Now that they were on the European leg of their tour, Boucher and Watson had just two weeks left to get this team of players they had thrown together to jell into a cohesive unit. They had six exhibition games lined up before they were to hit the ice at the Olympic Games. All crucial coaching decisions from now on were Frank’s alone to make. The exhibition games would not only help him whip the boys into shape but also provide a window for him to test lines and figure out which players he would ultimately be calling on to lace up in St. Moritz.
Late afternoon on Friday, January 16, less than thirty-six hours after they had arrived in England, the Flyers boarded the bus and headed out into the ever-present London fog. The dimly lit streets of London were under an energy-conserving blackout, and that, coupled with the fog, made for a rather bleak and dreary drive. Their destination was Streatham rink to play against one of the best teams in the English National League. Most of the guys playing for Streatham were Canadians who had hung around after the war. It was well into the season in the European league, and the Streatham boys were already playing like a finely tuned machine.
The rink itself was larger than the ice surfaces the Flyers were used to playing on back home. They made their way up two flights of stairs and down a long carpeted hallway to their dressing room. After a pep talk and some reminders from Coach Boucher about the European rules of play, the boys were ready to hit the ice. For Murray Dowey it was his first shot to show Frank, Sandy, and the rest of the guys what he was made of. Only George Mara and Wally Halder had seen him play before.
Customarily as the goalie, whenever Murray played a game he had always been the first one to step out onto the ice with the puck. Then he’d throw it down and hit it with his stick as the rest of the players flew out onto the ice and fired warm-up shots at him before the initial puck drop. It was what all the other teams he had ever played on did. It was a sign of respect to have the goalie be the first man on your team to hit the ice. He was the one willing to take to the net and have guys fire pucks at his face. Quite simply, that was just how it was done.
But tonight, when Boucher told the guys to head for the ice, they all jumped up, bolted off, and left Murray sitting there all by himself. Sporting his thick pads and heavy gear, he was the last man out of the dressing room. He hobbled down the carpeted hallway and tried to catch up to the rest of the guys, mumbling to himself and thinking, What the heck is going on? What kind of an outfit is this? Clearly he was going to have to earn his new teammates’ respect.
The Flyers hit the ice with guns blazing. Ted Hibberd and Wally Halder both banged in quick goals during the first period. The Streatham attackers tried to answer back, peppering Dowey with a barrage of shots, but Dowey was solid in between the pipes and stopped every blast the Streatham boys fired at him.
By the end of the first period, the Flyers were up 2–0. During intermission back in the carpeted dressing room, the boys congratulated Murray on his fine play. Just before they were about to head out for the second period, one of the guys yelled, “OK, Dowey, let’s go!” Murray had passed muster. Up he went as the first man out of the dressing room. Buoyed by his new teammates’ acceptance, he slid in between the posts for the second period and continued his rock-solid performance, catching shot after shot.
A few costly Flyers penalties allowed Streatham to tie the score. Midway through the second period, Wally Halder bagged his second goal of the evening. Shortly thereafter young Red Gravelle fired off a hard shot that beat Streatham’s Canadian-born netminder. When winger Hubert Brooks worked his way in front of Streatham’s net, he got slammed into the goalpost and popped a tooth. The Flyers battled to protect their lead, but fatigue set in. They faded in the final ten minutes of play and barely held on. Murray Dowey’s sterling play in net kept them from totally folding, and they squeaked out a 5–5 tie.
Boucher and Watson were far from elated, but they weren’t too surprised by the team’s performance either. In the post-game newspaper scrum, Frank Boucher told reporters: “It was only a fair show, but we will do better when we shake our sea legs.”
Still cast as the underdogs, the mysterious Canadians had a secret weapon in their arsenal. A secret weapon that even Frank and Sandy couldn’t fully appreciate yet. The underdog of all underdogs: lithe, nimble Murray Dowey.
