No. 77 (of 125) in my East York Collegiate Memory Project finds us on the Gaspe peninsula where a spur of the moment decision will lead to tragedy...

Kapitanleutnant Karl Thurmann and U-553 moved up the coast of the Gaspe Peninsula, in the Honguedo Strait, with Anticosti Island just to the north, looking for trouble.

They found it on May 12, 1942, sinking the Canadian freighter Nicoya, and the Dutch ship Leto, before slipping back out into the Atlantic.

This was a nightmare scenario for the Royal Canadian Navy, which still didn’t have enough ships to take care of its convoy escort duties in the north Atlantic, and protect the Gulf at the same time, where freighters from up the St. Lawrence came through .

Officials began cobbling together a defence force, including what air cover they could find, as the Battle of the St. Lawrence kicked off.

Included was a group of men from the Irish Regiment of Canada, who moved into the small Fort Peninsula, on the north side of the Baie de Gaspe.

Here we find our story.

XXX

John Barrowman Webster was born on Dec. 1, 1919, in Kilsyth, Scotland, the son of George and Anne (Johnstone), who had married in 1917.

There were two sisters, one of whom was Anne (married name Currie), and the other whose name does not appear in the her brother’s records except by her married name of Mrs. Chalmers Hurst.

John showed great promise from an early age, being good at both academics and athletics, especially Association Football (soccer). As a youth he attended the famous Kilmarnock Academy, near Glasgow. He joined the Young Britons Boys Association, and was chosen to present a spray of white heather to then-Prime Minister Ramsay MacDonald (1929-1935), on an official visit to the town.

The Depression hit the Glasgow region badly, so in the early 1930s dad moved to Canada looking for work, sending for the family in 1934. They settled at No. 95 Gledhill Avenue, in the Toronto suburb of East York, and became members of the All Hallows Anglican Church, on Main Street.

Dad found himself a good job as a court reporter. His ability and sense of humour made him a popular figure around the courts, with both staff and judges, something we know from a letter found in his son’s files.

John Webster, meanwhile, completed all four years at East York Collegiate, before going out to work himself as a clerk at the Dominion Rubber Company (a national concern, now known as B.F. Goodrich).

As did so many young men at that time, he was also a member of the militia, from April 1937 to June or 1940, switching to the regular forces with the Irish Regiment of Canada just as France fell to the Germans. He had wanted the 48th Highlanders, but that regiment had been full.

John was a Lance Corporal by April, 1941, and full Corporal by May 16, 1942, when he and a group of the Irish Regiment were attached to headquarters, Gaspe Defence Forces, in reaction to the U-boat attacks.

Seven days later, John Webster was dead.

XXX

We know most of what happened due to the records of the official inquiry, and especially the frank and honest testimony given by Private Ross Hardy who, like Webster, had an excellent record up to this point. They were both well thought off by their commanding officers.

At around 12:40 p.m. on May 23, a sunny and warm day, Cpl. Webster and Pte. Hardy were leaving their quarters to join a baseball game in progress on the green in front of the mess hall. Hardy was stripped to the waist.

They saw a Chevy ton-and-a-half truck sitting there and “on the spur of the moment” according to Hardy’s testimony, decided to “borrow it” so the private could get some driving practice in. It was agreed that Hardy (who was not licensed for Army trucks) would drive out for a few miles, getting some instruction from Webster, and the latter would bring it back in to the fort.

Just over two kilometres west on what was then Highway 6, and is now Route 132, they came to a double-S curve where a grader sat in the middle of the first S. Hardy says he kept to the right to stay off the gravel dumped there, got his right-side wheels on the soft shoulder and lost control.

The truck hit the right side of a wooden bridge over a local creek, glanced off, and went down the bank. Hardy was shaken up, and tried to drive the vehicle back up.

Webster was not so fortunate. A wooden rail from the bridge came through the passenger side front window, penetrated his chest and came out the left side of his neck. He was then ejected from the cab with multiple broken bones, and a dislocated clavicle. He was dead before medical help arrived “less than 30 minutes later” according to the report.

John Webster’s body was brought home and buried at St. John’s (Norway), on Woodbine Avenue.

The inquiry determined the incident an accident, though it seems to have kept him from earning promotions.

POSTSCRIPT: Ross Hardy would get married and leave his pregnant wife to go fight with the Irish Regiment in Italy. On Aug. 9, 1944, they would be fighting in the Battle of Coriano Ridge, as bloody and bitter an engagement as the hell that campaign offered. That day the Irish Regiment lost 12 dead, 49 wounded, 12 missing.

One of the dead of Pte. Hardy. He never held his child.

The motto of the Irish Regiment of Canada is from the Gaelic: Flor go bas (Faithful until death).

Malcolm Kelly (EYCI Class of 1977) is the author of SPROG: A Novel of Bomber Command, which tells of the kids coming out of high school in 1941 to join the RCAF and go through flight training. It gets them before they go to war and includes their music, films, pop culture, sports, and more.

No. 76 (of 125) in my East York Collegiate Memory Project finds two life-long friends facing death in the back of a Lancaster bomber on a night mission over Germany ...

If you were to visit the little country graveyard in Tilbeck, Germany, in 1945, you would have found a Comrades Grave containing seven brave men, who all lost their lives while fighting together for their country.

It was well-kept, topped by a small metal cross, painted white. The names of the dead were not German, nor members of any affiliated armed force. They were enemy fliers, a not unknown sighting in graveyards all over a country coming to the bitter end of its failed war for world domination.

What you would not have known is that the grave marked the end of a special friendship that went back to childhood.

Here we find our story.

XXX

Alexander (No Middle Name) Johnston was born on Jan. 31, 1926, in the house at No. 84 Sparkhall Avenue (north Riverdale). His parents were John (a machine operator) and Jean, both originally from Glasgow, Scotland.

They had one other son, James.

The boys grew up at No. 10 Aldwych Avenue, just east of Pape Avenue, in the Toronto suburb of East York. Down the street at No. 164 was another young man, Gordon Phillips, who was a year older than Alex.

Together they went through Hartman Jones School (a year apart), and did everything growing boys would get into around the working-class neighbourhood of Pape Village.

Gord was a grade ahead, and when he graduated at 14, he went straight out to work as a way of helping his family. Thomson Groceries, nearby on Greenwood Avenue, was known for taking on young teens (the company has appeared in two other of these stories). Phillips was one of them, starting in bicycle deliveries, and when of age drove a truck.

Alex finished and decided to try a year at East York Collegiate, before taking employment at 15 years old, in 1941, on a tabulating machine (working with IBM punch cards, a data processing system that actually finds its roots in the 1800s).

He also found time for his favourite hobbies – dancing, and big band music. Being able to dance was a big deal in those times, as girls would not be interested if you were a “foof’ (a goof sitting on a roof, acting aloof when you want to hoof). If you could impress, especially with the jitterbug, then you went from a square who is nowhere, to a hepcat.

The greatest thing since metal-tipped shoelaces.*

XXX

Here the story takes quite a turn.

Alex and Gord had obviously planned for a couple of years what they would do when they came of age to join the Royal Canadian Air Force. Phillips waited a bit for Johnston, and they enlisted together in September of 1943.

Everything they did from here on was as a team, and that wasn’t easy as you’d have to convince a stream of officers that keeping the boys together was a good idea. Once or twice, sure. But all the way to operational was pretty persuasive.

So off went Alex and Gord to the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan, through basic at the Canadian National Exhibition, No. 9 Bombing and Gunnery School (Mont-Joli, Quebec), and No. 3 Aircrew Graduate Training School, at Three Rivers, (nowTrois Rivieres). They stepped up and received Air Gunner brevets in March of 1944.

On the second of June, Johnston and Phillips came down a gangplank into Britain and straight to No. 3 Personnel Reception Centre, at Bournemouth. They had to be patient as there was quite a backup in the war’s later months, but eventually the boys would go through four stages of training, joining a mostly RAF Lancaster crew at No. 207 Squadron.

XXX

On the evening of March 3, 1945, Flying Officer H.V. Miller brought Lancaster I, NG204 (EM-M), off the runway at RAF Spilsby, Lincolnshire. It was 1838 hours, and they were third away, joining 211 other Lancs bombers, and 10 Mosquitos in an attack on the aqueduct at Ladbergen, near Munster.

It was night number 2,000 of a European war that was heading for a conclusion on May 8. The Germans would not give up. The fighting continued.

Miller’s crew (on either their fifth or seventh operation, as records differ) included Sgt. A.C. Fox, P/O C.M. Leisk, F/O A.N. Lacey, Sgt. J.J. Samuels, and the two Canadians in the back – Flight Sergeants Johnson and Phillips. Records do not show who was tail gunner, and who in the mid-upper turret, but they were within 20 feet of each other in the cold, dark fuselage.

What we do know is the attacke was successful, the aqueduct was wrecked for the duration, and seven bombers were lost. NG204 came down in the vicinity of Tilbeck, eight miles west of Munster. The crash was fatal, all killed, but not so catastrophic that the bodies could not be recovered.

For two young Canadian friends, it was journey’s end. They grew up together. They fought together. They died together. And they forever more lie together in the Reichswald Forest War Cemetery, where they were moved in 1947..

Per Ardua ad Astra to a brave crew.

POSTSCRIPT: One of the items sent back to Alex Johnston’s mother was his RCAF identification card. On the back you find a lipsticked kiss, almost certainly Jean’s. A mother saying goodbye to a beloved son.

*The teenaged war slang in this piece comes from the wonderful book Girl in a Sloppy Joe Sweater, by the late Mary Peate (Optimum Publishing).

**A previous version of this story had two copy errors involving Spilsby and Lincolnshire. Thanks to Steph Simpson for spotting those,.

No. 75 (of 125) in my East York Collegiate Memory Project takes us to Blue Beach, Dieppe, where the Toronto based Royal Regiment head ashore for what will be a massacre ...

Most countries involved in the Second World War seem to have an incident, a battle, a moment, that has left a permanent traumatic scar, leading to endless discussion and argument, millions of words from published journalists, and an ongoing attempt to answer why did it happen?

For the British, it’s the Battle of Arnhem. For Americans, it’s Pearl Harbor.

For Canadians, it is August 19, 1942, at the French port of Dieppe, where 4,963 Canucks were embarked, only 2,210 returned, leaving 1,936 prisoners of war, and 916 dead on the beachfronts.

Why was it done? Was it needed? Questions forever argued.

And here we find our story.

XXX

Large families were quite normal in the 20th century, so it comes as no surprise that when John Westley Stevenson came aboard on March 26, 1921, he was the eighth child for Robert and Elizabeth (originally from County Durham in the north of England).

He had been preceded by Joshua, Sarah, Anthony, Isabella, Emily, Robert, and Margaret (the next closest in age). They grew together in a house at 256 O’Connor Drive, just west of Donlands Avenue, in the Toronto suburb of East York. All the boys would eventually serve in the Canadian Army, with Robert spending most of the war as a POW.

The family decamped over to 52 Nealon Avenue, in the Mortimer and Broadview avenues area, sometime after the start of the conflict.

John attended East York Collegiate for three years, and then went to work as a clerk. We don’t know where, but do know he gave $20 a month to mom for room and board, which was a fair chunk back then.

When Canada declared war on Germany, September 10, 1939, the youngest Stevenson joined tens of thousands across the country in flocking to the recruiting centres. He was in on the 13th, taking his 5-foot-10, 143 pound frame to basic at the Exhibition grounds with a ticket punched for the Royal Regiment of Canada, very much a Toronto-based unit based out of the Fort York Armory.

When ready, the Royals went off to England by an unusual route, arriving first on June 10, 1940, in Reykjavik, Iceland, for garrison duty in case the Germans tried to take the strategic island in the north Atlantic. They shipped out again and arrived in England at the start of November, 1940.

XXX

This is where the story of Dieppe actually begins.

When the 1st Canadian Brigade (of the 1st Division) came back from the Battle for France in June of 1940, after just a week, there was no combat to be had for Canuck soldiers deep into 1942. As each new unit arrived they would go into training, the occasional war game, and a lot of instructional work.

You cannot leave an army of young men this way, with nothing of importance to do, and it caused trouble within the ranks, and often in the local towns and their pubs.

John Stevenson’s record in barracks life may well reflect this. He went Absent Without Leave (AWL) for one day in April 1941, came back and then disappeared again for three more days. That cost him six days in the regimental “Glasshouse” (the guard house).

Undeterred, he was off again on Dec. 24 (perhaps feeling the pain of a second Christmas away) and was gone for six days, sending him back to detention for 10 days.

This was not unusual, and by early 1942, Canadian authorities (minus PM Mackenzie-King, who was quite happy to keep casualties down for political reasons), were calling for their ground troops to enter combat.

It happened that the British wanted to probe the German defences on the French coast, and the Canucks were available to do it.

Enter Operation Jubilee.

XXX

There are hundreds of books, papers, magazine articles, documentaries on Dieppe, you can turn to for detailed history. The basics are that five Canadian infantry regiments, one tank regiment and an armoured brigade (with some commando support) attacked six beaches to cause some trouble, shake up the Germans, and get back out some hours later.

For their part, the Royal Regiment arrived with three Black Watch platoons off Blue Beach (in front of Puys) before dawn, with the job of taking out artillery and machine-gun units and thus protecting the main landing at Dieppe beach.

It was a disaster. Everything went wrong. The first wave was late arriving so came ashore with the sun coming up. The Germans were alerted and ready,

There is a famous German photo showing the aftermath that clearly shows the high wall the Royals ran into, with just one opening into the town (two staircases making a V shape at the base, covered with barbed wire) and bodies piled up as the men cowering at the wall became easy targets. One small group got off the beach and atop the heights but did not get further.

We know John Stevenson was killed here somewhere, but not the precise location.

The Royals lost over 200 killed, 264 captured, with only 67 getting back, most of those had been hit on the landing craft before they got off. Thanks to research by local newspaper the Beach Metro News, we know 51 Toronto East Enders were killed, including a number of East Yorkers who attended different high schools. A popular local park is named for the tragedy, in their honour.

XXX

It took a long time to sort out who was killed and who captured. John’s parents were informed right away their son was missing, but had to wait almost four months for confirmation he was dead.

John and his mates are buried at the Dieppe Canadian War Cemetery.

Note: John's middle name Westley is often misspelled as Wesley, though Attestation Papers clearly show there is a T.

No. 74 (of 125) in my East York Collegiate Memory Project takes us for a fourth and final time to the bloody battle for the Falaise Pocket, where a young lawyer, who could have skipped combat, found his fate ...

Excerpt of a letter home to his parents, written on May 7, 1944, by Norman Christopherson, explaining his decision to join up:

“As for the war … I couldn’t very well stay out of the army. I had to help somehow. If people are being bullied by someone, any decent person would take a hand trying to stop him. And joining the army means taking the risks involved, so though I’m afraid at times, I pray that I will be brave enough to do my share.

There’s no reason why I shouldn’t come back, and I probably will, so there’s nothing to worry about …

I thank God you were my parents.

Your son, Norm.”

XXX

Norman Aage (Aw-Guh) Christopherson was born in Vestfossen, Norway, on April 11, 1919.

His parents were Peter and Hilda, who produced another son, Wilfred (would serve in the RCAF), and sisters Rigmore, and Wesla. They came to Canada in the 1920s, settling first in Sturgeon Falls, near Sudbury, Ontario, then moving down to the Toronto suburb of East York.

Records are a touch confusing, but it seems they lived at 674 Sammon Avenue, before moving to 15 Bonnie Brae Boulevard (both near the hospital), shortly after the war started.

Norm loved reading, writing, skiing, and most sports. He was also an excellent student, graduating from East York Collegiate with two scholarship offers.

As a student he had worked at Colgate-Palmolive, in the stock department.

His calling was the law, and the journey began at Victoria College, University of Toronto, where he continued to excel, and became involved in campus activities, including assistant editor of the literary journal Acta Victoriana.

Graduating with a silver medal, a scholarship at the famous Osgoode Hall Law School saw his future practically. The famous Toronto firm of Tilley, Thompson and Parmenter, took him on to article, and he also did time with the affiliated Tilley, Carson, Morlock & McCrimmon.

Love came calling in the form of Miss Christine MacLeod, of 114 Scarborough Road, and the couple became engaged.

Norman Christopherson was set by 1941. He was a handsome man of almost 6-foot-2 (tall for that age). As a student, he did not have to go to war until finished, and if he did join there were many places for a young lawyer that would keep him out of combat.

This was not his plan.

XXX

Norm had joined the Canadian Officer Training Corps, which provided basic training for future officer candidates on the campuses of most post-secondary institutions.

