Tom Douglas

Valour at Vimy Ridge: Prologue

The Prussian officer refused the goodwill gesture with a disdainful wave of his hand. "I understand Canadian cigarettes are made of cattle dung," he said, his clipped English accent hinting at a pre-war British education.

His captors didn’t respond, although one of them made an involuntary move with his right hand toward the pistol holstered at his waist. The German smirked at the reaction. "I have also heard Canadians are a collection of drunken cowboys who would shoot an unarmed man without a second thought."

The man’s gaze never wavered as he stared at the Canadian officer in charge. "Well, you had better save your ammunition because you will need it. The attack you are planning is the worst-kept secret of the war. It is also the biggest joke the Kaiser has heard in a long time."

The three Canadians in the dimly lit dugout kept silent, not even flinching when another artillery shell shook the foundations, cascading debris down from the rafters. The soldiers appeared content to let their prisoner keep talking. After all, he might blurt out some kernel of information that could save a few lives in the days ahead.

"Your British and French friends tried the same thing and lost over a hundred thousand men," the German continued. "What makes you think a ragtag collection of farmers and fishermen from your country can do any better?"

The Canadian officer in charge made a dismissive sideways gesture with his head, and his two companions grabbed the enemy officer by the arms, preparing to lead him away. He shook off their grasp, pulled his greatcoat tightly around his shoulders, and sneered at his adversary.

"Maybe, just maybe, your men will reach the top of Vimy Ridge," he hissed. "But they will be able to ship the survivors home to Canada in a rowboat."

(Published 2007)

Permission Granted: Prologue

As a six-year veteran of the Royal Canadian Navy Volunteer Reserve when the Second World War broke out in 1939, my immediate future seemed obvious. I would be assigned to a warship that would head across the Atlantic to join the battle against Nazi Germany.

But I had other ideas.

My years as a part-time sailor had given me my share of adventure and I’d relished every minute. I’d missed the bitter Winnipeg winter of 1937 by spending nearly four months in the West Indies, training aboard two of the Canada’s six ocean-going warships, first the "River" class destroyer HMCS Skeena and then its counterpart, the HMCS Fraser. On several other occasions, I was able to spend three weeks on Canada’s west coast training at HMCS Naden in Esquimalt, BC.

But what I wanted more than anything was to be a pilot. I wanted to fight my war in the air, not on the sea.

Over the years I’d managed to log 410 hours of flying time by spending every spare cent I earned in the Naval Reserve or doing whatever work I could find. All through the Depression years I’d yearned for the day when I could make flying my career, but jobs in the fledgling aviation industry were few and far between.

A couple of weeks before Canada declared war, I’d been called up to active service and had been ordered to report to HMCS Stadacona in Halifax. When Canada joined the fray, I saw my chance to get airborne. Logbook in hand, I visited a Royal Canadian Air Force recruiting station, hoping to sign up. The RCAF recruiter was only too willing to get his hands on an able-bodied and experienced pilot. There was only one problem. I would have to get permission from the navy to transfer over to the RCAF.

I put in the request and before long was paraded before my CO. He was less than pleased with me, to put it mildly. He gave me a blistering lecture about how I had been treated pretty well as a member of the RCNVR since 1933. He pointed out how badly I was needed now that there was a war on. "And you want to join the goddamned air force!" he exploded.

Screwing up my courage, I reasoned with the man. I showed him the logbook. I told him how I had always hoped to become a pilot and now, finally, had my chance. He could make my dream come true or dash my hopes once and for all.

Witnessing this little drama was Petty Officer Dave Marr of HMCS Fraser, the second ship I had served on in the West Indies two years earlier. I didn’t know it, but Dave was on hand to recruit me for a tour of duty on the destroyer.

My CO stared at me long and hard, thumbed through the logbook, glanced at PO Marr, then seemed to come to a decision. I hadn’t realized that I’d been holding my breath until it came whooshing out of me in a moment of pure joy when I heard the two words I’d been hoping to hear. Two magic words that would change my life forever: "Permission granted."

None of us in that room knew that those two words had also saved my life. Without them I’d have almost certainly been dead before too many months had passed – just as Dave Marr was.

(Published 2006)

Great Canadian War Heroes: Prologue

Corporal Fred Topham – "Toppy" to his buddies – watched in horror as two other medical orderlies were cut down by machine-gun fire as they tried to help a wounded soldier in an open field.

Toppy could hear the injured paratrooper’s cries for help above the gunfire, and he couldn’t stand it any longer. Without waiting for orders, he began running a zigzag course toward the downed soldier, ignoring the bullets that whizzed over his head and ploughed up the ground all around him.

Reaching the disabled paratrooper, Toppy realized the man needed immediate first aid if he was going to survive being dragged or carried out of the danger zone. As he worked on the wounded man, Toppy was shot in the face. Ignoring the intense bleeding and excruciating pain, he did all he could for the soldier, then hoisted him onto his broad shoulders and staggered through continuous heavy fire to the shelter of a wooded area.