MURRAY WAS JUST THIRTEEN WHEN WORLD War II broke out in 1939. By 1944, when he was finally of age, he wanted to sign up and do his bit. His father had fought in World War I, and Murray was keen to prove that he too had something to contribute to his country. A friend who was associated with the Toronto Maple Leafs suggested Murray try for the navy, since it might give him a chance to get out to the East Coast to play some hockey. Murray wasn’t too particular about what branch of the military he joined; he just wanted to offer his services and participate in the war effort.
He made his way down to Fort York, where doctors examined him and ran him through a battery of tests. He was 145 pounds dripping wet. He was slim, had hay fever and respiratory problems, and was asthmatic. When it was all said and done, the navy doctors outright rejected him. “No way, son. You’re not going to be a sailor.” Murray took it in stride, walked out the door, and figured he might as well try for the army. He was itching to be a paratrooper, but given that the navy had just rejected him, he assumed the army probably would as well. Nonetheless it was worth a shot.
The army doctors ran Murray through a full physical and a similar series of tests. Then a doctor pointed to a small piece of lead hanging from a rope in the ceiling. Murray had no idea why the small chunk of metal was hanging there. As the doctor pointed up, he said to Murray, “You see that string and lead? That’s the only lead you can swing here, buddy.” Dejected, Murray was putting his shirt back on and was about to make his way for the door when the doctor said, “You’re in.” Although there was no way he was fit enough to be a paratrooper, Murray Dowey had been accepted into the army fold. He couldn’t believe they had a place for him, and he was ecstatic.
The army put him on a train and shipped him up to a base for processing. It was a scorching hot day in the middle of August 1944. As he rumbled along the tracks, Murray had no clue where he was going or what he was getting himself into. All he knew was that he had this huge kit bag filled with heavy equipment, and the train rolled to a stop at a training camp in Brantford. In a flash he and all the other new recruits were out on the parade square standing at attention when the regimental sergeant major suddenly barked out, “Private Dowey!” Startled, Murray’s mind began reeling as he thought, Oh, boy, what have I done now? The regimental sergeant major was a lumbering hulk of a man. He came straight up to Murray’s face, glowered at him, and said, “Come with me. The colonel wants to see you.” He marched Murray into the colonel’s office. As Dowey stood at attention in front of the desk, the colonel looked down at Murray’s paperwork and said, “I understand you’re a ballplayer.” Murray replied, “Yes, sir, I am.” The colonel ordered, “We’re playing Newmarket this afternoon at 3:00 p.m. I expect a win. Dismissed.” And that was it.
Murray had never imagined that his ball-playing abilities would serve a purpose in his military life. But he would not be the first or last man in the service to spend most of his days pitching or skating or dribbling a ball.
The role of sport in the military goes back centuries and continues to this day. They might not be fighting in the air or in the trenches, but organized sports teams contribute to the armed services by creating and boosting morale and cohesiveness within the military units. Athletics are a part of basic training and improve physical fitness. And sports teams not only provide men and women with something to do in addition to military duties, but during times of war, they also give troops relief from the tensions of armed conflict. Sports help create bragging rights, and they bolster competition from unit to unit and branch to branch. A night out to catch a game of army versus air force on the base or at the local hockey rink also provides great relief and entertainment for other service per
sonnel.
When Murray hit the mound that afternoon, he pitched a great game against Newmarket and his team won. For the next two years he was stationed at Brantford, where he ended up playing baseball for his unit. The sickly, asthmatic kid from the Beaches who had impaired vision in one of his eyes excelled as a pitcher for his army squad in both fastball and hardball. He ate everything and did everything. Miraculously, the boy who never made it through a week of school because of allergies or illness never got sick in the army. In fact, it was the healthiest two years of his life.
Murray was not only a dynamo for the army in baseball but also a star goalie for his hockey team on the base. He was willing to fight overseas in whatever branch to do his bit for the war, but this is where he landed and where his superiors figured he was of best use. Twice a week during the winter months, he and the other army boys on the hockey team piled into an open-roof truck and headed over to London or North Bay or Hamilton for a night game to boost morale. The next day he was back in an office performing his military duties. Because he had fast hands and was adept at typing and shorthand, he was made a stenographer and put in the steno pool. That’s how Murray Dowey, the underdog, rode out the war: either behind a desk in the orderly room or out on the baseball field and in the hockey rinks entertaining troops.