Following year two at Osgoode, he entered the regular forces in November of 1942, training at Camp Niagara, Three Rivers (Trois-Rivieres) and then on to Camp Borden where the army formed him into a platoon commander.

Christopherson made full Lieutenant on March 20, 1943, two days after making Christine his wedded wife. Then there was three months at Borden as an instructor, and overseas, joining the famous Algonquin Regiment, October 23, 1943, following a course of advanced instruction.

There is a note placed in his file on that day: “Good officer. Very likeable nature. Good physically. A good leader. Quiet and reserved. Has improved considerably since beginning of the course.”

Just what the Algonquin needed as it prepared for the invasion of Europe. They would come ashore in Normandy on July 25, 1944, and launch into the bitter, bloody battle that was already six weeks old.

XXX

Operation Cobra was three day old when the Algonquin’s arrived, the Americans breaking through the Normandy perimeter down by St. Lo.

Germany’s 7th Army and Fifth Panzer Army, found themselves possibly being encircled by the 21st Army Group in the north, and the Yanks in the south. They had to get out, and the only way was through a gap at the French town of Falaise (Fah-LEZ).

The Allies had to close it, and the job coming south was given to the Canadians, with Polish armoured support. It was all hell.

A battle group led by Lt. Col. Don Worthington, and including the Algonquins plus 60 tanks from the British Columbia Regiment, was sent out on Aug. 9 to take Hill 195, northwest of Falaise. During the night they became lost, and wound up on the wrong side of the Falaise road, up high ground near Hill 140.

Waiting for them was the 12th SS Panzer Division (Hitlerjugend), among the most fanatical Nazis in German uniform. They were equipped with Tiger and Panther tanks and used them well in a fight that went on all day.

Eventually the BCR lost 47 of its 60 tanks on the way to a total wipeout (at one point the armoured vehicles were just 200 yards apart), and the Algonquins took heavy losses, amounting to 128 casualties, plus more than 40 captured. This was 36 percent of the infantry company’s men.

Lieutenant Norm Christopherson was badly wounded, evacuated by a line of vehicles that themselves had get out while under fire.

He died the next day, and now lies at Bretteville-sur-Laize Canadian War Cemetery, alongside three fellow East York students.

His will, perfectly written in the manner of a young lawyer, bequeathed his books to a number of friends and family, his clothes to his dad and brother, and “Christine may have any of my possessions which she wishes as a memento of my love.”

The motto of the Algonquins is from the Ojibwe: Ne-Kah-Ne-Tah (Let Us Lead).

Norman Christophers was one of four East York Collegiate students killed over five days along the road to Falaise. Here are the others:

Bill Middleton (Fort Garry Horse)

https://tinyurl.com/52f9z8ub

Bill Lister (R.H.L.I.)

https://tinyurl.com/msdspk4u

George Ford

https://tinyurl.com/mr3b357j

END STORY

No. 73 (of 125) in my East York Collegiate Memory Project takes us back to the battle of the Falaise pocket, where a third young man from the school finds his destiny, within three days of hard fighting ....

For front line tank crews during the Second World War, they were most in danger in two situations – when they were in the tank, and when they were outside the tank.

Inside they had to keep moving … stopping … firing … moving again, trying to keep track of German Panther and Tiger tanks, and where your own troop was. If you took a shell, or ran over a mine, the tank invariably “brewed up”, meaning you got out quickly or were consumed.

Outside the armoured vehicle, you were open to shelling and mortaring, snipers, and counterattacks that would catch everyone “in laager”, a defensive position used when resting or reorganizing.

This is where we find our story.

XXX

Most of the babies born in Canada during the 1920s were still delivered at home.

Thus we find William George Middleton greeting the world on Aug. 22, 1923, in the Pape and O’Connor area of East York, a Toronto suburb.

His parents were George and Isabella, and there was an older brother, Richard.

Bill attended R.H. McGregor School, and then went off to East York Collegiate for two years before leaving and taking a job with the Robert Simpson Company.

Simpson’s was one of the country’s two largest department store chains (along with Eaton’s), and a major employer even during the Depression. Middleton worked as a “retail specialist.”

His best sport was basketball, especially at the local YMCA, where he was a member of the “200 Club.” That designation seems to be lost to history.

In the 1930s, the family had moved to 20 Pepler Avenue, in northern East York.

XXX

Bill Middleton had already spent some time in the Grey and Simcoe Foresters armoured militia, before enlisting in the regular forces in October of 1942 when the unit went active. They transferred to the Canadian Armoured Corps the following January.

Training was in the fields and woods of Camp Borden, west of Barrie, Ontario, and that must have been a lot of fun learning to drive one of the beasts, a job Middleton qualified with in March.

Going overseas Bill would eventually be assigned to the Fort Garry Horse, one of Canada’s famous regiments.

They would go to battle in the M4 Sherman, the most ubiquitous of Allied tanks. There were almost 50,000 built in the war, mostly by Chevrolet in Detroit, though manufacturing was also sent to other factories, including Montreal.

It took a crew of five (commander, gunner, loader, driver, assistant driver/bow gunner), but in a pinch you could do it with four.

XXX

The 10th Armoured Regiment (Fort Garry Horse) spent the war in Western Europe on the pointy end of the stick, right from the start.

They came ashore at Juno Beach, on June 6, between St. Aubin-sur-Mer and Bernieres-sur-Mer, and C Squadron immediately lost four tanks, plus more when they charged through a minefield to get inland.

On they fought through Normandy and the 10-weeks of fights and operations that involved – the Hedgerows, Goodwood, Charnwood, Totalize. Canada would take almost 5,000 dead and a total of 18,000 casualties.

Bill Middleton was right in the fight all along. His mother told the Toronto Star later than he had one tank shot out from under him, and all the crew survived.

By 13 August, the FGH were on the road to the town of Falaise, where Canadian and Polish forces from the north, and the Americans from the south, were trying to close a final gap that would trap what was left of the German 7th Army.

The fighting had been bitter and ongoing, but this day Cpl. McKinnon’s tank crew in 1 Troop, C Squadron, joined the others resting, meeting, and preparing to kick off Operation Tractable the next day. This would be a final push, hoping to hold the Germans down while the Poles did an end-around into Falaise.

McKinnon’s crew was almost certainly out of their Sherman tank when a mortar shell came in, wounding Trooper Ponrell, and Trooper Brown, fatally wounding driver Middleton, who died shortly after.

Bill is buried in the Canadian military cemetery at Bretteville-sur-Laize.

Fort Garry Horse’s Latin motto is Facia non Verba (Deeds, Not Words).

Thank you to Gord Crossley, of the Fort Garry Horse Museum, for his great help.

No. 72 (of 125) in my East York Memory Project takes us back to the end stages of the Battle of Normandy, where the Royal Hamilton Light Infantry are slogging towards Falaise ...

Lt. H.E. Harrison, Royal Hamilton Light Infantry, gathered seven men and went out on one of the most dangerous missions foot soldiers must face, a recce (reconnassance) to probe enemy lines and work out where they are and what they’re up to.

It was July 31, 1944, and like everyone else along the front southeast of the major city of Caen, Normandy, they were tired, in need of relief that wasn’t coming. The final Battle of Verrieres Ridge was less than a week back, and just that day 25 new men had arrived to replace casualties.

Around 0200 on Aug. 1, a firefight broke out with German forces – Harrison was badly wounded, as was Pte. Broderick. Lance Corporal Tapp, and Corporal Bill Lister, tried to drag the wounded back about 60 yards, but the enemy was closing in.

The two Canadians were told to go back for help, but soon after the rest of the small unit had been killed or captured.

And the war went on.

XXX

William Lister Sr. was himself fighting in France when his wife, Mary, gave birth to William Jr. in October of 1917.

It would become a large family, with sister Edna, and brothers Stanley, James, and Jack, making a home at 279 Gledhill Avenue, east of Woodbine Avenue, in the Toronto suburb of East York.

Towards the start of the war, they moved to 203 Cosburn Avenue, over near Donlands Avenue.

Young Bill went to Danforth Park School and then did a year at East York Collegiate, before transferring to Danforth Tech. This was not unusual at the time, as the Collegiate tended to be generally more academic and business (secretarial, etc.) and DTS featured technical trades.

He was growing well, reaching 5-9 ½ inches, 145 pounds, before enlistment (and like most would fill out in the Army), enjoying reading, swimming, and hockey.

After. graduation, Bill found work as a printer with Globe Envelope, and also joined the Dufferin and Haldimand Rifles militia unit. Dad was a leading member of the Woodbine Heights Legion branch, so a call to arms is not surprising.

When the DHR was called to war in 1940, Bill joined the regular forces and went with them.

Thanks to excellent research by Mhairi Kerr (morethananame.ca) we know he was based in southwest Ontario, but came home weekends to visit his family, and his girlfriend Lillias (Lillie), also an East Yorker.

They would marry in March of 1942 and she would follow Lister out to Nanaimo, on Vancouver Island, for a while, where the regiment was guarding against a possible Japanese invasion, which seems a bit strange now but was taken seriously then.

Despite Tokyo being 7,500 kilometres away.

The unit arrived in Britain on October 10, 1942, where Bill was originally transferred to the Royal Regiment of Canada, before landing in the Royal Hamilton Light Infantry (the “Rileys”) in March of 1943. This was a fully blooded unit, one that had lost 197 dead and 175 taken prisoner out of 582 men in the raid on Dieppe, August of 1942.

As Kerr found, Lister suffered a head injury that kept him in hospital, then the Alton Convalescent Home, from 30 March to July 22, but he was alright by August.

This was a tough time for all ground troops in Britain, anxiously waiting for the invasion of France, bored, tired of endless training and the discipline of barracks life.

Lister was no different. His records show he went absent without proper leave for seven days, in January, of 1944, and that saw the Lance Corporal rifleman busted back to private. He earned his stripes back, was busted again in April.

All that built up steam was finally released on June 6, when the invasion of the Normandy coast would began the bitter, bloody 85-day battle that wouldn’t end until August 30.

The Rileys came ashore on July 5, as part of the 4th Infantry Brigade, 2nd Canadian Infantry Division.

XXX

By late day of August 11, the 2nd Division was battling south east of Caen, toward the town of Falaise, which was the last open road for the trapped German forces to get out of the pocket formed by the British, Canadians, and Poles to the north, and the Americans to the south.

The Rileys led the way as 4th Infantry Brigade headed for the town of Claire Tison (orTizon), about 15 km northwest of Falaise.

About 600 yards past the small village of Barbery, German tanks came out of the wood, and one of the most intense mortar and artillery barrages the Royal Hamilton would see in the war, enveloped them. When the fighting died down late on August 12, the Rileys had suffered 20 killed, 100 wounded, and almost 100 German prisoners taken.

Bill Lister was among the ranks of the dead. He was buried in the field, eventually to be moved to the Bretteville-sur-Laise Canadian military cemetery.

And the war went on.

For a full account of the Clair Tison battle, see:

https://canadiansoldiers.com/.../northwest.../clairtison.htm

No. 71 (of 125) in my East York Collegiate Memory Project takes a young man to the hell of the Falaise Pocket battle, in 1944 ...

George Berry Ford was born in Glasgow, Scotland, in July of 1920, already with a strike against him.

His mother Agnes gave birth out of wedlock, so the child was illegitimate – no dishonour now but a major scarlet mark in that time.

Things would work out well, however, as mum married Ernest Ford, who adopted the youngster and gave him his name. The records do not show if this was in Scotland, or after George was brought to Canada in the early 1920s.

A strong marriage would produce seven more children, including brothers Ernest, John, Edward, and Harold, plus sisters Agnes, Ada, and Jean. They all settled down at 156 Barker Avenue, in the East York suburb of Toronto.

George was, by all accounts, a happy, friendly child with a ready smile, something that continued into his early adulthood. There are a number of mentions in his Army records about his ebullient personality.

His schooling was at Danforth Park Public, and then East York Collegiate, leaving the latter at 16 to go out and work. He loved to read, though mostly digest magazines. An early Army interviewer listed his knowledge of current events as “meagre.”

The eldest son of the Ford family took a job in 1937 on the E. Hoover Farm, RR2, Markham (north of Toronto), driving a tractor and learning all the ins and outs of a life on the land. Pay was $7.50 a week, plus room and board.

XXX

Here the story takes an historical turn, as the Ford family were Canadian Mennonites, a branch of Christianity that passionately believed in passivism.

Among the more than 175,000 Mennonites in the country when the war kicked off in September of 1939, the question of serving started to split the community. It also came under pressure from the general public, which expected them to join up.

Group historians suggest a figure of around 4,500 who chose to serve, some in combat roles, many others (especially after the draft began in 1940), took Conscientious Objector status, and worked in firefighting, farming, logging, etc.

This was not unknown in the general population, by the way.

George Ford (all 5-3 1/2, 120 pounds of him) chose combat, listing his preference for the Royal Canadian Corps of Signals. The pointy end of the stick in that job, was laying telephone lines, manning radios, and keeping communications open in the midst of combat.

That was for the young farm worker, who qualified as a signaller in January of 1944, joined the Algonquin Regiment three days later, and went with them to the bloody Normandy battlefields on June 22.

XXX

Weeks of bitter fighting had left the allies and Germans in a stalemate following the D Day invasion, on June 6. That finally changed on July 22, when Operation Cobra launched around St. Lo, and the Americans blasted an opening in the lines.

The Wehrmacht, caught in a pincer between the Americans in the south and mostly the Canadians in the north, began a desperate attempt to get out that would eventually centre around a gap at the town of Falaise, about 20 miles south east of Caen.

August 9 found the Algonquin Regiment in the middle of hell. Three companies clawed their way into Bretteville-le-Rabet by mid-afternoon, and from there a column moved out south toward Falaise.

Losses were high, both sides fought savagely. The scene is unimaginable – tanks blowing (brewing) up, shells coming in, plunging mortar fire everywhere, machine guns raking, men digging in, moving, digging in again. Yelling. Screaming, Heavy casualties.

There is no proper script for hell.

George was in the middle of this, keeping communication lines open, messaging, forever moving along.

This went on for two days until by August 11, the Algonquins were able to tally up. B Company had taken 50 per cent casualties, C Company around 75 per cent.

Ford’s company dug in for a bit on St. Hiliaires Farm. Signallers moved back and forth in the open, doing their jobs. Shells came in. They found George Ford.

The young farm worker was buried right there, along a fence row. He had returned to the farm land he so loved.

George’s body was moved for final internment at Bretteville-sur-Laize, in 1946.

The motto of the Algonquins is Ne-kah-ne-tah (Let Us Lead.)

No. 70 (of 125) in my East York Collegiate Memory Project finds the Benson twins heading off to war in Europe, and very different fates ...

Around 1400 hours, on 5 September, 1944, a couple of Polish soldiers were driving their 15 CWT truck near the Italian Adriatic town of Fano, when they spotted something ahead on the road.

It was a Canadian soldier, lying near his crashed motorcycle, still alive but obviously in bad shape. They carefully placed him in the back of their vehicle and rushed the young man to the nearby 14th Canadian Casualty Clearing Station.

Another moment in another day in the terrible 20-month slog that was the Italian mainland campaign.

And it’s where we find our story.

XXX

There is a wonderful pre-war photograph of James and Arthur Benson, fraternal twins, that shows two confident and handsome men, staring out at the camera, about to begin the great adventure.

On the left, Jim seems more reserved, offering a nice dark double-breasted suit, while his brother Art has a look of mischief, something hidden, in his Steinbeck-style ensemble. Both are wearing wicked white shoes, ready to hit the yacht club for a nice lunch.

They are taking a bit of the mickey out of us, for they are not rich, they are instead working class men from the East York suburb of Toronto.

Dad and mom were Thomas and Mabel Benson, who had five children – Mabel, Florence (known as Fawn), another girl Olive, who died in childhood, and the twin boys.

Thomas had served six long years overseas in the first war, starting his own cartage business on freturn, doing mostly local deliveries of goods and freight.

Their house was at 136 King Edward Avenue, east of Woodbine Avenue.

As Art grew, he loved challenges – playing goal in hockey, pitcher in baseball, swimming, and riding horses. He was also good with his hands, especially woodworking.

Benson split two years of high school between East York Collegiate, and Danforth Tech (specializing in machine shop), before leaving after Grade 10. It was the Depression, and people had to work.

The war came along when the Benson twins headed for 18, and Art got himself a job at the John Inglis appliance plant, which had closed during the hard years, but reopened to build the famous Bren light machine gun.

