Against All Odds

by P. J. Naworynski

  On the ice in St. Moritz mere moments after victory.

  Tom Schroeter

  DEDICATION

  For the boys in blue:

  Manager Dr. “Sandy” Watson

  Coach Frank Boucher

  Trainer George McFaul

  Hubert Brooks

  Murray Dowey

  Frank Dunster

  Roy Forbes

  Andy Gilpin

  “Red” Gravelle

  Patsy Guzzo

  Wally Halder

  Ted Hibberd

  Ross King

  André Laperrière

  Louis Lecompte

  Pete Leichnitz

  George Mara

  Ab Renaud

  Reg Schroeter

  Irving Taylor

  and all the boys who answered the call

  without hesitation time and time again.

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part One: Operation Olympics

  1. Ottawa

  2. The Games

  3. The Boys in Blue

  4. Olympic Night

  5. Calling in the Big Guns

  Part Two: Canada’s Mystery Team

  6. Europe Bound

  7. Into the Fire

  8. Freedom Fighters

  9. Ramping Up in Exhibition

  10. On the Run

  11. Tuning Up in Europe

  Part Three: Showtime

  12. Let the Games Begin

  13. In the Thick of It

  14. The Mighty Czechs

  Part Four: Per Ardua Ad Astra (Through Adversity to the Stars)

  15. The Quest for Gold

  16. The Long Road Home

  17. Olympic Champions

  Acknowledgements

  Notes

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  The captains of the clouds about to take off for Switzerland.

  Ralf Brooks

  PROLOGUE

  00

  A few years ago, I was invited to write and direct a documentary about a 1948 Canadian hockey team. I played hockey as a kid. And like just about every other kid on our street in North Toronto, I had aspirations of hockey greatness and idolized the legends of my era—Bobby Clarke, Bobby Orr, Darryl Sittler, Raymond Bourque, Wayne Gretzky. But the RCAF Flyers hockey team? I had never heard of them. I had no idea who they were or what they had accomplished.

  There were three surviving members of the team who were able to speak with me when I first dove into the research. Defenceman André Laperrière was in a palliative care unit in Montreal, his once hulking six-foot-two frame now withered by the ravages of bone cancer. Goalie Murray Dowey was doing well, living on his own in a tidy high-rise apartment in the west end of Toronto, and defenceman Roy Forbes was still firing on all cylinders in a trailer about a hundred feet from where his son Gary and his daughter-in-law Julie lived just outside Kelowna. All the other men once involved with the team were now gone, or in such a state that it was not possible for me to meet with them.

  When Gary Forbes ushered me into his father’s small trailer that first winter day, Roy was in his favourite lounge chair watching curling. His oxygen tank was at his side; his mackinaw shirt, a bit too large for him now, was hanging loosely on his wiry frame. Still sporting a good head of silvery hair, Roy had on a pair of booties to fend off an icy chill and keep his feet warm. At ninety-four he insisted on getting up to shake my hand before inviting me to sit in a lounger beside him. Although he was a little stiff in the hips, he could reach down and scratch the back of the stray cat that had just made its way into the house. Roy had cut into his screen window so the stray could come and go at will. It visited often, seeking warmth, a free meal, and a cozy spot at Roy’s feet.

  With some help from his son Gary, Roy started telling me about his time in the war as a bomb aimer, about being shot out of his “flaming buggy” at a thousand feet, living on the run in France, his love of hockey, his trip to the Olympics, and his early days in Rorketon, Manitoba, as his parents desperately tried to scratch out an existence in the midst of the Depression. At times, Roy would drift off, at a loss for words or just plain fatigued—frustrated that his body and mind, once so strong and acute, were now failing him. I was transfixed by his story and that of the sixteen teammates who came together to form a team of warriors that handily took down the world’s best on the ice at St. Moritz, Switzerland.