ON SATURDAY, JANUARY 17, 1948, MURRAY and the rest of the RCAF Flyers got to play tourists for a night. They pulled on their parkas and ventured out into the driving London rain to take the Tube and catch a game at Wembley Arena between the Wembley Monarchs and Streatham. For guys like Patsy Guzzo, Murray Dowey, and André Laperrière, a ride on the subway was the first in a lifetime.
When they got to Wembley Arena they were treated to a feast for the eyes. The rink was a lavish establishment, designed for maximum enjoyment. There were no pillars or posts to obstruct the sightlines for fans. Aside from the regular seating, which was in itself quite special, there was a glassed-in VIP section. Here fans could sit down at a table, order themselves a thick, juicy steak and a fine drink, and tuck into their A1 meal, enjoying the game in style. While the boys sat in the regular seats, Sandy and Bunny Ahearne were in the luxurious VIP section. A full orchestra played music throughout the game, and the arena even had its own resident cartoonist. Periodically, the artist drew game statistics, coming attractions, and caricatures of the players, which were then projected onto a giant screen at one end of the rink. It was quite the spectacle, and the boys had an entertaining and relaxing night out.
Playing spectators for the night also gave them the opportunity to witness some of the European rules in action. They saw that there was no icing regardless of the number of men on the ice. When a player finished serving a penalty, he had to skate back to his own blue line before re-entering the game. It was also quite obvious that bodychecking was severely restricted.
After the game the boys were treated to sandwiches and tea, and they grabbed a quick sightseeing tour from the top of a double-decker bus. Then it was back on the Tube to grab some sleep in the frigid rooms of the Crofton Hotel.
Next stop en route to Switzerland and the Olympics was France for an exhibition match against Le Club Racing de Paris. For the duration of the tour, Sandy Watson carried around a small leather briefcase chock full of the team’s cash. It was their $5,000 bankroll courtesy of Tommy Gorman and their cut from the receipts of Olympic Night. Back in Ottawa Sandy had told the boys that the safety of his briefcase was the responsibility of the entire team. If he happened to forget it somewhere, he wanted the other nineteen sets of eyeballs on it or they would all be left high and dry. The night before the boys left for France, Sandy waltzed out of a restaurant and forgot his bag on a chair. A quick-thinking Patsy Guzzo spotted Sandy’s empty hands. He raced back in and grabbed the bag before any stranger had a chance to take off with the team’s entire travel fund.
The Flyers left London for Paris in style, aboard a Viking twin-engine airplane named Violet. For veteran airmen like Brooks, Forbes, and Dunster it was comforting to slip back into the clouds and travel by air. When they landed, the players were whisked off to Paris City Hall for a champagne reception and meeting with Mayor Pierre de Gaulle, brother of the famous Charles. Later in the afternoon, they posed for pictures for the press machine and enjoyed a few seconds of celebrity status as Pierre de Gaulle presented them with the keys to the city.
With city hall in the rear-view mirror, they bused past the Arc de Triomphe and the Eiffel Tower to their lodgings. Once again, the high-flying Olympic hopefuls found that Bunny Ahearne had them shacking up in the lowest of the low. The Victoria Hotel was located in the student quarter of the city and looked presentable from the outside. But when the boys got inside they were introduced to a whole other world. No heat, stinky rooms, and grotty beds. Ahearne had arranged for the lads to eat their meals at a nearby restaurant. Just like at the Crofton, the culinary choices offered to the Flyers left much to be desired. The main course for dinner was horsemeat. Sandy threw a fit and demanded some proper food. When the waiter brought him eggs as a substitute, Sandy was convinced they were in fact ducks’ eggs, and he refused to eat a bite.
A day after they arrived in France the Flyers faced off against the strongest hockey team in Europe, Le Club Racing de Paris. Once again, their pre-game meal was horsemeat. And once again, their opponents were virtually all top-notch Canadian professional players who were moonlighting in France. Le Club Racing de Paris had not lost a game in nearly a year and a half.