At 19 it was time to fight, and both brothers joined the Royal Canadian Army Service Corps (RCASC), hoping to stick together. That was not to be. The army sent you where they wanted.

XXX

Art Benson was 5-foot-6, 137 pounds when he entered, making an impression with the interviewer who judged him good material for the army.

Basic was at the Canadian National Exhibition, and then it was on to Camp Borden, west of Barrie, for advanced. Benson came out a qualified driver, which given the RCASC’s main job was to supply troops with everything they needed, was going to be handy.

He went overseas in February of 1943. Jim went around the same time though to different units that would see him in the European campaign, and Art off to Italy in August as part of the Canadian Army Medical Corps.

This was key work -- the Service Corps did everything from moving the wounded off the battlefield, to delivering supplies to field hospitals, organizing trucks and making sure medical crews moved seamlessly up the Italian peninsula, following the fighting.

Corporal Benson (in Army jargon attached to No. 2 DD, (AF) RCASC R Wing, No. 3 Company) was doing that job on 5 September, 1944, speeding back and forth on his motorcycle to help guide trucks into the medical units when he went down.

XXX

When they brought Art into the casualty station he was in very grave condition. His original medical records say “Fractured Femur (LT), fractured tibia and Fibula (LT), Impacranial haemorhage, fat embolism.”

Impacranial was actually Intracranial (misprint in the original), meaning bleeding in the brain. His entire left leg was crushed. And he had a blood clot.

Arthur Benson died two days later, and was buried at the Ancona War Cemetery. James Benson survived the war.

When you look back at the personality in that photo of the brothers, it’s not hard to surmise Art might have done great things, given a chance.

No. 69 (of 125) in my East York Collegiate Memory Project finds a young navigator flying through his training and joining the battle early in the war ...

When the public relations folks in the Royal Canadian Air Force wanted photographs of “the boys” doing their training, they chose subjects carefully.

Were they mature? Did they stay out of trouble? Top of their class? Unlikely to pee in the potted plants in the office (as the United States Marine Corps liked to say)? Representative of everything the air force stood for?

Such a photo was sent to the papers in November of 1940, featuring two Observer students (navigator/bomb aimer) at Malton, Ontario – Bill McQuade, of Toronto, and Hamilton’s Bruce McIver.

Here is where we find our story.

¬

XXX

William Joseph McQuade came into a violent world on April 6, 1916. In Belgium, it was the opening act in the Battle of St. Eloi Craters, near Ypres. Over the next two weeks, 1,300 Canadians would be killed or wounded as the Great War plodded bloodily along.

Bill’s parents were Joseph and Sarah (née Williams) and the family would settle in a house at 31 Mortimer Avenue, in the Pape Village section of East York (a Toronto suburb). There was another son, Desmond.

Dad had an interesting job as an “electrotyper” – making metal plates for printing of newspapers and magazines, using electricity to create a single mould.

Young Bill had a fascinating educational history of his own, starting at Secord Public School, there were two years at East York Collegiate (technical and photography), three doing night school at Danforth Tech, then to London, Ontario, to finish his high school credits (senior matriculation) at an institute of science and technology.

This was a serious and intelligent young man who found a way to head for the University of London (England) to do a Bachelor of Science. Only the Second World War kicking off ended that dream for a while.

Into the printing business at home he went, working as a “varitype” operator, setting type for publications.

He would join up in April, 1940.

XXX

McQuade’s first air force interviewer summed the young man up nicely, calling him “quiet, and gentlemanly … exceptional air crew material.”

Reading through his records, it doesn’t take long to see he was good at everything, including tied for top of his class at No. 1 Air Observer School. That was where he and LAC McIver were chosen for the PR photo.

His next moves were to bombing and gunnery school, at Jarvis, Ontario, the new Air Navigation School, at Rivers, Manitoba, and overseas on Feb. 20, 1941, with an Observer’s “O” brevet on his left chest.

Just before heading overseas, Bill met Miss Grace Joyce Sharpe, at the altar, getting married on Jan. 21, 1941. She was the classic Girl Next Door, though in this case it was directly across Mortimer Avenue at No. 32.

A short honeymoon, and off to England.

It was at No. 16 Operational Training Unit that Bill met his other three crew members, and the unique twin-engined Handley Page Hampden aircraft. Known as the Flying Suitcase, or the Flying Panhandle, the name was apt. It did look like a suitcase with wings and a tail attached.

She was thin, with little room to move around, but the pilots liked her for the relative speed, and maneuverability.

Off to war went pilot Sgt. G.S. Bradbury, and his crew of Sgt. McQuade, Sgt. S. D. Yeomans (Wireless), and Sgt. D.H. Howe (gunner).

XXX

On August 6, 1941, at 2235 hours, Sgt. Bradbury took Hampden X2917 (KM-R) off the runway at Waddington, part of a 38 aircraft strike on the docks at Calais. At some point R-Robert (some records have it as D-Dog) had to turn around short of the target due to damage or equipment failure caused by weather.

A radio distress was sent, and according to the Waddington Heritage Centre, an attempt to land at Barton Bendish Airfield (near Marham) saw the a/c clip trees and hit the ground.

All were killed and buried back at St. Michael churchyard, Waddington.

Per Ardua ad Astra to a brave crew.

POSTSCRIPT: Bruce McIver, the other young man in the PR photo from Malton AOS, was killed three months later, on Nov. 8, 1941, when his 106 Squadron Hampden aircraft (AD 932) disappeared after checking in just off the coast of Scotland. They fell into the sea and no bodies were recovered.

UPDATE: Thank you to the fine folks at the Waddington Heritage Centre. The story has been updated to correct the target, and add information to the loss. Highly appreciated.

No. 68 (of 125) in my East York Collegiate Memorial Project finds a young family looking forward to the end of the war just ahead, only to have tragedy raise a hand ...

The drone of yellow birds above the farms of Lambton County, southwestern Ontario, became as common as the changing seasons during the Second World War.

From Kitchener west, there were 15 airfields run by the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan (the “Aerodrome of Democracy,” quipped American president Franklin Roosevelt), where young men worked to gain their pilot wings, or other aircrew brevets.

One of the farms below was just off Inwood Road, about six miles south of the village by the same name, and it came to pass that on January 20. 1945, the war paid a violent, unforgettable visit.

That is where we find our story.

XXX

Sam and Catherine Allan, late of Motherwell, Scotland, welcomed a son to the world in December of 1921, christening him James Davidson.

There was a brother named John Bryson.

Dad was a builder, with enough success to own his own small company, and they lived at 105 Woodycrest Avenue, in the Pape Village part of East York, a Toronto suburb.

Young Jim was a good athlete, especially swimming, but also playing football, basketball, and baseball. He finished at East York Collegiate in the spring of 1939, applying for the University of Toronto to continue his education, in commerce and finance.

This could be expensive for a family, and James did whatever he could, taking a $500 bank loan (the average price of a house at that time was around $4,000), working as a lifeguard for the Toronto Harbour Commission, and joining the Canadian Officer Training Corps, the latter on campus.

After two years at U. of T., however, it was time to go and Jim signed up with the Royal Canadian Air Force, in early 1942.

XXX

Jim Allan was by this time a “hunk” – 6-foot-1, 165 pounds, brown hair, blue eyes, strong and confident.

The original doctor’s report said he “has a bit of the casual ‘sophomore at college’ manner, but this will go soon … very suitable for commission …”

There was a small blip on the medical, however, as it shows Jim had needed reading glasses for two years. The air force sent him along anyway.

Through Manning Depot, Initial Training, and then No. 10 Elementary, at Pendleton, and No. 13 Service Flying, at St. Hubert, his marks and reports were first class, with lots of time on both Avro Anson twin-engine trainers, and the hot North American Harvard.

His maturity was impressing everyone.

This might seem wonderful for the uninitiated, but was bad news for a young man looking forward to flying in combat. His reports all added up not to fighters, but to instructor.

Graduating with his wings, Allan went to No. 1 Flight Instructor School, in August of 1943, and two months later he landed at No, 4 Bombing and Gunnery, in Fingal, Ontario.

One can surmise that his eyesight caught up, because rather than instructing new pilots, his job would be flying the Bristol Bolingbroke (Canadian-built Blenheim) for young bomb aimers and gunners.

Sort of a bus driver.

XXX

Happy things were happening in his life. He had met Ms. Evelyn Jean Munro, of St. Thomas, Ontario; they were married in 1944, moving onto base officer housing.

They saved carefully, and by the turn of the year had over $750 in the bank, plus a war bond mostly paid off. And the government now had a Veterans Affair Department that would help with education and housing costs.

War was winding down, and the Allan’s looked to the future by welcoming a son, Frederic James, born on Jan. 9, 1945.

XXX

Just 11 days later, Flying Officer James Allan boarded Bolingbroke Mk. IV (10019) along with two Australian trainee wireless/air gunners, Leading Aircraftman William Neville (Fremantle), and LAC Lawrence Watt (Perth) ,for a training flight into the southwest.

The goal seems to have been dual— practice formation flying with another Bolingbroke (10213) piloted by Warrant Officer R. Eaton, also carrying two student gunners – and to work on “tracking” another aircraft with the guns.

Weather was clear, with visibility reported at three miles.

Right over Concession 4, Enniskillen, Lambton County, the yellow aircraft came together for an unknown reason. Eaton’s plane landed safely, but Allan’s went into an immediate dive and ploughed straight into the snow covering Lot 31.

All onboard were killed instantly.

James Davidson Allan is buried at Pine Hills Cemetery, Scarborough, Ontario. The two young gunners were buried locally.

Per Ardua ad Astra to a brave crew.

After the war, records show his wife moved at some point to Santa Rosa, California, remarried, and became Evelyn Chamberlain. Around 1950, she was back in East York, living on Glen Albert Drive, just off Ferris Road.

No. 67 (of 125) in my East York Collegiate Memory Project, finds us in Italy, where the wounding of young man will set off painful confusion back home ...

A knock on the door at No. 185 Cosburn Avenue on December 13, 1944, brought a telegram from Canadian Pacific, informing all that Bill Kingdon had been seriously wounded in action with the Perth Regiment, in Italy.

It included instructions on how a letter might get to him – make sure your put IN HOSPITAL, above the name “for quick delivery.” In December of 1944, that might at best be a month.

You can imagine the activity as a return note might well have been penned right away, and dropped in the postal box. Would it be on time?

That’s where we find our story.

XXX

William Kingdon was born in December of 1941, and grew up in the Toronto suburb of East York, with his parents David and Mary, sister Dorothy, and brother Sydney.

There had been another sister, Rita, but records show she died on Sept. 22, 1930, no cause given.

Bill grew into a tall fella for that time, topping out at six feet, and a lithe 163 pounds. He played some sports, but only “mildly”, and wasn’t much of a recreational reader.

Working with his hands was the big attraction and, after graduating from East York Collegiate, Bill found a job at Generator & Electric Repair Company, as an armature winder. This is a skilled trade, using a machine to precisely wind the multitude of copper wires inside an electric motor to proper size, specifications, and then cleaning and repairing any damage.

It was also an exempt job, considered vital for the war effort, and thus the young man did not have to sign up, or be drafted.

Kingdon chose to join up, reporting for army service on April 7, 1943, then going for basic training in Toronto, before advanced at Brantford, Ontario. Five months after that, he landed in Britain.

His records show a relatively event free service during training overseas, though there was an incident during a leave in January of 1944 that found him in civil jail for a day.

Bill was assigned to the Perth Regiment, Royal Canadian Infantry Corps, in March, and found himself in the battle for Italy, surviving months of combat.

XXX

We know a lot about what happened to Bill Kingdon, thanks to the detailed Perth Regiment daily diary.

After Italy surrendered on September 3, the Wehrmacht took over defence of the peninsula, fighting an effective slow withdrawal north towards what was called the Gothic Line – winding through the Apennine Mountains, from Pisa, east to the coast. This was well-north of Rome.

Savage, bitter fighting from Aug. 30 into early December pierced the line, moving the Germans back towards what would be known as the Genghis Khan Line, roughly from Bologna, to the Adriatic.

By Dec. 11, Kingdon and his D Company, 4th Battalion mates were holding firm on the left of the crossroads at Ravena, on the east coast. A German tank and self-propelled gun had been causing trouble as the sun came up, but a heavy barrage chased them away,

While Major Binnington’s D held, B Company directly attacked the crossroads “under heavy small arms fire” and took it. D was relieved by F Company of the Lanark and Renfrew Scottish and started moving back.

It was now a shell came in and exploded near Bill Kingdon, fragments wounding him and shattering both legs. He was taken back to a combat hospital where he arrived in poor condition.

By the time the Kingdon family was informed their son was severely wounded, he was dead – passing on Dec. 12. A new telegram on the 15th confirmed this.

Bill was buried near Ravena, and was eventually moved to the Argenta Gap War Cemetery, in the Po Valley.

The motto of the Perth Regiment Audax Et Cautus, translates as Bold But Wary. William Kingdon was that to the last.

No. 66 (of 125) in my East York Collegiate Memory Project finds a teenager over the night sky of eastern Normandy, whose fate will be unknown for three years ...

Two days before Christmas 1947, members of the RAF’s Missing Research and Enquiry Service arrived at the small commune of Millebosc, eastern Normandy, hoping to solve a riddle.

This was their job -- finding missing aircraft and any remains they could. And they were good at it.

Researching German and local French records, interviewing witnesses, they found a site, dug down a number of feet, and found a Merlin engine, and a piece of crushed fuselage with a number on it – JB 116.

It was their quarry, and where we find our story.

XXX

James Wright (known as Jim) was born in 1925 to Albert (from Worcester) and Marion (from Watford), who had met and married in England before emigrating to Canada after the war.

There was a twin brother, John, born in 1924, who himself would join the Merchant Marine during the coming war, surviving the conflict.

Dad was a painter and decorator, which must have been tough when the Depression hit in late 1929 – that type of work being something clients might stop using until things got better.

The family lived at 29 Rosevear Avenue, from where the boys attended Secord School, and eventually East York Collegiate.

Jim’s military records show he was an intelligent young man, but he left high school halfway through Grade 10 (14 years old) to go to work. It would be fair to speculate that the family, as did so many others, needed the money.

His first job in 1940 was as a Page Boy at the famous Royal York Hotel. He left that “because of no future.” Then it was photography at the Eaton’s department store (“Hard on the eyes”). Finally, Jimmy became a lab assistant at the University of Toronto, which he seemed to like.

But the war intruded, and having already been in Air Cadets, choosing the RCAF was logical.

Six weeks of ground pounding at No. 1 Manning School, in Toronto, led to Souris, Manitoba, for Pre-Aircrew Training.

This was quite a smart idea by the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan officials who had noted too many youngsters washing out of initial training due to lack of education, often caused by leaving school early during the Depression.

While in Souris, Wright was caught up on math, physics, and English, before going on to Trenton for gunnery training.

He made England in September of 1943, joined a crew at Operational Training, and arrived at No. 9 (RAF) Squadron, as a Temporary Sergeant, on April 30, 1944.

No. 9 was the oldest bombing squadron in the RAF, tracing back to early in the Great War. By the time Jimmy came aboard as part of George Langford’s crew, the unit was concentrating on precision bombing.

The young Canadian gunner earned his commission on July 5.

XXX

Lancaster III JB 116 (WS-T) lifted off from RAF Bardney, in Lincolnshire, for a  July 7-8 raid on V1 flying bomb storage sites at St. Leo d’Esserent, north of Paris. It was the 16th operation together for Langford and his crew.

Around 0200, above the Normandy battlefield in these post-invasion days, T-Tommy was either attacked by a night fighter or more probably hit by flak, and the aircraft started down.

Tbe Lanc was notoriously difficult to get out of in an emergency, but Langford was convinced by the time he left everyone was safely under their parachutes. They weren’t.

Pilot Langford, engineer G.E. Fenn, and bombaimer Mick Mitchell, were all captured and survived the war as POWs. What happened to the rest was unknown.

In a post-war interview with the MRES, the skipper was convinced he was many miles away from where the aircraft actually came down, and that’s where the search first concentrated.

Nothing was adding up, however, so the unit went to work, eventually winding up at Millebosc.

XXX

After discovering the wreckage of JB 116, investigators went to the local priest, who took them to an unmarked grave in the parish yard. The latter believed there were just two sets of remains there.

On exhumation, it was found there were too many bones for just two men and, eventually, it was determined that all four of the missing were there. Where they still rest.

Per Ardua ad Astra to Navigator John Wright, wireless operator Israel Feldman, gunner Geoff Baseden (who was 38), and gunner James Wright (forever a teenager).