  I had no idea that Canada’s 1948 Olympic hockey team was made up of men who had jumped from burning bombers over the skies of Germany during World War II, or who had lived off the land as escaped prisoners of war, hiding in the hills of the Carpathian Mountains. Nor had I known that a member of that crew had joined forces with the Polish resistance and liquidated Gestapo agents. I was amazed to learn that many of the men had grown up playing shinny using frozen balls of horse manure for pucks on windblown, frozen ponds. As I listened to the stories, spoke to family members of those who had already passed, and scoured old newspapers and diaries, I learned that these men—cut from a different cloth, raised in the Depression era, and fused in the fires of World War II—had achieved something most thought was impossible by capturing hockey gold.

  Hailed by the media and the nation as champions, they were promptly forgotten not long after their return home to Canada. Roy’s gold medal now sits safely in its original box, a few feet from his lounger on the mantelpiece beside photos of his family and himself in younger days. Murray’s gold medal is proudly mounted and displayed in a glass case on the wall alongside framed hockey jerseys and baseball awards that his sons have prepared for him as gifts. André’s medal is in a wooden box he crafted himself and in the care of his sister, Renée. The adventures of these unlikely and unsung heroes astounded and inspired me. I hope you will find their stories and lives just as fascinating as I do.

  PART ONE

  Operation Olympics

  The Flyers returning to their hotel in a blizzard.

  Ralf Brooks

  Selection Coach Buck Boucher on familiar ground with his son, Coach Frank Boucher.

  Diane Boyce

  OTTAWA

  01

  On Monday, October 20, 1947, the midday temperature in downtown Ottawa rose to a balmy seventy-three degrees Fahrenheit, or twenty-three degrees Celsius. It was a beautiful fall day, with clear skies and light winds.

  At the corner of Argyle and O’Connor Streets, the Ottawa Auditorium was getting even hotter as dozens of hockey players raced along the ice in the midst of a rapid-fire tryout session. Built in the early 1920s, the auditorium was state of the art for its time. Traditionally home to the Ottawa Senators of the Quebec Senior Hockey League, it also sported a massive stage that could be assembled at one end of the arena, facing the length of the ice, for concerts, performances, and assemblies. With seventy-five hundred seats, it had a total capacity of ten thousand spectators including standing room. But today, the men who were careening around the impressive arena were skating for the eyes of just three men: NHL hockey legend George “Buck” Boucher; his son, Royal Canadian Air Force sergeant Frank Boucher; and the chief medical officer of the RCAF, Dr. Alexander “Sandy” Watson.

  The men in this ragtag group being put through a series of drills and exercises under the watchful gaze of the Bouchers and Dr. Watson had never played together before. They came from all corners of the country, and none of them had ever been paid a nickel to play hockey in their lives. Most were in their late twenties to early thirties. They all had two key things in common: every one of them was an amateur, and every one of them was an active member in the Royal Canadian Air Force.

  Sporting his trademark fedora and overcoat, Buck
glided among the men on the ice and began running lines, pitting man against man. As selection coach, his mission was to separate the wheat from the chaff of the air force personnel who had been called in from service stations across Canada to compete for a spot on an all–air force hockey team. The Bouchers and Watson were facing a daunting task: in less than three months, the men chosen for the team would be lacing up in St. Moritz, Switzerland, to represent Canada at the first Winter Olympics in twelve years.

  Ottawa Citizen sports editor Tommy Shields expressed concern over the soundness of sending these airmen as representatives of Canada’s international hockey prowess. In his hockey column Round and About, he wrote: “Time will tell just how good this RCAF team will be. . . . A first class team should go, or none at all.” Jack Koffman joined the chorus of sportswriters questioning the rationale of this last-minute quest, fearing that a team made up of only air force men would be a national embarrassment, doomed to failure. On October 16, 1947, in his column Along Sport Row, Koffman wrote: “Whether the Air Force can collect a team formidable enough to trim some of the highly-regarded European Olympic representatives is another question.”

