15
WE WERE ALWAYS SERVED FIRST IN THE DINER, just our group, then the civilians. After all, weren’t we soldiers or something special? One would think so with the special attention we received.
Having three days to become acquainted with our fellow passengers, we found a nice crowd of fellows, only three having previous military experience and only three admitting to knowing anything about trucks. One, Andy Ross, later known as Fish, was an expert mechanic. Bob Roberts was supposedly a good driver, as was Goldie. These three were as far as we could ascertain the only ones who had ever driven a car. After canvassing our group to see if anyone knew as little about what we were supposed to know as we did, we didn’t feel badly. Everyone seemed to be in the same boat. Certainly Calgary had been easy. We would worry about Toronto when we got there. If they kicked us out of the motor transport, we would join the cavalry, anything, if we didn’t have to walk.
Our group had been placed under the charge of a boy with some previous experience and training by the name of Thompson, who we felt sure would land a non-commissioned officer’s post once we landed, wherever we were going. But for the time being, he was in command.
When we arrived in Toronto, we were met by a reception committee of one, the biggest, tallest, most hard-boiled sergeant major of the regular army imaginable. Taking over from Thompson, he lined us up with the group command “Fall in.” In what he didn’t say, but we assumed he wanted to play follow the leader, so with overcoat and suitcase in hand, we take off after the big moose.
The walk in Calgary was just a breeze. Here it is getting dark and cold, and still we walk. Neither Berry nor I have ever walked such a distance in our life. My damned shoes are full of feet and I am tired of playing soldier, when we go through a big arch into what appears to be a fairgrounds of sorts. Here the moose lets out with the only kind word he knows how to utter: “Halt.” This comes just in time, for two of the King’s best are finished. God save the King. I am just sitting down on my suitcase, hoping this is the end, when he bellows, “Attention.” Then another move into a building where there are bunks one over the other. We are told to leave our suitcases and coats on our bunk.
Then another march for blankets. This we do on a trot, or on the double, our new sergeant calls it. By this time I guess the moose is pooped, for we have a new sergeant in the picture. Not so big, not so loud, but fast on foot. We are issued blankets in a hurry and back to our bunks where, in the language of our new sergeant, we fall out for fifteen minutes, to wash before we eat. This has been our first contact with two real soldiers. They haven’t scared me to death, but made me damned tired. I knew it was too good to last. You don’t get something for nothing for too long a time.
Here we go again, to the mess hall which is two blocks away. You think they would walk this distance. Not our boy. He’s away on the double again. If they have enough of these fellows, they can wear out all the army with this double business. Me, I’m going to be a horse soldier, to hell with this double stuff. Boy, will I sleep late tomorrow. So I think.
The food was wonderful. With no one to push us, no one to yell on the double, we walk back to the building to our bunks, where we have to make up our bed army style. This is new to us, but with the advice of a corporal who says he is assigned to our outfit, we are ready for bed, only you don’t go to bed until they tell you. This we find is the exclusive privilege of the army. They tell you when to go to bed and when to get up. The “up” business they never forget. They might keep you up all night, but never in bed all day Everything is done for you. If you think, you’re crazy. It isn’t necessary. We find that our quarters are in the poultry building in Toronto’s famous Exposition Park, which has been taken over as a training center for the Canadian Army. All the beautiful large buildings have been converted into living quarters or whatever is necessary to train an army. Here very soon will be twenty thousand men learning to be soldiers under the supervision of many old regular non-coms from the English Army Certainly Canada is going full out for the mother country.
Despite the rumor of the war ending soon, it was evident no one in the higher command gave this rumor any attention. When we returned from our first army dinner, there was a new crowd of civilian soldiers in our part of the building. This new group, who had been recruited as motor drivers in Ottawa, were to be part of our unit. These boys were going through the blanket routine. It made us feel like old timers. We had learned two things: fall out and on the double.
Berry and I grabbed the bunk nearest the big stove and directly on the aisle toward the washroom. We matched for the lower bunk, which I won, so when they blew a bugle for bedtime, the poor old man of twenty-three climbed into the upper bunk with difficulty. The bed was hard, but to two old cowpunchers used to sleeping on the ground it was all the same feather to us. Also, our on-the-double business might have had some effect, for we were both asleep immediately.