Thanks to Aircrew Remembered for their excellent work on this crew.

No. 65 (of 125) in my East York Collegiate Memory Project tells of a brave signalman in the battles around Calais ...

Imagine you were a lineman for a local telephone company, assigned to run a wire from point A to point B down the side of a road.

Straightforward job with little danger, unless you slip off a pole, or step in a pothole.

Now imagine being a lineman for a signal company in combat, during the Second World War, assigned to run a phone wire down a road under constant sniper fire, mortars, and shelling.

A different thing altogether, and where we find our story.

XXX

George Albert Legg was born in 1911 to Charles and Agnes (mom’s given first name was Virtue).

He was one of four children, including brother Charlie, and sisters Alice and Louise, all living on Barrington Avenue, in the Toronto suburb of East York.

It was a working class neighbourhood, as most of the township was at that time, and your way forward tended to be set in stone even before the onset of the Depression in 1929.

George went to Secord School for elementary, and then on to East York High School, which had not yet earned its designation as a Collegiate. After that it was off to work, with some night school courses at Danforth Technical School to improve prospects.

Legg was lucky enough to find employment despite the tough times at one of Canada’s most famous companies, Massey-Harris, makers of farm tractors, ploughs, combines, and all sorts of other equipment that literally opened up the still-young country.

It was a long trip from East York to the King Street West location, but worth it for the job had a future. George was an electric welder and truck driver.

In January of 1937, Legg married Miss Ada Sinclair, of Chisholm Avenue, and in time their daughter Jacqueline arrived. They took a home on Main Street.

XXX

It may seem strange in modern times that the call to duty young men and women of that generation felt was so strong they might put themselves in harms way even when there was a way out.

George Legg was 28 when hostilities broke out in September of 1939, a skilled labourer in what was about to be a war industry. Massey-Harris knew it would be switching some of its huge plant to war work – this would include building American-designed M3 Stuart tanks on license for Allied forces.

Legg did not have to go but he went, following his brother into the army.

After signing up on March 18, 1940, George did his basic training at No. 2 District Depot, in Hamilton, Ontario, and from there was off to Kingston for signals training.

Those units were responsible for not only maintaining contact between headquarters and various units (using Morse code, telephones, radios, and even signal flags), but also setting up the “networks” and ensuring they continued to operate.

Even while someone was shooting at you.

Legg got overseas in September, 1940, attached to 2nd Canadian Corps of Signals, part of the 2nd Canadian Division. He qualified as a lineman in March of 1941.

Good luck saw him miss the disaster of the Dieppe raid (Operation Jubilee, Aug, 19, 1942), so for three years it was training, more training, and for a change, some more training, as many Canadian troops went off to fight in the Italian campaign.

Combat finally arrived in the days after the Normandy campaign got underway on June 6, 1944.

As the battle for the city of Caen and the attempted breakout from the Normandy perimeter  turned into a cauldron, Second Division found itself on the southern flank of the northern zone, taking heavy casualties under brutal conditions.

Losses in 2nd Canadian Signals were high, and by the time Legg came ashore on July 8 he and his fellow reinforcements were sorely needed. The fighting went on without let up, Caen fell on July 19, the battle for Verrieres Ridge was won, and with the start of Operation Cobra the chance for a final breakout loomed ahead.

Four days before month’s end, 2 Division Signals was down 18 operators, three linemen, and nine dispatch riders. The unit diary called the situation “a bit grim.”

On July 27 they had a relatively quiet day, but lines had to be maintained and George was out with a team. A mortar attack came in. Legg was badly hit. Corpsmen took him to an aid station.

George died later that day, one of 210,000 allied casualties (killed, wounded, missing) suffered over what would be a two month campaign. He is buried in the Cemetiere Militaire Canadien de Bretteville, about eight kilometres south of Caen.

Second Division’s motto is To Serve with Honour and Perseverance, and George Legg lived up to it well.

No. 64 (of 125) in my East York Collegiate Memory Project finds us in Algeria, where another day brings what should have been simple routine ...

When many young men went to war, they left behind family who knew they were going to be in combat, and what that meant.

Other families were somewhat reassured because their son would be in a non-combat role and thus much more likely to come home.

It did not always work that way, and thus our story.

XXX

James Locke Johnston was the son of George and Marion (Locke), born in 1920 and brought up in the Toronto suburb of East York.

He had three brothers, Frank, Kenneth, and Murray (the first two would serve in the RCAF). Dad was a salesman, mum was at home, and they all lived at 143 Springdale Avenue.

They were Brethren, members of the Grace and Truth Mission, on Greenwood Avenue.

Jimmy had scarlet fever as a boy, but bounced right back. He attended R.H. McGregor elementary, and then on to East York Collegiate.

Johnston’s first job was as a customs clerk, at 159 Bay Street, where he stayed from 1938 to 1941. At the same time he took night school classes in business and typing – the latter a big help with his true interest – radio.

XXX

Young people in the 1920s and 1930s grew up at the same time as radio was coming of age. Every home had to have one, and the programs memorably ranged from comedy (the Jack Benny Show was huge), entertainment (in Canada it was The Happy Gang), sports (Foster Hewitt doing Maple Leafs’ games, plus lots of boxing), and, of course, music.

Jimmy Johnston was smitten, and determined to be part of it.

When he joined the Royal Canadian Air Force, in April of 1941, he marked Radio Technician as his job of choice.

The British Commonwealth Air Training Plan saw him through basic at No. 1 Manning Depot, on the Canadian National Exhibition site, in Toronto. Then it was straight off to the main base at Trenton, Ontario, to become a “radio basher.”

And Jimmy was good, right from the start. He was in England just six months after enlisting, where the air force sent him through a lot of advanced training.

His first squadron job was with Coastal Command’s No. 86 RAF, at Wick, way (way) up in northern Scotland. Warmer climes were ahead, however.

It was November of 1942 when No. 328 Wing (General Reconnaissance) headed for the Middle East (Blida, Algeria) with four squadrons, including two with the Lockheed Hudson, one with Swordfish torpedo bombers, and one with the Supermarine Walrus.

Jimmy went with them, and was made part of No. 4 MSU (Mobile Supply Unit), a collection of 17-20 experts in every aspect of keeping aircraft flying. Only the best were chosen.

Johnston rose to Corporal, and became a Sergeant on April 1, 1943.

XXX

One of the jobs involved with radio repair was taking a short trip in an aircraft once the radio installed had been repaired or replaced. It was standard stuff, and by May 23, Jimmy had done it dozens of times.

That day he finished on a Hudson VI (FK715), attached to No. 608 Squadron, joining the crew for a test flight shortly afterwards.

Pilot Fred Addis (Royal New Zealand Air Force) lined up on the runway, with his crew aboard along with Johnston. The Canadian was likely sitting with regular wireless operator Gord Carter.

The Hudson made a normal takeoff run, lifted into the air, and then immediately dived into the ground and exploded. Everyone was killed.

Gone with Addis, Carter, and Johnston, were Stan Goddard, Benjamin Grimes, Fred Thomson, and Norm Wood. All are buried at El Alia Cemetery.

Johnston was identified by a letter in his pocket addressed to himself, and markings on his uniform.

Per Ardua ad Astra to a brave crew.

No. 63 (of 125) in my East York Collegiate Memory Project tells of a young man who stuggled through the BCATP, found his place as a bomb aimer, and eventually made a trip to Lorient to bash the unbashable U boat pens ...

There is a bicycle trail that runs along the Boulevard Roger le Port, at the south end of France’s city of Lorient, right where the Blavet River empties into the Bay of Biscay.

If you dismount, and stare north across the water you can immediately see a huge concrete structure – the old German U-boat pens of the Second World War. Walls up to 12 feet thick, a roof of 16 feet, it was designed to withstand any bombs of the time, and did so up until nearly the end of the conflict.

This did not stop Bomber Command from trying, however, and here is where we find our story.

XXX

When Canada went to war on Sept. 10, 1939, Bill Hogg was in the midst of putting together a good life in the Toronto suburb of East York.

He was the adopted son of James and Elizabeth Hogg, brought into the family at three years old, in 1922. There was a sister, listed in the records only as Mrs. G. Hamlyn.

Though not the largest of boys around the neighbourhood of his 13 Coleridge Ave. home, Bill grew up an excellent athlete, especially in baseball where he excelled.

School saw him through Danforth Park, and then two years of East York Collegiate before leaving day classes to take a job at 16 with Westman Publishers Ltd., a purveyor of popular magazines, including Business Woman.

None of this was unusual at the height of the Depression – you needed a job to help the family, and finding one was often a matter of luck.

Bill was not through with school, however. He plugged away at night classes back at EYCI and earned his high school matriculation in 1940.

Meanwhile, he was learning the publishing business, impressing his boss, gaining ever-more responsibility. And he had a serious squeeze – Joan Kathleen Plummer – of 247 Linsmore Ave.

A young man on the rise.

XXX

The war intruded.

Bill Hogg joined the RCAF on Sept. 11, 1940, at the height of the Battle of Britain, with the intention of becoming a pilot.

And why not? The recruiters liked the look of him, he was handsome, hard working, good at sports … just the thing. So off to the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan he went.

Reality had other ideas. Hogg washed out as a pilot at Dunnville (“100% lacking in coordination and air sense.”), so was sent off to be an Observer (navigator/bomb aimer). He tended to get literally and figuratively lost at the former, but found his skill at the latter.

It took a while, but once Bill graduated from Air Observer School, at Dafoe, Saskatchewan, he made it to England on 13 May, 1942. Five months later, he and his new crew landed with one of the RAF’s most famous units – 50 Squadron.

Before leaving Canada, he had married Joan, enjoying a few weeks leave with her before duty called.

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The Kriegsmarine’s submarine service, under Admiral Karl Doenitz, set up five major bases along the Bay of Biscay – Lorient, Brest, Saint-Nazire, La Pallice, and Bordeaux.

They were regularly bombed, but making a dent in the concrete pens was frustratingly difficult. Undeterred, Bomber Command launched a campaign in early 1943, including 10 tries at Lorient, from January to May.

When Lancaster III ED 484 (VN-Q) lifted into the air from Skellingthorpe (just west of Lincoln) on Feb, 13, under pilot Evan Arthur Davies, it joined 465 aircraft for what would be the largest attack on Lorient in the entire war.

There were 164 Lancs, 140 Wellingtons, 96 Halifaxes, and 66 Stirlings, which would drop over 1,000 tons of bombs. They didn’t hurt the pens, but did destroy much of the town around them, which helped.

Only seven aircraft were lost. Those stats did not help the Davies crew.

Their Lancaster came down about 12 ½ miles northwest of Lorient, over the Bay, near the town of Concarneau. All eight young men were killed.

Five were never found: Donald Bishop, a new pilot along for a “dickey” trip, Maurice Steward, the engineer, navigator John Bailey, wireless operator John McCarthy, and gunner Keith Hodgson. They are remembered on the Runnymede Memorial, northwest of London.

Three bodies washed ashore: pilot Davies, gunner Lloyd Peterson, and bomb aimer Bill Hogg. They are buried at the Gavres Communal Cemetery.

Per Ardua ad Astra to a brave crew.

This story is part of the East York Collegiate Memory Project, honouring the 125 young men from the school who gave their lives in the Second World War.

No. 62 (of 125) in my East York Collegiate Memory Project tells of a fine athlete and student, who becomes a fighter pilot and finds his fate off Land's End ...

Chief Officer Roy Seccombe was senior officer on the bridge of the ferry RMV Scillonian, on the bright, summer late-morning of Aug. 12, 1943.

Tasked with running between the port of Penzance, and the Scilly Islands, the 429-ton, single screw vessel had been toiling the popular route since 1925, at the extreme south west corner of England, near the point famously known as Land’s End.

A glint caught the Chief’s eye, about one point to starboard, almost dead ahead. He recognized it immediately as a Hurricane fighter, a common site as there was a night flying training base at RAF St. Mary’s, on the islands behind him to port, and more on the mainland.

The aircraft came down the starboard side, and disappeared to the rear. A few minutes later, Seccombe went to the port wing of the bridge and saw the plane coming back – right at sea level. Too low. Too close. Almost at the last second, it pulled up to clear the ship.

And here is where we find our locally famous story.

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Thomas Bamburgh Hunter was the type of young man the RCAF looked for in a future fighter pilot.

Born in October of 1921 to Henry Palmer Hunter, and Nora Jane (both from Newcastle, England), he grew up an only child at 38 Aldwych Avenue, in the Toronto suburb of East York.

From the time he entered elementary at Hartman Jones Memorial School, and then on to East York Collegiate, Tom was athletic, strong in academics, and a popular guy on campus.

A basketball player on EYCI’s junior team, he was also good at skating, bowling and baseball.

Halfway through Tom’s final year in high school, he went in for an emergency appendectomy and missed the rest of the term. In the fall he took night courses at Danforth Technical School.

When the war started, Hunter was working as a carman apprentice, in the repair facility at the Canadian National Railway’s Leaside car shop. By this time, he was 6-foot-1, and a wiry 157 pounds.

Tom joined the RCAF in 1941, went to Manning Depot in Toronto and began a career that led directly to fighter pilot.

His records show the air force was impressed with him, one report stating: “Good appearance, pleasant manner, quiet, thoroughly reliable looking, good intelligence, industrious and keen to get on in world. Good material for RCAF.”

The British Commonwealth Air Training Plan saw him through elementary (EFTS) at Oshawa, service flying (SFTS) at Dunnville, Ontario (where he earned his wings on Dec. 31, 1941), then on to England two months later.

XXX

Tom’s records show the next 18 months filled with training, and then a short stint with a combat unit.

We know that in May of 1942, he had a tough moment when flying an obsolete Fairy Battle, pulling a target drogue for other pilots to work on their shooting eye.

The airman in the back seat had to dump the long cloth, coloured cone. It would not properly eject and somehow curled around the tailplane, freezing most of Tom’s controls. He earned praise for putting the machine down safely.

After that it was through No. 55 and No. 57 Operational Training Units (OTU), then in March of 1943 to No. 3 Squadron, RAF. This unit had just switched onto the Hawker Typhoon – a challenging aircraft – which would be used in its greatest role of low-level tactical, and anti-shipping strikes.

Just 12 days later, Tom Hunter volunteered for night fighting duties, and was moved again, this time to 1449 Flight, based out of Perraporth, near Land’s End. They had a small sub-flight of five based at RAF St. Mary’s, on the Scilly Isles.

On Aug. 12, he was ordered to take an aircraft from St. Mary’s to Portreath, for inspection, returning in another aeroplane that had finished repair.

XXX

Hurricane IIb (Z.3658) was getting ever closer to RMS Scillonian, and Chief Seccombe knew what was up – a hot-shot young pilot was “beating up” the vessel, having some fun at the sailor’s expense.

It had happened before, but never this close.

Finally the aircraft pulled up, engine screaming, and for a moment it looked as though the pilot would pull it off. The Hurricane, however, clipped a wing on the top of the main mast, wobbled, tried to correct, then ploughed into the sea about 50 yards to starboard.

The captain came on the bridge, turn the ship around, and lowered a lifeboat. They found some debris, papers that identified who was flying, but that was all.

Tom Hunter was dead at 21. His body never found. A victim, if you will, of the difficulty in training fighter pilots to be comfortable with flying right on the aggressive edge, without going over it.

A report by the RAF said: “The need for elimination of this type of accident is again stressed to all pilots of this flight … This accident was the direct result of disobedience to orders constantly repeated to all pilots.”

Thomas Bamburgh Hunter is remembered on the Runnymede Memorial, near Heathrow Airport, northwest of London.

No. 61 (of 125) in my East York Collegiate Memory Project finds a troubled young man in the hell of Ortona, Italy ...

Harold Mucklestone seemed to have a problem with authority from his later teenaged years, which seemed fair since authority apparently had problems with him.

Harry was born in December of 1921, the son of Richard and Effie, and younger brother of Richard, Jr.

There are a handful of residences listed for the family, including Enderby Road (in the Toronto neighbourhood of Riverdale), and at 231 Torrens Avenue, in the suburb of East York.

It would make some sense the youngest Mucklestone was at the latter address in the mid-1930s, as that’s when he attended East York Collegiate. From where he was invited to leave during his second year of high school, though records do not show why he was expelled.

The young man’s hobbies tell a story in themselves – stamp collecting, chemistry, skiing, snowshoeing and hunting. They are mostly individual activities, and indicate an active and intelligent man who preferred his own company.

