Volunteers were activated from the NPAM into full-time service for the war, and into active service. Ex-NPAM officers and veterans from the first war shuffled through the prospects at a thousand camps and barracks throughout the country. The solution, and the best anyone could do, was to assemble them in one place and ship them out of the country. They herded and shipped the 1st Division to Britain, where they had to be completely re-uniformed and re-equipped. Other units were hurried to Newfoundland and Bermuda then scattered along the coast. Germany was the ally of the Soviet Union—and the latter, after digesting the Baltic States and half of Poland, was attacking Finland. No one knew which way the Axis powers would strike despite the Royal Navy sitting vulnerable in Scapa Flow in Scotland.
When the two company sergeant majors of the Permanent Force Royal Canadian Regiment arrived in camp, standards rose almost immediately. These men had awe-inspiring self-confidence and impeccable carriage that ran through the ranks like an electric charge. The core hutments became the preserve of the West Nova Scotia Regiment, which had absorbed the Lunenburgers and many Acadians. Training sergeants appeared from their courses armed with new knowledge and expertise. Transports started to arrive under the Royal Canadian Army Service Corps; guns and ammunition under the Ordinance Corps; the Dental Corps erected a building, and the Medical Corps a hospital. The cooking improved, if marginally, as did the sanitary arrangements—the previous winter, hazards had included the outdoor ten holers usually rimmed in ice.
The old British staff sergeant sat at his piled and cluttered desk, trying to keep abreast of all the new forms and paperwork. A cigarette butt hung continually from the centre of his mouth, staining his upper lip and even his nose. His hands shook, and the roots of his hair were white. MacQueen spent many evenings under his direction, posting amendments into the battered copy of the King’s Regulations and Orders for the Army. Merely keeping track of the files of every man who moved in and out of the gates was a massive job. The Canadian Army Pay Corps sent new corporals and sergeants—and even officers—who knew little of soldiering but were bureaucrats to their fingertips.
A new detention barracks was built on a hill in the woods. This was commanded by an ex-Imperial Regiment sergeant major with great zeal. Rumours of the punishments drifted through the barracks and caused considerable apprehension. There were some desertions.
Bren guns were introduced for training, then quickly whisked to Britain to outfit the Expeditionary Force for Finland, which never materialized.
To Patrick MacQueen, the most significant change was the issue of the new battle dress that looked like khaki overalls, and a ridiculous field service cap that sat on one side of the head, always in danger of falling off. Progress means always changing the rules of the game, which might be welcomed by futurists but is abhorred by such young traditionalists as MacQueen. He was happy, however, to keep his spurs—he felt naked without them and felt they were a touch of King Arthur. The infantry also wore large boots that had leather soles and steel heels. The very weight of these guaranteed a healthy pair of legs; when swung in cadence they almost marched by themselves. The infantryman’s most important possession was a good pair of feet, without which he would get nowhere. MacQueen was just six-foot, brown haired, slim, and hazel eyed—a suitable enough target for anyone, including the infantry.
Headquarters Company was always the last to react to innovation, but eventually MacQueen was summoned to the quartermaster stores to be issued his new uniform. He regarded it with extreme displeasure. However, there was one bright moment when he saw the quartermaster sergeant dressed in a dark blue uniform with two white stripes running down the trousers. He had three golden stripes and a golden crown on his sleeves and a black-peaked forage cap on his head.
“What is that?” asked MacQueen in admiration.
“These are the undress blues,” answered the RCASC corporal. “You can buy ‘em for leave or on pass. The sigs have a wide red stripe down the leg.”
With one of those on even Princess Flavia would look at me, thought young MacQueen as he lugged his new uniform and equipment to the headquarters hut. The hut was a drab, twenty-five-year-old “temporary structure” that stood on poles in the ground instead of a foundation; it had latticework around the bottom that did nothing to keep the snow out. He resolved to solicit a loan from his father, a man not renowned for generosity to his family. He calculated that ten dollars might be raised from him, which would cover half the cost of the entire outfit, including the cap and special Signal Corps buttons featuring a figure of Mercury.
Thus, the young soldier innocently raised his profile another notch. Very few could follow suit at those prices, or even cared to do so. A scattering of Permanent Force soldiers wore them, but very few others. MacQueen regarded this as a simple career move—he did not consider the raise in conspicuity. He went to a tailor in the town, was measured…and the uniform was eventually ready. It coincided with the change into battle dress and compensated somewhat for such a drab outfit. In the meantime, he had been composing a letter in which he asked for admission to officer’s training, and that he planned to smuggle to the colonel. He naïvely assumed it could remain secret.
3
Unlike most other huts in the camp, the Headquarters Company’s quarters was rarely empty. It contained ordinary cooks, orderlies, cleaners, and the myriad odds and sods necessary to keep the place functioning. Many worked shifts and slept through the day, and their duties were varied. There was no great sense of camaraderie, as everyone came from different units and felt beached. The orderly officer inspected the hut every day, of course, and each unoccupied bunk had to be properly made up with folded mattress and blankets, greatcoat boots, duffle bag, and haversacks in their proper place. There were no lockers, which made theft a major crime in the army. Everything was laid out in trust—every rifle had its number and everyone’s equipment its personal characteristics.