Refusing treatment for his own wound, Toppy administered first aid to dozens of other injured Canadian soldiers for several hours. Finally agreeing that he too needed medical help, Toppy started back to his company command post. But he heard cries for help, this time from within a disabled vehicle.

A motorized Bren gun carrier had taken a direct hit from German mortars and was engulfed in flames. The wreckage was loaded with live ammunition, and a British officer had ordered everyone to stay clear.

Toppy couldn’t stand by while his comrades-in-arms perished right there in front of him. Despite shouts of protest from the other onlookers, Toppy once again dashed through German mortar fire and reached the carrier.

One by one, he dragged three wounded soldiers from the exploding vehicle and brought them to safety. Only then did he allow the painful wound on his face to be treated.

(Published 2005)

D-Day: Prologue

Sergeant Mel Douglas couldn’t sleep. The adrenaline and the tot of rum had worn off, leaving him with a splitting headache and a queasy feeling in his gut. The violent lurching of the invasion craft only added to his misery, and he decided to see if he could get a breath of fresh air on deck.

As he reeled along the vessel’s heaving corridor – two steps forward and one step back – he knew he’d never make it up on deck before his innards protested at the combination of army rations, overproof rum, and pre-battle hysteria rolling around in the pit of his stomach. He decided to make a brief stop in the latrine.

When he got there, he was taken aback by the sight of another soldier standing at one of the sinks. It was 0300, and the invasion was only hours away. Most of his comrades were sleeping fitfully wherever they had been able to find a convenient place to offload their gear and nod off before their call to arms.

"Moe, what the hell – excuse me – what the heck are you doing shaving when we’re only hours away from hitting the beach?" the Canadian Army sergeant blurted.

He’d apologized for swearing because his fellow soldier, Sergeant Murray O. Kirby, was a religious man who’d been a Sunday school teacher back in his hometown of Oshawa, Ontario before the war. Every Sunday during the 19^th Field Regiment’s pre-invasion stint in England, Murray had rounded up the hung-over members of his regiment and gently coerced them into attending an impromptu church service he held wherever he could find space – sometimes in an open field, sometimes an abandoned shed.

"Oh, hello Mel," Kirby said in his usual upbeat manner. "You couldn’t sleep either, eh? I’m shaving because you never know when you’re going to meet your Maker and I want to look my best."

"Don’t talk like that, Moe," Douglas replied. "We’re going to be okay. We have a rendezvous all worked out, remember? I’m buying you the best steak dinner the Windsor Hotel can come up with when you make it to Sault Ste. Marie. And you’re going to reciprocate at the Genosh when I get to Oshawa. We have a deal."

"Sure, Mel, we have a deal," the other man replied, his ear-to-ear grin dissolving into a wistful smile. He made one last swipe at the remaining lather on his chin, ran his razor under the tap, and splashed water on his face. "See you in the Soo, Mel."

Hours later, Sergeant Douglas was running a zigzag pattern up the carnage-strewn beach at St. Aubin-sur-Mer when he saw a half-track take a direct hit from a German mortar just a few metres in front of him. Two of the occupants were killed instantly, and two others fell to the rocky beach were they were immediately attended to by medical personnel.

It wasn’t until much later in the day, when the Canadians had established a beachhead on their D-Day objective, that Sergeant Mel Douglas learned one of the charred corpses he had seen sprawled grotesquely in the front seat of the half-track was his best buddy, Sergeant Murray O. Kirby.

(Published 2004)

Canadian Spies: Prologue

Marcel Desjardin knew he was in trouble when the German Army sergeant stepped into the road and held up his hand, signalling Marcel and his travelling companion, Jean-François Guillou, to stop.

Marcel’s first problem was the name on his identification papers. He was really Raymond LaBrosse. His companion was Lucien Dumais. They were both Canadian secret agents wearing French civilian clothes. What’s more, Raymond was carrying a wireless radio in a suitcase on the back of his bicycle. If the German demanded the suitcase be opened, or realized the papers they were carrying were false, they would be shot as spies.

"We’ve had it if he finds the radio," Dumais whispered to LaBrosse. "You keep pedalling and I’ll see what he wants."

This was no time to argue. LaBrosse steered his bicycle around the German soldier, who made a half-hearted motion to grab at him before Dumais diverted his attention by stopping in front of the German to engage him in an animated conversation.

Looking back over his shoulder as he pedalled furiously, LaBrosse saw his fellow countryman waving his arms about and shouting heatedly at the German soldier. Turning his attention back to the road out of Rennes, LaBrosse concentrated on the trip ahead. His orders had been to get to the coast of Brittany as quickly as possible, and the bicycle was the fastest means of transport available under the circumstances.

LaBrosse rode with a heavy heart. He was sure he would never see his friend again. But Dumais, who earlier in the war had escaped from a train bound for Germany loaded with Dieppe prisoners of war, still had a few tricks up his sleeve...

(Published 2003)