Whatever was going on in his life, it could not have been helped by the death of his father on Sept. 16, 1939, right at the start of the war.

Harry then worked as an apprentice surveyor for eight months at Baird and Mucklestone, co-owned by his uncle, Again, no indication of why he left.

XXX

Harry Mucklestone and the military authorities were not often on the same page, as the latter seemed unhappy with the former’s somewhat lax approach to the rules.

The young soldier’s records show he went absent without leave (AWL) five times training in Canada and added some more in Britain. There were also minor infractions, including being drunk, late for parade, not showing for parade, not being at his ordered post, and showing up improperly dressed.

One of his company commanders wrote: “This man is incorrigible and a bad influence on others in his company. I recommend he complete his full sentence and then if possible be transferred to some other formation.”

In June of 1943 while training in England, Harry disappeared for 15 days, finally being caught by the military police and brought back for court martial. That cost him 90 days in the slammer; he served just over 30.

In total the records show a total of 88 days of confinement, and 162 days of docked pay.

By the end of all this, Harry was in one of Canada’s top units, the Loyal Edmonton Regiment, and they were off for Sicily, and eventually Italy, as part of the Mediterranean campaign.

Mucklestone missed that first invasion, but was back on duty to make the sailing of the SS Santa Elena, bringing 1,800 Canadian soldiers and nurses to Naples, Italy, as part of convoy KMF 25A.

On. Nov, 6, the convoy was attacked by German aircraft and torpedoed. Survivors were taken off and the ship eventually sank after being accidently rammed in the dark, and then breaking in half while under tow.

Everyone aboard lost all their possessions, as Harry said in a letter home.

But he got there.

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The Battle of Ortona was, to put it mildly, a bitch – fought from Dec. 20-28 about halfway up the Adriatic coast of Italy.

Ortona was one of the few deep-water ports on that side, and thus hugely important strategically. The troops on both sides were elite – two battalions of the German 1st Parachute Division, against units of the 1st Canadian Infantry Division, including the Loyal Eddies.

This town of 10,000 was reduced to rubble, and in those ruins both sides gave no quarter and expected none. It was house-to-house the whole way.

Canadians developed a tactic called “mouse holing” -- blowing the top floor wall between attached houses with explosives, and then charging through the hole to clear the enemy before doing it again with the next dwelling.

The Germans would booby trap many of the houses, waiting for the Canadians to take it, and then setting off the charge.

Canada suffered around 500 dead and almost 2,000 wounded before Ortona was secured.

Near the end of this hell, Harry Mucklestone arrived with around 100 reinforcements, to join C Company of the Loyal Edmonton.

They were sent to occupy and defend a building on the square opposite Ortona’s cathedral. The regimental diary says the Germans sent a small patrol to confirm the Canucks were there, and on confirmation blew the building.

It came crashing down, killing more than 20 men. Pioneers (engineers) set to work digging the men out, while a fight raged around them. Four were found that day, and one body taken out, while a final survivor was found three days later.

But Harry was dead.

At the time it most counted, he was on time, where he was supposed to be, ready to fight, and willing to die with his comrades if need be.

The motto of the Loyal Eddies is “Fears no Foe”. Seemed to fit Harry to a T.

Harry is buried in the Moro River Cemetery.

No. 60 (of 125) in my East York Collegiate Memory Project finishes the story of the Sealy brothers, two of whom came out of the BCATP and gave their lives in the Second World War ..

There came a knock on the door at 857 Sammon Ave., on Jan. 30, 1944.

It had been a tough couple of days for the Sealy family, as they had been remembering eldest son Harold, who had been killed on Jan. 29, 1943, in the crash of a Wellington bomber, on the way back from a raid on Lorient.

At the door was someone delivering a telegram from the RCAF. This is what it said:

Jan. 30.

REGRET TO ADVISE THAT YOUR SON R ONE SEVEN NOUGHT SEVEN NINE SERGEANT ALBERT EDWARD SEALY IS REPORTED MISSING AFTER AIR OPERATIONS OVERSEAS JANUARY TWENTY EIGHT NIGHT STOP LETTER FOLLOWS

Two of three sons lost, within a year and one day of each other.

XXX

Albert Sealy was a son of East York, born April 18, 1924, and raised near Woodbine Avenue, at the south end of the Toronto suburb.

His dad was Leonard Henry John Thomas Sealy, a painter and decorator, and mother was Mabel. Both had emigrated from England. There were three sons – Harold, Jack, and Albert.

The boys were not big, but they were competitive, playing hockey, baseball, and cricket. Albert liked to help his eldest brother, Harry, raising racing pigeons.

They all went through Danforth Park School, around the corner, and then East York Collegiate, where Albert graduated with his junior matriculation in 1941, at 17 years old.

While waiting to turn 18, Sealy worked for a while as a clerk at the Chartered Trust Company, 34 King Street West, in the business district. He joined the Royal Canadian Air Force in April of 1942.

Albert’s medical report on reporting at No. 1 Manning Depot, on the Canadian National Exhibition grounds, is revealing. He had dislocated his left elbow at 15 years old, and also carried a 2 ½ inch scar on the left palm. A later report called him pleasant and cheerful. “He is, however, aggressive …”

The 5-foot-5, 122-pounder wanted to be a pilot – the air force had different ideas. After finishing up at No. 1 Initial Training School, the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan sent him straight to No. 6 Bombing and Gunnery, at Fingal, Ontario. Then it was off to No. 9 Air Observer School, in St-Jean, Quebec, from where Sealy graduated as a bomb aimer with 105 hours of time in the air behind him.

During Albert’s training, word had come on the death of his brother Harold.

XXX

The Short Stirling was the first four-engined bomber to enter combat service with the Royal Air Force, in 1941.

But by the time Albert Sealy and his new crew arrived at RAF Lakenheath, in late November of 1943, it had been withdrawn from regular duties in favour of the Handley Page Halifax, and Avro Lancaster.

There were still jobs the Stirling could do well, including the dropping of mines (known as “Gardening”) and that was the specialist role of No. 199 Squadron.

Flight Sergeant Charles Clifton was at the controls of Stirling Mk. III, EF 505 (EX-R) when it lifted off from Lakenheath, in East Anglia, at 1846 hours, Jan. 28, 1944. His crew were navigator Tom Ord, wireless man Walter Newman, bombaimer Albert Sealy, engineer Leslie Rush, and gunners Andy Johnston and Cyril Atherton.

This mission was minelaying in the Bay of Kiel, which was basically a straight-shot from base and back. To get there, however, a crew had to safely get over the Frisian Islands, off the west coast of Denmark, and they contained the Luftwaffe’s deepest belt of searchlights, anti-aircraft guns, and radar installations.

Just off the island of Romo, they were jumped by a German night fighter, piloted by Feldwebel Klaus Moller, of IV./NJG 3. Clifton ordered Sealy to dump the mines (they were found near the village of Juvre, sticking out of the sand) in order the lighten the aircraft and give them a chance.

It wasn’t enough, and the aircraft came down right on the eastern shoreline of Romo, on the straight of water separating it from the main Danish coast.

The tide washed Atherton’s body out into the straight, to come back ashore in February. Three other bodies were found among the wreckage, reportedly spread as much of two kilometres up and down the shore.

Three others were gathered together and buried as a group. All six were properly identified in 1946. All six are buried in the Kirkeby Cemetery, on the island.

Per Ardua ad Astra to a brave crew.

Jack Sealy survived the war, got married, and raised three sons in East York.

No. 59 (of 125) in my East York Collegiate Memory Project tells of young Harry Sealy, one of three brothers who fought in the war. He came out of the BCATP as an Observer, and found his fate on a hillside in southwest England ...

Back in 1942, Harry Sealy came back from a training flight with his 420 Squadron crew, based at Middleton St. George airfield, and found someone else in his bed.

He walked over to the cot, threw the blanket off and … up sprang his younger brother Jack – serving in England with the Royal Canadian Ordnance Corps.

It was a riotous, happy reunion for these two of three Sealy brothers and typical of such a close family.

That’s where we find our story.

XXX

Harold Hogarth Sealy always had an interest in wings, and taking to the sky.

In his case, however, that vision was expressed through birds – homing pigeons, to be exact.

He was mad for raising, training, and racing the birds and accounts from the day say he was a natural at it. So good, in fact, that Harry was asked to sell a breeding pair to the military for duty on the East Coast.

His dad was the expansively named Leonard Henry John Thomas Sealy, who worked as a painter and decorator, sharing a marriage with Mabel, and they brought up three sons at 857 Sammon Ave,, in the Toronto suburb of East York.

Harry was the eldest, followed by Jack, and then Albert.

The boys were competitive, playing a lot of sports, including hockey, baseball, and cricket (the latter likely picked up from their English father).

Harry went to Danforth Park School, just around the corner, and then to East York Collegiate. Sealy had a few jobs on graduating, but settled in as a clerk at T. Eaton Corporation, the nation’s largest department store chain.

When the war started and it was time to enlist, the dream was to follow his beloved birds into the sky, so Royal Canadian Air Force was the obvious choice.

We know what the RCAF thought when they first got a look at all 5-foot-5, 121 and a quarter pounds of him. His records include the comment “a rather nervous, small wiry type.” That latter attribute was the key, as it was accepted at the time to mean lean, tough, with no quit, despite the size.

Harry’s trip through the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan was bumpy at first as he “washed out” of elementary pilot training at No. 20 EFTS, Oshawa, Ontario.

Undeterred and recognizing his math skills, the air force sent Sealy through Yarmouth, Nova Scotia, Winnipeg, Victoriaville, Quebec, and finally Rivers, Manitoba, graduating him as an Observer (navigator/bomb aimer) on Feb. 28, 1942.

It was off to England to crew up and, eventually, a spot with the Snowy Owls in No. 6 Group, Bomber Command.

XXX

Winter weather in north Yorkshire and south Durham area of northern England was always iffy at best and today we might shake our heads at the notion of sending brave crews out to attack on a night even a homing pigeon might find a safe haven.

It would only worsen on the route to Lorient, France, where 420 would bomb the U-boat pens.

Flight Sergeant Delmer (Sandy) Sanderson lifted Vickers Wellington III – DF626 (PT-V) into the air at 1632 hours, Jan. 29, 1943, carrying a 4,000 pound high explosive “Cookie” and a crew of six. Along were Charlie Downton, the navigator, John Bittner, air gunner, Harry Sealy, acting as bomb aimer, tail gunner Hank Ernst, and wireless operator P.G. Beauchamp.

It was a battle just to make Lorient as Sanderson had to deal with rain, electrical storms, and heavy icing. They pressed on, regardless, and over the target released the cookie.

Nothing happened. The bomb was held up (likely by ice) and would not drop.

Sanderson tried a zoom, dropping the nose to pick up speed and then pulling back on the stick in hopes the momentum would release the cookie. No dice. He tried getting low in hopes warmer air would do the trick. Still no luck.

So, they dragged themselves, the aircraft, and the bomb back home, crossing the southwest coast of England, unintentionally right over Plymouth, where the anti-aircraft gunners opened fire, but missed.

Having escaped that, the bomb finally let go, exploding in the open countryside and lightening the aircraft. Rain pelted them, and the countryside was socked in. Sanderson and the navigator decided RAF Exeter would be a good idea, as it was close by.

They circled three or four times over what the crew thought was the field when Ernst suddenly spied the “pundit light”, a beacon flashing the two-letter code for Exeter. Almost simultaneously the aircraft hit a hillside and exploded.

Sanderson, Downton, Bittner, and Sealy were killed. Beauchamp was seriously hurt and would take a long time to recover.

Ernst was badly burned on his body, and had many other injuries. He would become one of the famous Guinea Pigs, at Royal Victoria Hospital, where Dr. Archibald McIndoe, and his staff, were performing miracles on those burned in combat. ‘

The crewman’s story was told 61 years later by CBC News in a documentary you can find here:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_dd7wTP_YSU

Harold Sealy, eldest of the three East York brothers, was buried in St. John’s Cemetery, Bridgwater, Somerset. Jack Sealy was one of the mourners.

Per Ardua ad Astra to a brave crew.

One year less a day after Harry died, his youngest brother Albert was killed when his Stirling bomber was shot down. 

Middle brother Jack survived the war, lived in East York, and brought up three boys.

No. 58 (of 125) in my East York Collegiate Memory Project tells of a young man on HMCS Ottawa who had a wedding just ahead, and fate directly in front of him ...

If you were coming home from work in Toronto, on the 21st of September, 1942, you might have picked up your Home and Sports Edition of the Evening Telegram off the porch, and taken a glance at the front page while going through the door.

And you night have been floored.

In the war’s third year the news was still often bad, but this headline was shocking for people all over the city.

DESTROYER SUNK, 113 LOST

12 Toronto men in List of Missing

Among the 22 sailors pictured (including 10 from around the province) were two from East York Collegiate. One was Fred Coomer (see link below) and the other Dave Houghton.

That’s where we find our story.

XXX

David Harvey Houghton was born in 1920 to William and Eva.

He had two brothers, Wilfrid and Elmer (the latter died in infancy in 1923), and sisters Eva, Violet, and Muriel.

They were a quite religious family, members of the Plymouth Brethren, and records seem to indicate they moved around somewhat during the 1920s and 1930s, eventually settling in the City of Toronto at 1 Highbourne Road, in the comfortable neighbourhood around Oriole Park.

Dad owned a company called Houghton Paper Cartons, based at 536 Eastern Avenue.

David attended Danforth Park School and then did two years at East York Collegiate, leaving to work full time as a salesman at the family business, where he had put in hours since the age of 15.

He was also, as the war began, in love with Miss Frances Fraser, of Randolph Road, in the Toronto suburb of Leaside.

XXX

Houghton enlisted in July of 1941, going active on Oct. 1. This was not unusual for the Royal Canadian Navy at that time as it was still building from one of the smallest fleets in the world (13 vessels) to what would be one of the largest (450 ships).

He went through basic in Toronto (where the Navy flagged the young man’s superb 20/15 eyesight), then on to St. Hyacinth (in Halifax) for advanced, emerging as a signaller. By the middle of 1942, Houghton was earning $1.60 a day, and sending $25 a month home to his mother.

As David and Fred Coomer were only a year apart in age, they likely knew each other in high school, and we can surmise that when both went aboard the River Class destroyer HMCS Ottawa they had reacquainted.

It was a tough berth, in the midst of the vicious Battle of the Atlantic, and both had important jobs that would have been close to each other during both regular watches and on Action Stations. Coomer was acting submarine detection officer (ASDIC - sonar), and Houghton’s regular spot would be two deck's  above.

XXX

As midnight approached on Sept. 12, 1942, HMCS Ottawa, had been through the ringer for three days.

The ship was one of seven escorts for convoy ON 127 (the 127th Outbound convoy of the war, heading to North America) which consisted of 35 freighters and tankers.

A 13 U boat Wolf Pack attached on Oct. 10, eventually sinking seven ships and damaging a number of others. Ottawa was everywhere – herding, chasing, attacking, covering, and picking up 23 survivors from a torpedoed tanker.

Most of the Pack had left for home in the early hours of Sept. 13, but U91 was looking for a final kill. She found it when Ottawa came into range.

The first torpedo hit at 0205, and the second 10 minutes later, splitting the vessel in half, leaving the bow and stern both pointing at the night sky before plunging to the depths in just a few minutes.

Houghton and Coomer died, along with 112 of their crew members, along with 18 merchant mariners. Fred’s childhood best friend Edward Fox survived with 61 other Ottawa crew, and seven from the tanker.

But 114 crew members went down, along with 18 merchant mariners.

David Houghton and Miss Frances Fraser would have been married a month later on his next scheduled leave.

Fair winds and following seas to the brave men of HMCS Ottawa.

No. 57 (of 125) in my East York Collegiate Memorial Project finds us on HMCS Ottawa, where two lifelong friends will face their fates ...

Cliched stories exist because they are repetitive tales based in fact.

One of the most oft told from any war features childhood friends who join up to fight together, but only one comes home.

And that is where we find our tale.

XXX

Frederick William Coomer was born in November of 1919, and named after his father. Mum was May.

He had three older sisters – Annie (Greer), May (Bowcott), and Dorothy (Johnston), and together the family settled at 117 Torrens Avenue, a few houses south from Pape Avenue, in the Toronto suburb of East York.

His best friend was Ed Fox, and they did everything together growing up, though Fred went to East York Collegiate, and Ed a different high school.

When Fred finished school he took a job as a clerk with the Commercial Union Insurance Company, while at the same time completing an electrical course at the University of Toronto.