The orderly officers also visited the other ranks in their mess at every meal to ask, “Any complaints?” Complaints were rare. There wasn’t much point; one only got one’s name on his report, along with any infractions of the standing or daily orders posted all over the camp. For reasons relating to tedious official prose, reading these was a painful duty that many avoided, instead getting the news from their buddies. Some couldn’t read, of course, which left no alternative.
In nearly all things, the Canadian army followed British tradition in organization, uniform style, rank structure, and ultimate allegiance to the crown. Many ex-British officers and NCOs had mustered again to serve the empire, and without them the Canadians would have been in even more sorry shape. All of Nova Scotia and Prince Edward Island were Military District Number 6. The general of all of this sat in Halifax and was rarely seen in the hinterland. He had enough to do getting the rowdy, half-trained troops out of long-suffering Halifax and onto troopships. Besides, he had the coast to defend.
The camp at Aldershot and the battalion occupied the same ground but were distinct. The parade ground was the central focus of the battalion’s life. It was where all soldiers trained to fight—the anvil on which soldiers were formed. The moment-of-battle is the ultimate justification for the soldier’s life.
Patrick MacQueen learned the ins and outs of military life and culture by the process of osmosis. To him, it was part of a normal Canadian youth, and he had plenty of company, despite the still-full high schools across the nation, which were planning basketball games or graduation dances. Some historians have called that winter the “Phony War”, due to the fact that nothing monumental seemed to happen. Germany was allied to the Soviet Union; the French and British were snug behind the Maginot Line; Italy was neutral, as was the United States; Japan was forgotten in far-off Asia. Finland was doing most of the fighting, and she was all alone. Indeed, it was a “twilight”, of sorts, as Churchill would later come to call it. For young MacQueen at Aldershot, it was a period of urgent stagnancy.
The adjutant to whom MacQueen wa
s occasionally a driver had the unlikely name of Captain Dribble. He was a distracted ex-ranker from the first war who had become an accountant in civilian life and stayed in the militia. He was the immediate superior of old Staff Sergeant Peebles, a chain-smoking Anglo-Scot who may have been in the Boer War—he had some odd ribbons on his chest. The adjutant’s old Chevrolet was the only official transport available, and it was untrustworthy. None of them knew anything about mechanics.
The colonel had the office looking out to the flagpole, past the dismal grey huts with their stained green trim and to the distant main gate. He wore tartan trews, nicely tailored, and a Glengarry hat with ribbons down his back. His tunic was cut away at front for a sporran, when necessary. He also wore a Sam Browne belt over one shoulder, and carried gloves and a swagger stick. Between the wars, he had run a prosperous car dealership. He had stayed in the militia until retiring, only to be recalled full-time due to the crisis.
Signalman MacQueen headed for the colonel’s office. In order to do so, he had to walk through the orderly room, which contained a long counter where a couple of clerks pecked at typewriters, answered queries, and generally tried to deflect any decision-making. He continued past the telephone switchboard, which was manned by several of MacQueen’s old comrades from Charlottetown. It kept six of them busy on a shift basis, pushing cords in and pulling them out, trying not to foul up the war.
Signalman MacQueen knew his way through all of this, but his heart was not really in the paperwork that mounted, shifted, duplicated, and swirled about them in increasing volume. To avoid work of any kind around a headquarters, all one need do is walk about bareheaded with a paper in one’s hand. MacQueen judged his timing and gave a tap on the colonel’s door. Usually one entered his office via a side office that held his personal staff. This door faced the corridor and was marked PRIVATE. MacQueen opened the door and the colonel looked up from his desk. He was alone.
4
Colonel Gairloch looked at the young soldier standing erectly inside his private door. He noted the new outfit that he was wearing with an old soldier’s inward sigh.
“Well, young MacQueen,” said the colonel. “What have you got for me that is so urgent?” He looked over his horn-rimmed glasses with mock intensity. “Stand easy, for heaven’s sake.”
MacQueen relaxed and approached the colonel’s desk. He placed the paper on it and stepped back a pace. “It’s a telegram from your son Bill, sir,” said MacQueen. “It just arrived and I brought it directly to you.”
The colonel looked at the telegram. He cleared his throat. “As you know,” he said slowly, having scanned the telegram, “Bill has diabetes. It seems he is out of hospital and seems okay.”
“I am glad to hear that, sir,” answered MacQueen. He didn’t move. The colonel folded the telegram, unbuttoned a tunic pocket under his first war ribbons, and placed it over his heart.
“Thank you. Pat, isn’t it? I would do you no favour by calling you that, but we are alone here.”
A slight flush spread over MacQueen’s face.
“Is there anything else?” asked the colonel.
“I want to go for officer’s training, sir,” blurted MacQueen. “I heard that you might be leaving…”
The colonel studied the boy’s face. “How old are you?” he asked. “You were Bill’s classmate, were you not?”
“Yes, sir,” MacQueen said, faltering. “I am nineteen.”