The next thing I know, Berry is yelling, “For God’s sake, don’t that guy ever stop blowing that bugle?” He was of the opinion that this was the call he went to bed by. The only difference, this was the call to get up, five-thirty in the morning, dark as a black cat, with a loud-mouth sergeant bawling, “Fifteen minutes to dress and fall out in front of the side entrance.” This boy is determined, with lungs to prove it. His gentle howl can be heard all over the big building.
We feel our way out to where our lovely sergeant is waiting. The old boy wastes no time messing around. Old Leather Lungs yells, “Fall in, count off in fours and follow me, left right, left right, pick ‘em up, forward,” and he hits a double, never a single, always a double. One thing for sure, he isn’t lost. He heads straight for the race track, and on the double we make half the track before slowing down to a walk. Then he’s off again for the rest of the course, just a little conditioner before breakfast.
Back to our building we are told to wash up for breakfast, after which we will have time to shave and prepare for the day’s activities. They must have a relay of these sergeants, for we never have the same one twice. Always a fresh boy, full of whatever a sergeant is supposed to be full of. We are shaved and cleaned up and allowed to walk to breakfast by ourselves. They are beginning to trust us. For at least no one has given us any orders for about an hour. It’s too good to last.
Sitting on our bunks, we’re trying to analyze our plight when we are told to fall out in front of our building where there is plenty of room. What’s coming is anybody’s guess. Everything is always a secret until they get you lined up. Here we see the moose with a sergeant and a corporal. Berry and I are sure as hell making progress, for we have both found out how to tell the sergeants and corporals apart. The one with the loudest bellow is top. The others have poorer lungs. For once the moose keeps still. We are given a lecture by one of the lesser lights about how to line up, how to form fours, how to march, and above all, to eyes-right or eyes-left whenever we pass an officer. Up to now there have been no officers, so we are a cinch. The non-coms have the army under control.
Now the moose takes over. He is really a magnificent sight. He is straight as an arrow, with a tight fitting blue uniform all littered up with ribbons and stripes with a round, tall black beaver cap. The guy looks like a million and sounds like the whole army. His mission in life is to call roll, just to see that no one is lost or is still asleep. Fat chance. His mission complete and, all accounted for, we are turned over to an ordinary sergeant, who marches us to the quartermasters for uniforms.
Contrary to all reports about handing a new soldier a flock of clothes with instructions to fit himself, our outfit was different. It was almost eleven o’clock before Berry and I returned to our bunk loaded with everything a soldier should have from the skin out and beyond. Never had either of us had so much to wear. They even furnished us with shaving soap, razor, hair brush, and the best looking topcoat, called a pea jacket. It looked as good as an officer’s British warmer, only a little shorter. If some joker had yelled “on the double” with this load, we would have both fallen dead, but being left to ourselves, we staggered back to our bunk with our loot and a problem. Our problem was what to do with our civilian clothes. We knew no one to leave them with. We each had three suits, including one beautiful new tailor-made blue suit. What to do we were trying to decide, when I left our bunk for a few minutes.
This pal of mine has an awful temper and will fight a buzz saw anytime. He may not always win, but the kid will always try, and this was one of his best days. When I return, I am just in time to jar him loose from the throat of a motley looking individual who starts apologizing immediately he could breathe. He blurts out, “If I knew the goods ver new, I vould hed offered you five.”
Heading for the side door with my pal after him, the departed victim was one of several civilians I had noticed hanging around the bunks when we arrived with all our uniforms. While they were not allowed there, they had taken a chance and were buying the old clothes from the boys changing into uniforms. What had upset my pal was, he had been offered three dollars for his new blue suit. The guy raised the ante to five, making him even more hostile. It was lucky I returned when I did, but luckier there was a side door for the gentleman’s exit, or my boy might have been shot or hanged or whatever they do to a soldier for killing a civilian.
Thinking everything is all over except disposing of our surplus clothes, we see a young punk who looks like a pug coming around the bunk with “Where’s the so-and-so that choked my father?” Berry is on his feet with “Here I am, you blankety-blank so-and-so,” when there is a bellow like an old bull with the mumps which freezes everyone including our visitor. Here we have moose number two. He’s not so big, but just as tough, loud and hard, only this one is in khaki. The woods must be full of these fellows, and this one I am real glad to see, for I’m sure if our sergeant don’t stop the brawl, it is a cinch that I will be mixed up in this affair of honor, some way, somehow.