War came and Coomer joined the Army, winding up with the Canadian Ordnance Corps in the stores section “counting nuts and bolts” as the joke went.

But he and Ed heeded the call of the sea, joining the Royal Canadian Navy together on Feb. 1, 1941. They were trained in the Toronto Division (Canadian National Exhibition) before heading to HMCS Stadacona, the official name for the Halifax naval base.

Then it was on to HMCS Ottawa, though records don’t show if the two buddies arrived on the same day. Coomer came aboard on August 18, 1941.

XXX

HMCS Ottawa began life as HMS Crusader, commissioned in 1932 into the Royal Navy. Her destiny would be in another direction.

With war obviously on the horizon, the Royal Canadian Navy found itself in a quandary – how were they to protect the coasts and do their share of convoy escort duty with a navy whose ships numbered less than a small used-car lot?

Canada’s government authorized the building of two destroyers and the purchase of whatever they could get from Britain. Thus, Crusader came to the RCN in 1938, renamed Ottawa (for the river, not the capital).

When war began, the RCN had only six or seven River Class destroyers (depending if you count the one just being commissioned), plus five minesweepers.It would grow exponentially to more than 450 ships over the next six years.

Fred Coomer and Ed Fox came aboard Ottawa as the growth was starting to kick in.

XXX

On Sept. 4, 1942, 35 freighters and tankers left a number of ports in Britain and formed up as convoy ON 127 (the 127th Outbound convoy of the war to North America).

They were met by the mid-ocean escort group of two destroyers (Ottawa and St. Croix) and six corvettes (sort of small destroyers). Only one of the escorts had a working radar and this was a lot of vessels to guard.

They sailed into a nasty, violent brawl that would leave seven ships sunk and more damaged as Admiral Karl Doenitz deployed 13 U boats in a Wolf Pack against the convoy.

Starting Sept. 10, Ottawa was kept continually busy, hunting and chasing away attackers, keeping ships in line and, in one instance, picking up 23 survivors from the tanker Empire Oil.

Able Seaman Coomer was the acting submarine detection officer, which meant sonar. That would only work on submerged subs, and most of the attacks at this time of the war were on the surface at night.

By early on the 12th, most of the subs had headed home but a few stayed for a passing shot just as escort reinforcements were arriving from St. John’s.

Shortly after midnight on the 13th, Ottawa took her first torpedo from U91 at 0205. around the mess deck.

As the crew were fighting fires and damage, another hit came in at 0215, breaking the destroyer in half. The bow and stern stood straight up and disappeared in a few minutes.

Ed Fox was one of the 62 crew and seven from the tanker who survived. Fred Coomer went down as one of 114 crew, and 132 overall, who perished.

Fred Coomer was one of two EYCI students who died, the other being David Houghton.

Edward Fox finished the war as a Lieutenant, went to the University of Toronto for chemical engineering, and had a long life with four children and a number of grandchildren.

He died peacefully at Sunnybrook Hospital’s Veteran’s Wing in 2005.

Fair winds and following seas to all the brave crew of HMCS Ottawa.

No. 56 (of 125) in my East York Collegiate Memory Project finds a young man come out of the BCATP as a pilot, surviving his  first tour of operations, and then helping young pilots prepare for combat ...

Early in the morning of June 17, 1944, Pilot Officer W.H. (Harry) Wright prepared to wheel his 433 Squadron Halifax III bomber (LV 911, I Ink) onto the runway at Skipton-on-Swale, for an attack on Soutrecourt, France.

There was a startling bump from behind that shook the aircraft as a Halifax from 424 Squadron (that shared the airfield) collided with the rear of I Ink, crushing the tail turret.

Gunner Donald Horton, of Humboldt, Saskatchewan, suffered a severe skull fracture that would take his life in hospital later that day.

His crew mates would act as Don’s pallbearers three days later.

And it’s where we find our story.

XXX

Harry Wright was born at Comrie, Scotland, in 1917.

His parents were Thomas Henry, and Lizzie Wright, and they came to Canada shortly afterwards, eventually settling in the Toronto suburb of East York where the family (including second son, Gordon) lived at 942 Carlaw Avenue.

Harry went to Christie Public School, near Christie Pits, which would suggest the family lived for a while in west Toronto, Then, it was on to East York Collegiate for a few years.

The young Wright left before graduating and finished his high school at Shaw’s Business College, graduating with a certificate in stenography and typing – earning a job as a secretary with the Deloro Smelting Works, in eastern Ontario.

His leadership skills led Harry to become president of the Marmora Kiwanis Club.

Harry joined up in August of 1940, but was not called by the Royal Canadian Air Force until November of the next year as the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan got up to speed and the backup cleared.

The trip to sergeant pilot went through Manning Depot, at Toronto, Initial, at Belleville, Elementary, at St. Eugene, Quebec, and Service Flying, at Hagersville, Ontario.

Proudly sporting his wings and ready for bomber duty, Wright arrived in England on Feb. 4, 1943.

XXX

Harry Wright was a good pilot, and he brought his crew home each time out.

On one occasion, over Berlin, the aircraft was attacked by a Wilde Sau (Wild Boar) FW190, using the glow from the target below to outline bomber aircraft against the clouds.

Four times the single seat fighter came around, and four times Harry threw his Halifax into a corkscrew, or weaved and banked, to get away. He continued over the target, dropped the bombs and came home.

That earned the East Yorker a Distinguished Flying Cross.

Finishing more than 35 operations, newly promoted Pilot Officer Wright was “screened”, which brought six months off, and the chancy opportunity to train young pilots at an Operational Training Unit.

The aircraft there were often tired, the engines “clapped out” and the kid in the seat next to you without much experience.

Harry went first to No. 86 OTU, and then to No. 18.

XXX

When Harry Wright, DFC, and Sgt. Denis Phillips, his pupil, climbed into the cockpit of Wellington X, LP844, they had something in common that may well have killed them.

The instructor had 459 total flying hours, but only two on the Wellington at night.

The youngster in the left seat (actually flying) had 212 hours in, but only two on the Wellington at night.

They took off 1900 from North Worksop airfield, Nottinghamshire, with a total crew of five on what was listed as a “weather check” -- a routine training assignment.

Witnesses reported the aircraft only rose about 200 feet and then seemed to be circling back for an emergency landing. It went into a starboard spin (to the right), hit the ground, ripped a wing off and then cartwheeled to a stop.

The front half of the Wellington burst into flames, killing Wright, Phillips, and wireless operator John Corlett. Sgt. Hounslow, the navigator, was pulled out badly burned and injured, but he survived.

And the tail turret, where Harry Wright had once seen his only casualty on his combat crew, was found some distance away. With Sgt. Winters, crawling out, uninjured.

Because the roll of the dice in war went that way sometimes.

The ultimate cause of the crash was written up as pilot failure -- not enough speed, undercarriage not retracted and the flap lever not in neutral.

Harry Wright is buried in Harrowgate (Stonefall) Cemetery.

Per Ardua ad Astra to a brave crew.

No. 55 (of 125) in my East York Collegiate Memory Project finds a young radio operator heading for Hamburg and a date with a Luftwaffe nightfighter ace ...

Albert Schothorst, 6, was sitting with his mother at the kitchen table of their farmhouse sorting beans, in the dark evening of Feb. 3, 1943, when he was startled by a loud crash.

It was very near, but the young boy was not allowed to go out into the night of occupied Holland, to see what it might have been. Only the next morning did the story, our tale, come to light.

XXX

William Obediah Powell was born in 1921, to William George Powell (from Bristol, England), and Gertrude McGee, of Boston, Massachusetts.

Dad was an interior decorator, and he and his wife brought up four children in the Toronto suburb of East York, at 642 Mortimer Ave.

Bill had two brothers, George and Lloyd, and a sister Phyllis, and as they grew attended the Church of the Resurrection, on Coxwell Avenue, Plains Road Public School, and East York Collegiate.

Records show the younger William either completed one- or two-years of high school, before going out to work, first in shoe repair (six months) before settling in as a messenger for the Royal Bank of Canada.

Powell loved hockey above all sports, and he was pretty good at it. He was a member of the Royal Bank club as part of the Toronto Bank Hockey League. Lionel Conacher, Canada’s Athlete of the Half Century (1900-1950) played in the TBHL, as did Punch Imlach, the future Hall of Fame coach.

Somewhere during this time, Bill had flown for six hours, though it’s unknown if on an early airliner, or in a small aircraft, but we do know he got airsick. Nevertheless, when war came it was off to RCAF right away.

His trip through the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan was straightforward – Manning Depot, at Toronto, then to radio at Guelph, and Macdonald, Manitoba, and gunner at Jarvis, Ontario.

The air force found something else of interest in young Powell – superior night vision. He went overseas in 1942.

XXX

Warrant Officer (2) Powell had a career filled with experiences.

While still at No. 23 Operational Training Unit, as a wireless operator on a Wellington bomber, his crew was one of dozens sent along on the famous 1,000 bomber raid to Cologne (May 30-31, 1942), the first such attack and a major propaganda coup for Bomber Command and its new commander, “Bomber” Harris.

After joining the famous 214 (Federated Malay States) Squadron, at Chedburgh, that summer, the crew transitioned onto the four-engined Short Stirling and began its career. (As a side note, the Stirling was hampered by a ridiculous pre-war requirement from the Air Ministry that its wingspan had to be less than 100 feet, to fit existing hangars. That hurt its altitude, and made it a sitting target.)

Powell’s crew returned from a raid on Turin, Italy, with two engines out. Newspaper reports say another operation resulted in over a hundred bullet holes in the wings and fuselage.

XXX

On Feb. 3, 1943, Pilot Officer Dennis Smith (RAFVR) taxied Stirling Mark I R9197 (BU-V) around the perimeter track at Chedburgh, ready for a raid on Hamburg.

With him were P/O Derek Gordon de Garis, Sgt, Ron Evans, F/O John MacKenzie, W/O William Murdoch, P/O Dan O’Neill (gunner), F/S Arley Thiessen (gunner), and W/O II Bill Powell.

Over the coming hours they flew towards as personal a combat experience as you could find in the air war against Nazi Germany – aircraft vs. aircraft. For shortly afterwards, one of the Luftwaffe’s top night aces, Reinhold Knacke, left the ground in his BF110, with Feldwebel Kurt Bundrock in the rear.

Ten men would find each other over Holland. One would survive.

This is one of best researched incidents in Bomber Command, so we have a good idea of what happened.

Knacke racked up his first kill of the night by shooting down another Stirling (R9250), his 43rd victory. Shortly thereafter they picked up Stirling R9197, near Leusden, Holland. He set the aircraft on fire, and it started down for kill 44.

However, the BF110 was also hit and crippled, likely by gunner O’Neill. Bundrock jumped and parachuted safely to the ground. Knacke went in with the aircraft and his body would be found next to the wreckage.

Bill Powell’s Stirling hit a small field, crashing on the edge of the Den Boom Estate, near the railway bridge over the Luntersebeek, south of Leusden. It hit at a shallow angle, continued into the woods by the rail embankment, and blew up.

It was four minutes after 10 p.m. Local farmers, including young Albert Schothorst’s dad, rushed to the site, where they found one crewman, a gunner, still alive. He would die of wounds at 4 a.m.

The only survivor of the battle was Kurt Bundrock, who would put his memories into a book published in Germany, giving us the glimpse into fate.

Per Ardua ad Astra to Bill Powell and his brave crew, buried in the Rusthof General Cemetery, Amersfoort, Leusden.

Thank you to the 214 Squadron Association, and Dutch researchers for their tremendous work on this incident.

No. 54 (of 125) in my East York Collegiate Memory Project finds a young man on a stricken bomber, trying to make it back to base in Yorkshire. ...

John Nicholas Kerry loved building model aeroplanes as a teenager.

This was not unusual for the aviation crazy 1930s, and took some skill as the kits were balsa wood and paper, covered with dope (sort of a cellulose that stunk to high heaven and annoyed your mom), with a rubber band propellor.

Great fun, and right in line with the personality of young John, whose records show he was always doing something, going places, playing sports, having fun.

Kerry was born in 1921, to George and Mary, of Edinburgh, Scotland. Dad had served in the trenches during the Great War. There was one sister, Dorothy (who, interestingly, is listed on some of the records as Catherine).

They moved to the Toronto suburb of East York in the 1920s, settling at 1080 Pape Avenue, just south of Torrens Avenue.

John went to Holy Name School, and then East York Collegiate, with a half-term out at Malvern Collegiate, before returning to EYCI. Kerry left half-way through his final year and took a job as a salesman at Simpsons department store in 1937.

XXX

When the war started, John Kerry joined up right away with the Irish Regiment, where over the next two years he became qualified first as a motor transport driver then as a “tracked vehicle” operator.

Wasn’t for him, however, and when the chance to transfer over to the Royal Canadian Air Force appeared, John took it. His RCAF records list him as “an aggressive personality” who was “mature, alert” and in superb condition.

John could also be a handful, as his records from the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan show. The young man did basic at Lachine, Quebec, elementary radio school at Edmonton, and then arrived in Winnipeg for final training as a wireless operator.

There he certainly made a name for himself, going Absent Without Leave (AWOL) twice – the first time for almost five hours, and the next when he was caught sneaking back into camp (without a pass), dressed in civilian clothing, about 90 minutes after curfew.

That bought 216 hours of detention.

But Kerry was just too obviously top-flight material (including finishing ninth of 92 in wireless school), so the air force put a thin stripe on his sleeve, and sent him off to war as a Pilot Officer.

XXX

On Sept. 11, 1944, Pilot Officer John Kerry and his crewmates boarded Handley Page Halifax VII (NP 710), S for Sugar, at 408 (Goose) Squadron, Linton-on-Ouse.

It was a daylight raid on the synthetic fuel plants at Castrop-Rauxel, in Germany -- not abnormal for the months after the invasion of Europe, as a large day-fighter escort could be provided.

They left the runway at 1601 hours, piloted by Ronald Smith, but by 1824, the aircraft was back over the field, declaring an emergency.

Shortly after Just as they had crossed the North Sea coast, the starboard outer engine conked out, and Smith (following his orders to the letter) dumped the bomb load in the designated area over water and headed home.

Handling a Halifax on three-engines was not the easiest challenge, but the pilots were well-trained on the procedure. For reasons unknown, Smith was long on his approach and, without enough runway left, he did the right thing, put the throttles ahead, and prepared for a go-around.

At that moment, one of the 14 sleeve-valves in the starboard inner engine failed (same side as the stopped motor), dropping the power just enough that the aircraft, with under-carriage and flaps down, became difficult to handle.

NP 710 just missed a massive hangar, piled into the motor transport compound, and exploded, killing five men at once in the aircraft, and another (driver LAC Gordon Barraball) on the ground.

Rescue crews pulled navigator Norm McKillop, and gunner Walt Cooke, out of the wreckage – the former would die shortly after, and the latter survived two broken legs and bad burns.

Per Ardua ad Astra to LAC Barraball, and the brave crew of Smith, McKillop, John Kerry, George Houston, Charles Story, and Doug Milburn.

John Kerry is buried in the Brookwood Military Cemetery, Surrey.

No. 53 (of 125) in my East York Collegiate Memory Project finds us in the hell of the Hochwald Forest, 1945 ...

No. 53 (0f 125) in my East York Collegiate Memory Project:

On and on the Wehrmacht fought as the spring of 1945 approached and Nazi Germany entered its death throes.

Everyone knew it was about over, but the Germans would not quit – as they fought for every inch of a homeland crushed by the results of Adolf Hitler’s insane dream of conquest.

And here we find our story.

XXX

Francis Edward Ferris was born in 1924, and grew up at 266 Chisholm Ave., in the Toronto suburb of East York, as the son of Ernie and Agnes.

There were four brothers, including Allan and Ernie (who would both serve overseas in the war), Herb and Alfie, plus sister Winnifred.

School was not really in the cards for Francis – he went through Secord School for elementary, and had not quite finished his first year of high school at East York Collegiate when he dropped out, aged 15, in 1939.

With war on the horizon, the young man had a series of jobs, including labourer at Robertson’s Chocolates, and the Reliable Toy Company, a spot welder at General Steelwares, and the Stanley Manufacturing Company.

Ferris’s true love was woodworking, and he was good at sports, including basketball and swimming.

XXX

Francis enlisted in February of 1943, at 18, going through training at Camp Borden, Peterborough, and the infantry school at Aldershot, Nova Scotia.

Bronchitis hit him hard at Peterborough, forcing a 19-day stay in a military hospital. That was no minor ailment at that time, and the battle took away a lot of strength. Records show Ferris was considered enthusiastic (though somewhat lacking in confidence) and the army felt he’d catch up quickly.

