying to decide what to do. We were young, and we didn’t know how to process death as adults did. As far as we knew, it was as simple as going away to see God. We had no real idea what this lady was going through.
We had stashed away a few dollars for emergencies, and surely this was an emergency! But figuring out what to do with it to show this lady that we appreciated what she had done for us was a real problem. We ended up roaming Water Street in search of something that we could purchase for her.
At the Bowring Brothers store, we spoke to a saleslady behind a counter.
“Miss, we have a lady friend at the base in Fort Pepperrell who has gone away, and we want to get something for her when she comes back.”
“That’s very nice of you boys. So, what size is she?”
Dickie and I had never blushed so much in our lives!
“Size, ma’am? What do you mean?”
She put her hand over her mouth to suppress a smile.
“It may not be what you guys were thinking. I meant size in a sweater, coat, or shoes.”
“Yes, ma’am. She has been very nice to us,” I said.
“Well, we have some nice sweaters that I am sure she will really like. Do you know what size sweater she wears?”
We told her we didn’t know. Corporal Harrison was tiny, like the lady serving us, so that’s what we told her. That didn’t draw any more questions abo
ut size. She proceeded to tell us the price of the purple mohair sweater she had in mind. We thought $4.75 was expensive for a sweater, but it looked really nice. The saleslady began to wrap it up.
“Now, if it doesn’t fit her, save the receipt and bring it back to the store. But if you do that, make sure you do ask her what size she wears.”
We thanked the lady for her help and headed home to store our gift until the weekend, when we would visit the base again. It was a lot of money to pay for a gift, and it was the most we had ever spent on anyone but our own mothers, but we didn’t care. We were very fond of Corporal Harrison.
That week in school went by slowly. After dinner on Sunday, we made our way back to Fort Pepperrell, hoping that Corporal Harrison had returned from Ohio. We made our rounds of the base and headed to the mess hall. Soon we met up with Corporal Jesperson and asked about the lady in question. She saw the wrapped package in our hands and went to get Corporal Harrison.
When Corporal Harrison stood in front of us, we passed her the package.
“We heard about your mom and wanted you to have this,” I said. “We are really sorry.”
She took the parcel from us and began to unwrap it. When she saw what it was, she looked up in astonishment, tears welling up in her eyes. She didn’t cry, though, and we didn’t want her to. A few seconds of silence followed, and then she hugged me and Dickie, thanking us with a huge smile on her face. To us it was just a gift, but her reaction told us that it meant more than that to a lady.
We were sure that word of what we had done had spread to other parts of the base. A few days later, when we delivered a message from Corporal Harrison to another part of Pepperrell, we were given an American ten-dollar bill for our service! It was worth a lot more than we had paid for the sweater. What a great bunch of people the Yanks were! As I think back on those men and women from the United States, I wonder if some of them are still alive today and where they are living.