  No one would argue that these men were the best hockey players Canada had to offer. Our talent pool of exceptional hockey players had always run deep. But the men trying out for the squad that day shared a common bond and a shared experience born in the fires of battle. Some had been shot down in flames over enemy territory, and some had stared death in the face while escaping from prisoner of war (POW) camps and fighting with the various underground forces—all had beaten nearly impossible odds of making it through World War II. United, they were infused with a conviction that if given the chance they could prove themselves on the world stage again, only this time on the ice.

  For this “band of brothers,” the unlikely quest for Olympic gold would come to symbolize everything Canada had endured during the war and everything the country was poised to become. There were still weeks of tryouts and exhibition games to cull the hundreds of men being invited to see if they had what it took to gain a coveted spot on the team. Even if the public and the media were not behind them, one thing was certain: come hell or high water, a squad of players from the Royal Canadian Air Force would be representing Canada on the ice in St. Moritz when the Olympics started in January.

  But just a few weeks earlier, there had seemed no hope of sending any Canadian hockey team to the Olympics. In the summer of 1947, the International Olympic Committee dropped a bombshell, imposing strict new guidelines on what was considered suitable “amateur” status for Olympic competition. Under the new IOC rules, any player who had ever received any material benefit, either directly or indirectly, from pursuit of the sport would be deemed ineligible to compete. Normally, the top men’s senior hockey team that claimed the Allan Cup the year before the Olympics would get the invitation from the Canadian Amateur Hockey Association to represent Canada at the upcoming Games. From 1920 on, this was how Canada had selected its Olympic hockey representatives. This new definition of what constituted an “amateur player,” however, ruled out the customary Allan Cup–winning teams as competitors.

  The players on the senior teams were not professionals. They held down day jobs to support themselves, but many of the men also received a stipend from their teams for playing. Under the new definition, amateurs on those teams could not in good conscience sign the new Olympic declaration vowing that they had never received gratuities in any form while playing hockey. The impact of the new “amateur” ruling on a potential Canadian hockey entry at the upcoming Olympics churned up a maelstrom of reaction across the country.

  “Preposterous, fiction, not possible, a farce” were the thoughts rattling through the minds and off the pens of many in the press and from within Canada’s hockey elite. Frank Selke, general manager of the Montreal Canadiens and the Allan Cup–winning Montreal Royals, commented: “Olympic hockey is now a fiasco as a result of phony amateurism which has spotted the harmful hypocrisy [that] has made it impossible for Canada to send a top notch hockey team to the Olympics.” Ottawa Citizen sportswriter Jack Koffman added: “To get a civilian team capable of meeting Olympic standards, you would probably have to dig into the juvenile or midget ranks.”

  So late that summer, faced with the new IOC rules, the Canadian Amateur Hockey Association folded its arms and announced that Canada would not be sending an Olympic hockey team to the upcoming Winter Games in St. Moritz. The barrage of newspaper articles announcing the CAHA’s landmark decision caused outrage in towns and cities across the country. The decision not to field a team also incensed many in the upper echelons of the Canadian government as well as Canadian Olympic Association brass. Even the Prime Minister’s Office was flooded with letters from citizens outraged at the thought of not having Canadian players on the ice at the Olympics. Hockey was considered as much a part of our essence and national fibre as the maple leaf. It was seen as an intrinsic part of our national identity, a cornerstone of our heritage, and a great source of our national pride. Heck, many think we basically invented the sport.

  Not only was hockey a popular symbol of who we were as a nation, but Canada had just proven itself soundly on the world stage in World War II. For many Canadians, shying away from the international spotlight at the Olympics seemed like a preposterous move and a missed opportunity to again showcase our global dominance in the sport we helped introduce to the world.