After embarkation leave back home in East York, the young rifleman went overseas in September, 1943, quickly finding himself in the famous Royal Regiment of Canada, earning $1.50 a day.

But when the regiment sailed for France in July of 1944, Francis was in hospital for the third time, though the records do not show why. He was ready to go by Sept. 16, and went into battle with C Company, 1st Battalion, Fourth Canadian Infantry Brigrade, 2nd Canadian Division, 21st Army Group.

The Royals would fight in all the major land battles involving Canadian forces, including Caen, Falaise, the Scheldt, and back into south east Holland, where in 1945, they turned south east headed for Germany, and the final showdown.

XXX

That fight was vicious, first through the Reichwald Forest, and then as the end of February approached, down into Germany, headed for the Rhine river.

There is a gap between the north and south sections of the Hochwald Forest, and both sides understood its importance. If the Allies could punch through, the road to the heart of the Rhineland – Duisburg, Essen, etc. would only have the river itself in front of it.

Operation Blockbuster kicked off on Feb. 26, with the 2nd Canadian Division in the middle of the attack against German parachute infantry and 116th Panzer Division. This was just a part of the front (sort of a bulge shape) and all of it was supported by huge allied artillery bombardment.

By March 3, most of the forest was clear. Francis and C Company had battled to the south east edge, and pushed that day to take control of a key road. Somewhere in that effort, Ferris was hit badly, and died of his wounds.

The Germans fell back from the forest and took up new positions. Blockbuster was a success.

Francis was first buried at Bedburg, Germany. After the war his body was reinterred at the Groesbeek Canadian War Cemetery, near Nijmegen, Netherlands.

The Royal Regiment’s Latin motto is Nec aspera terrent: “And difficulties do not daunt.”

For Francis Ferris, they did not. Right to the end.

Thank you to Project44.ca for their excellent research and battle maps.

No. 52 This story of three brave East Yorkers, takes us to Juno Beach, June 6, 1944 ... 

Around the turn of this century, famed author Ted Barris was standing in the line at his bank in Uxbridge, Ontario, waiting to pay a bill.

Someone asked him about his current project, a piece on the Normandy Invasion that would become the best-seller Juno. They chatted for a bit.

“Then this man in the line in front of me turned around and said ‘I was there,’” Barris remembers.

And here we find our story.

XXX

Donald Mckay Barnard was the second of three sons brought into the world by Benjamin and Jane.

The eldest was Fred, youngest Edward, and they grew up as a family at 16 Sutherland Avenue, in the south east corner of East York, a suburb of Toronto. Don’s best friend, Gord Arthur, lived just down the street.

It had been quite a rural area until 1921, year of Don’s birth, when the Ford Motor Co. of Canada chose the field at the south-west corner of Victoria Park and Danforth avenues for its new car plant, constructing Model T and A automobiles.

That was just a couple of streets over from the Barnard’s house.

Fred, then Don and Gord, went through East York Collegiate in the 1930s, taking jobs in the area after leaving the school.

War came, Fred joined the Queen’s Own Rifles, and thanks to a rule at the time that allowed a man to bring in family and friends, they would all serve with the famous regiment.

Don joined the army in January of 1943, after time in a militia unit.

None of these young men could have known fate would have something special in mind for them. For the Queen’s Own Rifles would be at the very tip of the “pointy end of the stick” when it came time for the invasion of Europe.

XXX

The weather that Tuesday dawn, June 6, 1944, was overcast, chilly, windy, and offered a running sea off the Normandy shore.

Landing craft were headed in for Juno Beach, Canada’s huge contribution to the D Day assault. It was one of five beaches, with two American (Utah and Omaha, right to left, looking south at the 100 km-wide attack zone for Operation Overlord), and two British landing points (Gold and Sword, bracketing Juno).

At 8:12 a.m., 20 minutes late and about 200 metres too far right, the LCAs of A and B Company, Queen’s Own Rifles, began to unload at Berniers-sur-Mer (Nan White Beach), directly in front of the strongest defence nest manned by units of the German 716th Infantry Division.

In one craft were 30 men of No. 12 Platoon, B Company. The three young East Yorkers were among them.

After years of silence, Fred Barnard would open up about that moment in an interview with Barris, for Juno (Thomas Allen Publishers, 2004).

Fred was about halfway back in the craft, with Don and Gordon Arthur in front of him. As the small doors opened and the ramp went down, Fred yelled “Give ‘em Hell,” to his brother and promptly found himself in four feet of surf.

Machine gun bullets coursed the water, mines attached to the hedgehog barriers in the surf were going off, shells from off-shore ships screamed overhead, and everyone was yelling.

The first man Fred saw was a 19-year-old from his platoon, sitting on the sand, trying to push his guts back in after being eviscerated.

“Then I saw my brother Don … lying on his back as if he were asleep. There was just a black hole in his uniform right in the middle of his chest. No blood. He must have died instantly.” (Juno Page 145)

He couldn’t even stop to say goodbye, or take a memento by which to remember his younger sibling. They had to keep going or they, too, would be hit. Fred and Gord made the seawall, kept fighting through Normandy for 77 days, and survived the war.

Don had been the unit’s best marksman. Fate denied him a chance to fire a shot.

XXX

You don’t have to search far to find Donald Barnard’s resting place. He’s in the very back row at the Beny-sur-Mer Canadian War Cemetery, Grave 4, Row A, Plot 1. It seems appropriate considering he was one of the first to fall on Juno Beach.

Fred got married, had two children, and lived to 98-years-old, passing away in Uxbridge just two months after the town threw him a big parade.

I’d like to thank my friend Ted Barris for allowing me to quote from his book, Juno.

No. 51 (of 125) in my East York Collegiate Memory Project finds a young man from East York fighting in Normandy with the famous Sportsman's Battery...

It is natural our focus at this time tends to fall on D Day, June 6, 1944, as it both marked the invasion of north-west Europe, and provided history with incredible stories of bravery and sacrifice.

Operation Overlord, however, lasted from The Longest Day, all the way to August 21, and saw around 225,000 casualties (killed, wounded, missing). Over 5,000 Canadians lost their lives.

It’s nearer the end of that astonishing time we find our story.

XXX

Gavin Crawford was born in Glasgow and came to Canada with his parents William and Jeanie while a young child.

The family had expanded until it included William, Alex, Robert, and David, plus Charlotte, Jessie, Ann, and Jean. They grew up in the Toronto suburb of East York.

Gavin went through East York High School, just as it was changing to East York Collegiate, taking a job afterwards as shipper with Thomson Groceries Ltd., a wholesaler that still exists today.

He joined the Royal Canadian Artillery, in August of 1941, quickly finding himself after training with the 30th Light Anti-Aircraft Battery.

This was not just any unit – it was the Sportsman’s Battery, commanded by Major Conn Smythe, owner of the Toronto Maple Leafs (National Hockey League). He had won a Military Cross at the Somme (with the original Sportsman’s Battery), in the First World War, before transferring to the Royal Flying Corps, getting shot down as an observer, and finishing up a prisoner of war.

Smythe put the Battery back together in early 1941, wanting to get back into the fight at the age of 45. There was something else bothering him as well, as biographer Kelly McParland wrote:

“(NHL) players were signing up to do their training, but very few were taking the next step and volunteered for service overseas.” (The Lives of Conn Smythe, Fenn/M&S, 2011). Later, when the players were in regular uniform, the government was reluctant to send them into harm’s way.

One group that did volunteer was the Mimico Marauders lacrosse team, winners of the Mann Cup national championship in 1942. The entire club signed up with Smythe.

Gavin Crawford was proud to come along for the ride.

They first served on both of Canada’s coasts, before being sent to England as part of the build-up to invasion. It would take more than a month of fighting following June 6 until the battery was brought into the bloody, seemingly endless battles for the city of Caen.

Landing on July 9, the 30th, attached to Second Canadian Corps, arrived in time for the attempted breakout from Normandy as part of Operation SPRING (the action of Verrieres Ridge — Tilly-la-Campagne).

.

Gunner Crawford and his mates were assigned to protect the Orne River bridges, hard on the east side of Caen, snugged right up on the German lines. As SPRING got underway on the 25th, things became dangerous and deadly for the Major’s men.

The bridges were attacked by the Luftwaffe, and artillery shelling, that went on for two days.

Major Smythe went down early, on the evening of the first day, when a bomb or shell landed nearby and left him severely injured in the spine and legs. Those wounds would haunt him the rest of his days, leaving him in severe pain and having to use a cane.

The battery fought on and eventually lost four dead and 14 wounded. One of those killed, on the 27th, was Gavin Crawford.

Operation SPRING (following on Operation GOODWOOD) did not reach its main objectives, but it did help tie down five German panzer divisions while, to the south, the U.S. First Army launched Operation COBRA, finally breaking the stalemate in Normandy.

When Gavin Crawford’s effects were sent back to his family in East York, in the box was a mouth organ – something for everyone to treasure forever.

He is buried in the Canadian War Cemetery, Beny-Sur-Mer.

No. 50 (of 125) in my East York Collegiate Memorial Project. This one is a story worthy of Hollywood, starting in England and ending in the fire of the Italian campaign...

The Adventures of Bill Turley is a tale that takes us through a busy childhood, the Battle of France, the Blitz on London, the Battle of Italy, and on through the unsolved mystery of a missing body.

If he had been an American, it would long ago have been a Hollywood movie.

William Alderson Turley was born in April of 1918, while his dad was overseas with the Black Watch, finishing four long years fighting in the trenches of the First World War.

Bill’s parents separated in the spring of 1922, and he and his older sister moved around a lot with dad, living in Denver, Kansas City, and Chicago. Eventually landing back in Toronto, the young man attended R.H. McGregor School, and then East York High School, just as it was switching to a Collegiate.

The family, which also included two step-siblings, lived at 351 Ashdale Avenue. Dad stayed involved with the local Royal Canadian Legion, and newspaper reports credit him for starting the first poppy drive in Toronto.

Following school, Bill moved out and worked as a shipper, but put a lot of his effort into the local militia – not surprising as he had been in the Wolf Cubs at six, and a long-time scout and scout leader.

When war broke out, it was off to the Queen’s Own Rifles and an astonishing list of dangerous European adventures.

• Bill went with the QOR to France in May of 1940, as part of the 2nd British Expeditionary Force – sent to the south of the battle line after Dunkirk had fallen. They were there about two weeks until the French government gave up, and the Canadians had to get out quickly. He got home on a boat “that had about a 20-degree list all the way.”

• On leave in London for his birthday, April 20, 1941, the club Turley was staying in was blown up by a Luftwaffe aerial mine. Injured himself, Bill pulled two women out of the wreckage (one lived, the other did not) while still in his bare feet on a ground covered with shattered glass.

• Recognized as something special, the army sent Turley to the famous British officer’s training school at Sandhurst, where he finished first in his class and received the belt of honour from Lord Louis Mountbatten.

Then it was off to Italy as a Lieutenant with the 4th Reconnaissance Regiment (4th Princess Louise Dragoon Guards), Royal Canadian Armoured Corps.

An officer of the 4th recon was asked during the war what his unit did: “We just keep driving until the enemy shoots at us.”

That’s how you knew where the enemy was.

Wherever the Canadian Infantry Corps went on the long, bloody slog up the Italian boot in 1943 and 1944, the Princess Louise were with them – up front, looking for trouble.

In the early days of that campaign, Bill Turley was with 7 Squadron, so far up the pointy end of the stick that they were often behind enemy lines.

He wrote home: “I had the unique experience of being the first Allied soldier to enter two towns. I stood on the balcony of the city hall while the mayor delivered a stirring ovation.”

XXX

On Oct. 14, 1943, Bill’s dad (also Bill) received a letter saying his son had been killed in action.

One can imagine the pain, and the need for details.

Then on Jan. 19, 1944, another note arrived, this time saying his son’s status had been changed from KIA to Missing in Action.

It was then changed to MiA/Believed Killed.

Eventually, dad was able to get the story straight, and here is what we know.

Lieutenant Bill Turley was leading a recce on Oct. 6, 1943, that ran into trouble at a crossroads near Campobassa (north of Naples). Bill had smoke laid down and was trying to get wounded out, bringing first one out from around his now wrecked Universal Carrier, and then going for another.

A German 88mm shell came in, there was confusion and Turley was not seen again by the unit.

The second part of the story only came clear when a Sergeant Hawes sent a letter from a Prisoner of War camp.

Turley had been captured and he, Hawes, and two other men were in a truck two days later heading north. Bill tried to escape by jumping from the vehicle, may have been wounded, and then ran into the woods followed by two guards.

They came back, saying nothing about what happened.

When the Allies cleared out the area in early 1944, a body was found in a shallow grave. On exhumation, dental records were used to confirm that this was, indeed, Bill Turley.

Somehow, and this is not unusual in any war, the body then disappeared again and has never been recovered.

Bill is remembered on Panel 13 of the Cassino Memorial, his earthly remains still out there somewhere.

No. 49 (of 125) in my East York Collegiate Memory Project, honours a young man and his crewmates who found themselves fighting in the Secret War, supporting Resistance groups in Europe ...

Flight Sergeant Doug Hayman,  late of Brighton, Australia, was flying a Halifax along at 4,000 feet early in the morning of April 11, 1944, when he caught a glint of light to the left of his pilot’s seat window.

Another aircraft about 10 miles off and at the same height had been hit by flak, and was plummeting in flames to the floor of the Orne River valley.

What these aircraft were doing on a moonlit night, at low level in southern Normandy, is a story that involves two secret RAF squadrons, Le Resistance, and a young man from East York.

XXX

Ernie Firth was born and raised in the Toronto suburb of East York, where parents Fred and Kate were bringing up three boys (Edwin and Frederick, the older ones).

They lived at 216 Cosburn Ave.

The youngest son followed his brothers through William Burgess School, and then on to East York Collegiate, where Ernie earned his Junior Matriculation in 1940. From there he picked up a job with the Canadian Oil Company, as a clerk.

Firth had the standard childhood diseases of measles and mumps, but also spent two weeks in hospital at 13 years old having his appendix removed.

His mum Kate died of heart disease at 60 years old, in May of 1940.

When Ernie signed up in Feb. of 1942, he stood 5-feet-10, weighed 165 pounds and, in a nod to how different things were 80 years ago, was listed as “obese” by the Royal Canadian Air Force doctor.

Starting through the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan at No. 1 Manning Depot (ground pounding, brass shining, shat shovelling, down at the Canadian National Exhibition), Firth would live his dream by being chosen for pilot training.

Which lasted 67 hours before being washed out and reassigned to Observer school (navigator and bomb aimer). He would graduate with very high marks from No. 1 Central Navigator School, in Rivers, Manitoba.

Then it was off to whatever adventures awaited overseas.

And what adventures he would find.

XXX

Since the war’s end the activities of Resistance groups in France and other countries (such as Norway – think Telemark) have been embued with feelings of great romance and adventure.

At the time it was a bitter, dangerous battle against the occupying forces of Nazi Germany.

Britain’s Special Operations Executive (SOE) and Secret Intelligence Service (SIS) had the job of dropping agents and equipment into occupied Europe, and sometimes bringing them back. This was done through two Special Duties squadrons – Nos. 161 and 138 – basing out of the most-secret RAF Tempsford, and Tangmere, the latter as an advanced base.

This was where Ernie Firth found himself in late 1943 – joining the Shadow War with No. 161. It was considered a great honour.

That unit’s A Flight flew the brilliant Westland Lysander into isolated French fields, dropping agents (Joes) and picking others up.

Damn dangerous.

B Flight flew the Handley Page Halifax at this time, dropping supplies and some agents from around 4,000 feet. Even small calibre anti-aircraft guns could get you there.

It was on the latter mission that Halifax V (LK 738, MA-T) took off under the controls of F/Sgt. James McGibbon, with Ernie Firth on his 11th operation, working the maps.

That was likely the aircraft seen by Doug Hayman, a few hours later, going down in flames. They hit the ground near the village of St-Hilaire-sur-Risle, in the Orne valley, and were buried at the cemetery right there.

Per Ardua ad Astra to the brave crew of McGibbon, Firth, Peter Booth-Smith (second pilot), Ernest Mercer, John Willson, Duncan Johnson, and George Parker.

Firth was promoted to Pilot Officer, posthumously.

NOTE: Doug Hayman, by then a Pilot Officer, was shot down and killed with four of his crew, on June 2, 1944.

No. 48 (of 125) in my East York Collegiate Memory Project, tells of a young man who loved sports and music, and of the first ... and the last ...