As darkness fell over the massive Palais des Sports, Canada’s reputation as a hockey powerhouse brought out spectators by the boatload. Sixteen thousand Parisians scrambled into the streets and jammed the subways hoping to witness their “French” pros whip the mighty Canadians. Although the puck drop was set for 9:00 p.m., the game was delayed by more than an hour because the subway simply could not cope with all the people rushing to the arena.
As the boys waited in their carpeted dressing room at one end of the rink, the noisy crowd flooded into and packed the arena. Just before the match, Le Club de Racing’s brass came over and talked to Sandy about making sure the Flyers played a clean game, this being an exhibition match and all. But from the puck drop, the Paris club proceeded to do everything but chop the Flyers’ heads off. Patsy Guzzo got smashed in the face with an elbow and came off with a beautiful shiner. Ab Renaud got clipped by a high stick and was awarded with a juicy cut over his eye. And Roy Forbes got a nasty slash in the face that opened up a big gash. While Frank Boucher was busy on the bench barking orders and tweaking lines to deal with the assault, Dr. Sandy Watson and trainer George McFaul were stitching and sewing up the boys’ faces.
Although battered and bruised, the Flyers were up 1–0 by the end of the first period. In the early half of the second period they continued to pour on the pressure and leapt ahead 3–0 when Wally Halder and Reg Schroeter slammed in a couple of nifty goals. Then the wheels started to fall off. The Flyers made a few boneheaded defensive plays, and the Racers pounced and beat Murray Dowey with two quick goals. The Paris club clamoured back into contention, slashing and bashing. Tempers flared and a mittful of penalties were handed out as the players mixed it up.
About midway through the game, Hubert Brooks vaulted over the boards and tore across the ice on a mission. He lined up one of the Frenchmen and laced him with a vicious bodycheck that sent his opponent flying over the boards face first. The referee stopped the game and threw Brooks off the ice with a game misconduct. In the final period the Flyers simply ran out of gas. They went down 5–3 in front of the massive crowd of sixteen thousand spectators.
Sandy Watson was gutted. The Canadian success he had imagined was not materializing. Despite all the last-minute changes made in Canada, Coach Frank Boucher was also left wondering whether his team could get it in gear to compete at the Olympics, or whether they would be bowled over by the stiff competition. With the Olympic Winter Games just a week away, newspaper reporters for the Canadian Press were harbouring even b
leaker thoughts. On January 22, CP reporter Jack Sullivan outlined his predictions in black and white for all to see. Czechoslovakia was favoured to snag first place, Sweden was pegged for second, and Switzerland was slated for third. Canada’s RCAF Flyers were not even seen as contenders. They were counted out by the oddsmakers and considered an also-ran.
But the men on the RCAF Flyers, like bomb aimer Roy Forbes, weren’t about to be rattled by some bad press and a few losses on the road to the Olympics. They still had a full week of practices and exhibition games to work themselves into winning shape. This was just hockey. It was a game. These were men who had overcome countless life-and-death situations. These were men who had survived some of the darkest days of World War II and come out on top.
Elsie Forbes gives her son Roy his wings.
Gary Forbes
ON THE RUN
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At 22:20 on June 12, 1944, Roy Forbes sidled up beside his pilot and friend “Root” Lacey as Root steered their Lancaster bomber down the runway at Middleton, St. George. Roy liked to sit up front while the engines roared and the massive bomber pulled away from the earth and took to the skies. Once they were well on their way, Roy made his way down to his bomb aimer’s bay and lay in position so he could spot for the navigator, watch for night fighters, and prep for his bomb drop. This was their twelfth mission together. Lacey and Forbes were both prairie boys and had become fast friends and drinking buddies from the day they met, when they shared a Quonset hut in flight school many months before. Like Roy, Root was a farm boy, but he was a lot bigger than Roy, and he whipped the Lanc around like it was nobody’s business. When it was time to pick their crewmates, Roy and Root found a couple of likeable farm boys from Dauphin, Manitoba, to be their gunners. Their flight engineer was a Brit. Everyone else was Canadian.
Against All Odds Page 13