Young moose, in a voice the world could hear, inquires if we belong at this bunk, and we assure him we do. He lets out with “What the hell are you doing here?” Our civilian friend is real tough. He has come in to beat my pal’s head off and starts to rave about how good he is, when the young moose pulls a whistle and blows once. Before you can catch your breath, two real big boys are at his side. They have bands on their arms marked M.P., with big forty-fives hanging on each side. They look like the business. With one word out, they start for Mr. Pug, only he has seen them first and is on his way. It seems at the appearance of our M.P.s the place was fast clearing of all the civilian vultures, and we are still owners of a bunch of clothes we don’t need. Our new sergeant stops for a few minutes to see what the fuss was all about. His name is O’Brien and he’s to be our permanent sergeant, has just been assigned to our unit. This fellow we like much. He has all the appearance of what I thought a good non-commissioned officer should be like. We both find out later he is all this and more.
We have been here two weeks. We have given all our clothes to a Canadian organization to do with as they will. The few dollars we could receive for a sale would only be an insult and they might help someone. Today is our first payday. Everyone is lined up and receives his pay in cash as his name is called. We are all paid one-sixty per day, which is the low wages in our motor unit. While the man in Calgary rated us first drivers, neither one of us knows anything about trucks, so we are lucky to be paid anything. The foot soldiers only get one-ten per day. That is their top unless a non-com.
Our motor unit is made up of small groups from different cities in Canada. Among the Ottawa boys are several Americans, one a young fellow named Coapman who becomes one of my best friends.
Of our officers we haven’t seen much. We have in command of our left half a Lieutenant Ellard, Sergeant O’Brien and a couple of corporals. Our unit as a whole is divided into a right and left half, each under different officers and non-coms. We have a couple of captains and a major who haven’t put in their appearance on the parade ground, although Captain Parmalee and Captain McKinnon have been in our barracks on payday. Two of our Calgary contingent have done real well. Bob Roberts has been made sergeant of the right half, while Thompson has been made a staff sergeant.
Berry and I are lucky to still be privates. It is almost unbelievable that a green group of men with so many left feet could be trained into a snappy group of soldiers in as short a time as we now have. Our unit is the envy of the entire camp. We have the best dressed soldiers and fast are becoming the best drilled unit on the parade grounds. We have just stood inspection by our major. This fellow is the keenest officer I have seen at any time. We were lined up, he came down the line looking everyone over carefully. Some of us he stopped, inquired our name. When he came to me he knew I was an American, had enlisted in Calgary and could ride a horse. Once this fellow knew you, I would bet he never would forget. Either good or bad, he would see a fellow through. He was Major Red Harris, a regular soldier who I immediately took a liking to. With him I wanted to go overseas.
Today the only bad luck since joining the Canadian Army has fallen. We have been notified that all Americans serving with the Canadian troops should quit or lose their American citizenship. With this news, the Canadian Army agreed to release every American who wished to be released. Here my pal Berry quits to go home to Oklahoma. I think he is worried about his parents. He is one swell guy. It is tough to see him go. We have had some wonderful adventures together. So Berry and most of our Americans leave. My friend Coap and I stay.
I am only afraid we won’t make the other side. Not that I am looking for a war. I just want a trip, and then back to Calgary for me. The soldiering must be good for me, the training and walking or doubling. I am hard as nails and feel better than at any time in my life. If I just knew a little about a truck, this would be an easy life, with top money for nothing. Soon we will be rated. How, I don’t know, but whatever it is, I know from nothing.
They have finally found out that the Calgary contingent had no physical examination, so this we have just completed, and me of all people didn’t do so good. About five years previous I was hurt by a bucking horse throwing me on the saddle horn and wound up with a small hernia. For this I wore a truss two years and was completely healed, so threw the truss away. But the examining doctor says cough, and there you are, he finds I have been ruptured. Otherwise I am all to the good. The doctor is a peach. He says, sure, you go to the General Hospital for an operation which amounts to nothing. The Canadian Army will pay all expenses, you will lose no time and will be out and be able to go overseas with your own unit. Otherwise you will be discharged. Time is wasting, and I know it. My outfit may go any day soon, so with the doctor’s promise to rush me through, I agree and he arranges with my CO and a well man walks into the General Hospital of Toronto, Canada, for an operation so he can go overseas.