  Canada had emerged from World War II economically invigorated and brimming with a great sense of confidence, self-assurance, pride, and optimism. Although we lost forty-three thousand men and women to the war effort and quadrupled our national debt, what we achieved between 1939 and 1945 was astounding. With a population of just twelve million, Canada had made a massive contribution of people and resources to the Allied war effort. We were now seen as a military superpower, home to the third-largest navy and the fourth-largest air force, and one of the few countries that had emerged from the war with a sizeable, functioning economy. We had been spared the physical destruction of war, our economy at home had been expertly managed, and we had moved to another level in the eyes of the world.

  In these heady times, Canadians developed a fierce sense of nationalism. Up until 1947, “Canadians” were considered British subjects living in Canada, and for many, this lack of national recognition and actual citizenship stung.

  After visiting a cemetery at Dieppe and seeing all the fallen Canadian soldiers listed as “British subjects,” Liberal cabinet minister Paul Martin Sr. had dreamt up the Canadian Citizenship Act, giving the country the power to grant Canadian rather than British citizenship.

  Introducing the bill in the House, Martin said, “For the national unity of Canada and for the future greatness of this country it is felt to be of utmost importance that all of us, new Canadians or old, have a consciousness of a common purpose and common interests as Canadians; that all of us are able to say with pride and say with meaning: ‘I am a Canadian citizen.’” On January 1, 1947, the Canadian Citizenship Act came into effect, and Canada became the first Commonwealth country to create its own citizenship separate from Great Britain.

  We were now being seen as an emerging world leader in the midst of throwing off the shackles of Britain. Yet here we were in the fall of 1947, at the first Winter Olympics since before the war, about to shy away from competing in the game we pioneered.

  It was in this environment, on September 8, 1947, that one man decided to take it upon himself to strike up the charge and find a team for the nation.

  Twenty-nine-year-old Dr. Alexander “Sandy” Watson was sitting in his office in a war-era temporary wooden building when he grabbed his copy of the Ottawa Journal and nearly hit the roof. There in front of him in black and white he spotted the CP news headline: “Olympic Hockey without Canada?” The story went on to report that “Canada, traditionally the world’s greatest producer of hockey talent, appears destined for a spectator role when the Olympic hockey championship
s are held at St. Moritz next February.”

  Sandy was so offended by what he read that morning that he immediately dreamt up a plan to pull together an amateur team to represent Canada on the ice. But he had to move fast. The Olympic entry deadline was in just two days.

  Fortunately, as chief medical officer of the air force, he was perfectly positioned to do something about it. With an active roster of sixteen thousand men still strong in the air force and thousands more in the reserves, Watson was convinced there were enough amateur hockey players to ice a good team. But first he had to fly his idea past the Canadian Amateur Hockey Association to see if they’d OK an RCAF team. Next, he had to get it approved by his air force supervisors. Then he had to pull it all together somehow.

  AT SIX FOOT TWO, SANDY WATSON was a big man with a weakness for jujubes and sophisticated chocolate. Some said he’d never turn down a jujube no matter how stale it was. Born in Scotland and raised by Lake Erie in Port Dover, Ontario, Sandy wasn’t a gifted hockey player as a child, despite his size. But what he lacked in terms of raw talent on the ice, he more than made up for with his steely will, rabid determination, and absolute passion for the sport.

  Watson joined the RCAF in December 1944 as a flight lieutenant and a general duty medical officer. While serving overseas at the RCAF headquarters’ medical branch in London, he seized upon an opportunity to be the doctor of the RCAF’s hockey team. The team played against army teams and local English teams while men were waiting to be repatriated after the war. It was this experience that revealed to him that his skill set suited him far better as a manager than a player.

  For most, pulling together an Olympic-caliber hockey team from scratch in a matter of months would seem like a Herculean task, but Watson was a real go-getter. He wasn’t exactly a powerhouse on skates, but he could wield a phone and a pen like nobody else. What’s more, Watson rarely took no for an answer. Persistent and confident, he was seen by those who worked with him as a force who ruled with an iron fist. He didn’t suffer fools, and he could be authoritarian when he needed to be.