The colonel was not fooled. “You are not,” he answered. “But you won’t get anywhere hanging around this headquarters. I’ll get you out onto the parade square. Try to become a lance corporal or something first.”
“I have my application, sir,” replied MacQueen. He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his tunic.
The colonel smiled. “With all the officers in your family this seems the hard way to go about things.” He accepted the paper and glanced at it.
“I just jumped in—er—joined up, sir,” replied MacQueen. He was sweating now. “I lied about my age.”
“Being an officer is a responsibility, Pat,” said the colonel. He scanned the document for a few more long moments. MacQueen fought the urge to speak further, lest he ruin his chances. “I will approve your transfer to the West Nova Scotia Regiment and pass this along to my successor with my recommendation,” the colonel said finally, seeming unconcerned. “If you do well and complete their basic so much the better for your chances. It is only for four or five months.”
“The war might be over then, sir.”
“Not a chance, my lad,” he answered ruefully. “We will all have our fill of it before it’s over. Tell Captain Dribble to call me and we’ll get your files moving. At least that will get you out of the dead end of Headquarters Company here.”
“Thank you, sir!” MacQueen stomped his heels together, swung about, and marched to the door.
A sergeant major had been waiting in the hall and wondered what could be so important between his colonel and a mere signalman from God-knew-where?
There was a small ceremony when the command of Camp Aldershot was changed. The training routine of the battalion wasn’t interrupted, but a lot of officers milled about, and a table was set up by the flagpole and covered with the Union Jack. MacQueen saw his first official army staff car roll up to the entrance. He jumped, opened the door, and saluted. Colonel Gairloch, in his Scot uniform, greeted the incoming colonel, who was not only Permanent Force but also Royal Canadian Regiment. Many units were going to muster on the plains of Aldershot in the summer of 1940, and a firm, professional hand would be required. And there he was; his face was carved from stone.
The brass band broke into martial music. Everyone saluted everyone else. Captain Dribble excitedly arranged the documents for signing, which he had weighted with stones. Photo-bulbs flashed, then everyone vanished. MacQueen rolled up the flag and folded the table, leaning it against the wall to be retrieved later. A few scraggly flowers were trying to push through the dirt, and someone had laid out ALDERSHOT in whitewashed stones around the flagpole. It wasn’t much but it was something.
5
With every building in the camp heated by coal, vast supplies of uncertain origin were trucked through the gates every day and dumped into gigantic, shacklike bins. The night soldiers struggled through the snow with scuttles of the terrible stuff to dump into hundreds of stoves. It was poured through the top, emitting clouds of yellowish, poisonous smoke and a shower of coal dust. That had been MacQueen’s first duty on arrival, for twelve hours every night. His arms had felt wrenched from their sockets, his eyes were always red, and his uniform was permeated with black powder.
Now Signalman MacQueen had a nice blue walking-out uniform, a date in town, and a pass until midnight. Wide red stripes ran up the high trousers worn past his waist; they were held up by issue braces. The blue jacket with sparkling buttons was on a wire coat hanger, with the white Signals lanyard around the right shoulder. He had only a collarless army shirt and vowed to send for a white one. His big boots were polished like mirrors. The new army greatcoat was heavy, khaki, and double-breasted. It certainly fit better than the Signal Corps coat that he had returned. That had been designed to cover the rear of a horse and looked like a bell tent.
The impression that his uniform made on his hutmates was not profound. Most were on duty, some were asleep. One was writing a letter on his bunk. He was a small Acadian Prince Edward Islander. “Have you joined the fucking Salvation Army, Pat?” he asked.
“Pretty sharp, Pat,” commented Signalman Pineo from his bunk. He was one of the operators of the telephone switchboard. “Gettin’ it wet tonight?” He grinned and looked like an elf.
“What about this?” asked Pat, waving his riding crop. “Should I carry it?”
“Not anymore,” answered Pineo. “They went out when battle dress came in. Better just shove it you-know-where.”
“Too long,” said MacQueen. He slipped it inside the greatcoat. “If they search me I’ve had it—I’ll give it
to Barbara.”
“For what?” Pineo’s eyes gleamed.
“I’d never tell you,” answered MacQueen. “Have you got any change? I’m broke and don’t want to smoke all their cigarettes.”
“Payday is two days away, for Christ’s sake,” complained Pineo. He reached into a pocket and looked at his open hand. “I can lend you a half buck but you have to pay me. I owe everybody.”
Fifty cents could buy a package of Sweet Caporals and leave enough left for a soda before returning to the camp. He took it gratefully.
“Why don’t you get some money from that old man of yours?” Pineo said. He felt a little resentful that he was paying some other guy to get laid.
“Don’t wait up for me,” answered MacQueen. “See you later.”
It was early evening, and the walk to the gate was over a mile. His pass was checked by the corporal of the guard, who looked with curiosity at the uniform but made no comment. The uncertain sentry, a recent recruit, did not know whether to salute or not. As a sign of the new times, MacQueen noted a military policeman in the guardhouse. It was two miles or more to town. He set off with the sun setting behind him. The return trip would be harder, MacQueen noted. It was uphill, and returning soldiers were often tired from dancing, drinking, or other pastimes.
The Broken Sword Page 2