Number 419 (RCAF) Squadron was 11 months old when it found a permanent home at Middleton St. George, in November of 1942.

The Moosemen, named for their lost first commander John (Moose) Fulton, of Kamloops, B.C., the group would carve an enviable reputation for itself before the end of the war.

Here in south County Durham, they would first fly the Handley Paige Halifax II into combat, and later switch to the Avro Lancaster. The squadron would lose 108 aircraft, with 541 young men killed, while at MSG.

It is a fact of war that someone had to be first to die, and that would be the crew of Halifax II (W7857), piloted by Frank Barker, of Calgary. They were shot down and killed under the guns of Oblt. Hans-Joachim Jabs, and his BF 110 night fighter, on Jan. 9, 1943.

Someone also had to be last … and that’s where we find our story.

XXX

When Canada went to war in September of 1939, Greg Jones had just turned 15.

His records suggest the young East Yorker was chomping at the bit, as were so many his age, but there was nothing for it but to wait.

Percy and Aileen Jones had two children, the son first, and then a daughter named Kathleen. Dad worked as a Master Plumber – a good job to have during the Depression especially, as pipes always had to be repaired.

They were settled in at 404 Mortimer Avenue, in this Toronto suburb.

Greg did his elementary at Holy Cross School, then spent three years at East York Collegiate, before heading for St. Michael’s College School (a long commute in those days) to finish his Junior Matriculation.

His goal was to be a doctor.

Undeterred by an appendectomy when he was 10 (not nearly as routine then, as now), young Jones had thrown himself into sports, including hockey, football, and especially speed skating, at which he won a number of competitions. Not to mention shooting pool.

And playing piano.

There was no question the Royal Canadian Air Force was calling for the former air cadet, and when high school was finished, there was Greg ready to go.

Advancing through the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan, including at Guelph, Ontario, and Mont St.Joli, Quebec, Jones earned his brevet as a Wireless Air Gunner.

His reports were complimentary and glowing.

Off to England went Gregory James Jones, leaving from Y Depot, Halifax, on June 2, 1944. The invasion of Europe, June 6, began while he was at sea.

XXX

It is difficult to imagine now the desire for so many young people to get into the war as it wound down.

The pipeline of young airmen waiting for their chance in 1945 counted thousands, and just a taste of action was highly prized, even though the air fighting, and danger, was so much less intense than in the dark days of 1942 into 1944.

Greg Jones arrived at 419 Squadron, as a tail gunner (they still needed more of those than wireless operators) on March 12, 1945. By the time he was set for his third operation, on April 13, the Red Army’s final attack on Berlin was three days away, and Adolf Hitler had just 17 days to live.

Allied air forces were keeping the pressure on the now-shrunken Germany, so night of the 13th, 482 bombers left England to bomb the port of Kiel.

Lancaster X (KB 866) took off from Middleton St. George at 2022 hours, with pilot Colin Maclaren at the controls, and Jones in the tail. They were never heard from again -- the aircraft became one of just two that failed to return.

It was also the final aircraft lost in the long bitter war for The Moosemen.

Someone had to be last.

Per Ardua ad Astra, and Moosa Aswayita (Beware the Moose), to the brave crew of: Colin Maclaren, Gord Livingston, Don Wincott, Edgar Wightman, William Henderson, Charlie Loft, and Greg Jones.

They are remembered on the Runnymede Memorial, near Heathrow Airport, UK.

No. 47 (of 125) in my East York Collegiate Memory Project leads us to one of the most famous ships in the Royal Canadian Navy ...

If by chance you find yourself in St. John’s, Newfoundland, walking up Water Street by Harbourside Park, a stop at No. 88 is called for.

Upstairs you’ll find The Crows’ Nest Officer’s Club, opened to great frivolity, fondness, and some drunkenness, on Jan. 27, 1942 – a place of rest and refuge for those who led the bitter battle against German U-Boats in the Atlantic.

That evening long ago featured a spike-driving contest (into the wooden deck), to determine the strongest captain amongst the throng. It was won, easily some say, by Bert Shadforth, Captain of His Majesty’s Canadian Ship Spikenard.

Bert and his crew left the next day for what would be their last voyage.

That six-inch spike is still there, attached to the piece of deck, now hanging on the wall to the right of the bar, marked as “Spikenard – his Spike”. Every year a wake is held in memory of the captain and his crew.

And here we find our story.

XXX

William John (Bill) Morley was born in 1922, to Max and Helen Morley, the first of two children, with his sister Margaret coming along three years later.

He grew up in the Toronto suburb of East York, before the family eventually moved closer to the lake, at 78 Willow Avenue.

Bill was in the commercial stream at East York Collegiate, topping out at 5-foot-4, with green eyes, brown hair, a scar on his forehead whose origin is unknown, and a handsome smile.

When the navy found out the young man could type, he was logically headed for the role of Signalman when called to active service in May of 1941, seven months after signing his papers in the reserve.

That led to HMCS Spikenard, and Lt.-CDR Hubert Shadforth’s crew. His new boss was part of a legendary group that would include, in the war, such names as Tiger Turner, Two-Gun Ryan, Foghorn Davis, and many more, immortalized in the writing of James Lamb, himself a corvette skipper.

Spikenard (K 198) was a Flower Class corvette originally built for the Royal Navy, but transferred to the RCN in May of 1941 as a way to boost Canada’s ability to escort convoys while new builds were growing on the ways.

She was part of the Newfoundland Escort Force, working out of what the sailors lovingly called “NewfyJohn), escorting convoys to the mid-ocean turnover point where the Royal Navy would take over. This was about to end, as the navy began to send escorts the entire way.

Feb. 11, 1942, found Spikenard part of the force escorting SC 67, a slow convoy out of Sydney, Cape Breton, Nova Scotia. Suddenly in the dark of the early morning, the sound of two explosions rang out, followed by a single fire.

A coincidence would lead to tragedy. Spikenard took a torpedo from U-136 at the same moment the Norwegian ship Heina, took one of her own from the same source. As the escorts only saw one fire, from the merchant ship, they were unaware the corvette was going down, and only twigged after she sank and radio contact was lost.

By the time a ship went back to search for Spikenard (everyone from Heina was rescued), only eight men were pulled from a boat on the water. She had gone down in five minutes after taking the hit on the port side, just ahead of the bridge.

The captain and 56 of her crew were gone. Including Able Seaman Bill Morley. The latter was just 19.

Fair winds and following seas to a brave crew and her famous captain.

No. 46 (of 125) of my East York Collegiate Memory Project takes us to the Bay of Bengal, in 1945, and The Forgotten War ...

Excerpt of a letter home from northern India, written by Jack McIver, dated Jan. 12, 1945.

“I was into town to-day and some guy came up and started telling my fortune for a small sum. Just for the fun of it, I listened to him. According to him I am God’s gift to earth, and nothing but good luck can fall my way …”

Ten weeks later, Jack was dead.

XXX

Jack Samuel McIver was the third son, and one of seven children, born to Murdoch and Mary.

Dad was principal at Earl Kitchener Public School, about a five-minute walk from the house at 155 Mortimer Ave., in a section of the Toronto suburb of East York, known as Pape Village.

Jack was good at all sports, but especially loved basketball – no surprise as his middle brother Malcolm (Mac) was good enough to play on the city high school championship team at East York Collegiate. Family members have written all the boys were pretty competitive with each other.

When war broke out, Jack had just turned 15 and was at EYCI. Eldest brother Glenn was an officer in the Queen’s Own Rifles, and would fight across western Europe and come home.

Mac served in the RCAF as a navigator, completing a full tour with No. 106 Squadron, before preparing a transfer to Mosquito fighter-bombers. He was killed May 13, 1944, in the crash of an Oxford trainer, in which he was instructing young airmen.

Jack joined up in September of 1943, one week before his 19th birthday, determined to be a pilot, but he was found to be a tad near-sighted in one eye. His records don’t show if that was the reason, but while going through the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan, the youngest McIver was directed to gunnery.

Ironically, if Jack had been chosen for pilot, he would not have made it to combat as it took two years of training and the war would have been over.

Graduating from No. 3 Bombing & Gunnery School, MacDonald, Manitoba, the young gunner found adventure right away. Most airmen went to Europe by ship, but McIver was assigned to Transport Command, out of Dorval, in Montreal.

He made a trip to Nassau, Bahamas, helping to deliver a new aircraft. Then flew the Atlantic in another one, landing at Prestwick, Scotland, in November, of 1944. Shortly Jack was off again to the Far East, and a rear gunner job in northern India with No. 345 Squadron.

XXX

The conflict in the China-Burma-India (CBI) theatre has been called The Forgotten War, and there is strong argument for that -- it was so far away that news was sparse compared to that coming from Europe or the Pacific.

Fighting in the CBI against the Japanese was bitter, difficult, and for the airmen very long range. No quarter was asked or given.

At 0258, on March 26, 1945, F/L Bill Gordon took Liberator GR.VI (EW319) off the runway at Cuttack, India, headed for the east side of the Bay of Bengal. There was a large crew of 11 – due to the need for radar operators and relief crew.

Four hours later they came upon a gun battle between four Royal Navy destroyers, and a Japanese convoy of two freighters and two sub chasers. The destroyer leader ordered Gordon’s crew to attack, and they picked out a freighter that would later be identified as Risui Maru.

Down to 50 feet they went, lined up, let the bomb go, and something went wrong. Whether hurt by A/A fire or not, the Liberator hit the main mast of the freighter, ripping off the right wing between the third and fourth engines.

She plunged into the sea 100 yards off. Two of the crew, gunners R. Roberts and R.G. Radford, escaped out of the beam windows in the rear of the craft. It’s easy to imagine Jack McIver, in the rear turret, may have been knocked out by the violence of the collision with the sea.

He did not escape.

Also killed were Gordon, William Payne, Cyril Slater, Irv Lindzon, Ed Pollard, Harry Parker, and Gordon Parker.

Radford and Roberts would be picked up by RN destroyer shortly afterwards. The Japanese ship sank.

Per Ardua ad Astra to a brave crew.

No. 45 (of 125) in my East York Collegiate Memory Project finds a young man searching for U boats in the north Atlantic with his brave crew ...

On the 29th of December, 1941, a letter arrived at the East York home of William and Mary Chapman.

It was a Christmas note from their only child, Arthur, serving as a gunner with No. 10 (RCAF) Bombing and Observer Squadron, based out of Gander, Newfoundland, attached to Coastal Command.

Mum recalled later that it was newsy, and contained some money for the family, which her son knew wouldn’t arrive in time to buy presents. “He said to take it as a Scotchman’s gift, anyway,” she would tell the Toronto Star.

Around the time that letter was being read, Artie Chapman was disappearing with his crew into the north Atlantic, never to be found.

XXX

Arthur Chapman was born in Plymouth, England, back in 1919, and came to Canada with his parents while still an infant. They settled in the East York suburb of Toronto. Somewhere during this time another son was born, but the records showed he died while still a baby.

As Arthur grew, he had what were then common childhood illnesses, including whooping cough, at 2, mumps, at 7, and measles at 8.

Living at 435 Main Street, the boy attended Secord School, then East York Collegiate, graduating in 1939. Then it was a job at the Power Food Market, down on King Street East, working as a grocery clerk.

His post-war plans were to join the civil service.

You don’t have to delve far into young Chapman’s records to find what attracted him to the air force. Under Hobbies, it reads: “Target shooting, and making model airplanes”. Certainly not destined for submarines.

Arthur was one of the first to join the RCAF as war began, starting his quick trip through the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan at No. 1 Manning Depot, in June, 1940.

Gunners were scarce, and his R44(b) form shows him off to Ottawa just 17 days later for more training, and then after two months to No. 5 Bombing and Reconnaissance Squadron (Digby, N.S.), where he earned his gunner’s brevet.

The first true Bombing and Gunnery school was only just opening at Jarvis, Ontario, so until then the squadrons handled much of the chore.

XXX

Arthur fell in love with Mary Rita MacDonald, of Antigonish, Nova Scotia, and they were married in Halifax on April 4, 1941. The young gunner had been flying for No. 10 (BR) since the previous October, moving eventually to Gander, Newfoundland.

The job was submarine patrol, and the aircraft was the export version of the obsolete Douglas B18 Bolo, known as the Digby in the RCAF. It did well as a stop-gap until better aircraft came along.

Operations weren’t as long as in later aircraft such as the Liberator (due to the limited range of the Bolo), but they were always tense given the often-lousy weather, and the constant fear of falling into the freezing ocean where rescue would be difficult.

At 0840, Dec. 29, 1941, Digby 740 took off from Gander on a convoy escort patrol.

The pilot was Jim Skidmore, from Drexel Hill, Pennsylvania, one of the earliest of what would be almost 9,000 Americans who came north before Pearl Harbor to join the fight. His crew included Ken Schaefer (co-pilot), Al Runte (navigator), John Legon (armourer – bomb aimer), Cecil Heaney, (gunner), and Chapman.

They disappeared over the Atlantic, and no trace was ever found, despite three days of searching.

Mary Rita remarried in 1945. Arthur’s parents were left alone.

Per Ardua ad Astra to a brave crew.

No. 44 (of 125) in the East York Collegiate Memory Project tells of Harry Smith, and a famous raid on Peenemunde ...

The moment when a life ends in war can come at the most mundane of times, or at the most crucial.

Thus, our story.

Henry Maxwell Smith was born in the summer of 1919 to Henry James Smith, and Mary Grace Doyle.

He was the eldest in a family that included brothers James, Basil, Paul, and Gerald, plus sisters Marjorie, Betty, and Barbara. They grew up at 199 Cosburn Ave., in the East York suburb of Toronto.

Harry went to three high schools in four years, including De La Salle College, St. Michael’s College School, and East York Collegiate, earning his matriculation.

Life then went on its regular peacetime way – six years as a clerk, and then with a job at Insulation Products. Gleaning his records, there seems to have been a growing serious relationship with Miss A.H. Coates, 318 Rushton Rd.

War came and by the middle of 1941, it was time for Harry to join the Royal Canadian Air Force, starting his trip through the ever-growing British Commonwealth Air Training Plan, down at the Canadian National Exhibition.

Things were not without a bit of excitement at No. 1 Manning Depot. Harry went AWOL (Absent Without Leave) for three days, costing him three day’s pay and seven “Confined to Barracks” which typically meant a lot of floor scrubbing and toilet cleaning. There are no details on why he took off.

Smith found his way through training in Canada, first at wireless school, then to RCAF Trenton for reassignment, and finally off to gunnery instruction, at Mountain View, in eastern Ontario. He left Canada, from Halifax, in June of 1942, eventually reporting to No. 426 (RCAF) Squadron, 6 Group, in November.

XXX

Bomber Command’s attack on the secret German rocket facility at Peenemunde is not only one of the war’s great stories, but one of the most vital.

Tipped off and supplied with drawings of the site by a resistance group (founded by Austrian priest Heinrich Maier), plans were drawn for a massive raid on the V2 factories and launch sites at the western end of the Baltic Sea.

On the night of August 17-18, 1943, 596 bombers set out for the site, including the brand-new Lancaster IIs of 426 Squadron, out of Linton-on-Ouse, Yorkshire.

They did a superb job of wrecking facilities, forcing a two-month delay in the V2 rocket’s development and, according to many historians, greatly reducing the number of possible launches in the future.

XXX

Wing Commander Leslie Crooks (on his second tour) took Lancaster B.II, DS 681 (OW-V) off the runway at 21:32 p.m., carrying a crew including Sgt. John Hislop, engineer, F/L Francis March, Wireless (second tour), bomb aimer Sgt. Ken Reading, and navigator F/S Alf Howes.

Gunners were mid-upper F/O Theophilus Dos Santos, of Trinidad (a great story in himself, and on his first trip), and Harry Smith, of East York.

All of the 6 Group (RCAF) aircraft were in the third section of the stream (with 5 Group) – bad luck, as a successful diversion raid had drawn the fighters away for the first two groups, only to have them arrive back to take on the Canadians as they came through.

One of the 12 (of 57) a/c lost from No. 6 was DS 681. Just after bombs gone, they were attacked by a night fighter that set two engines on fire. The Luftwaffe craft came back around, riddling the nose and fuselage.

A wing was starting to crumple and W/C Crooks ordered bailout. They were very low. Sgt. Reading heard gunner Smith on the intercom at around 500 feet just as the former jumped. He was only 150 yards away when the Lancaster hit the ground on the airfield at Tuttow and exploded.

Reading went to Stalag IVb, coming home after the war to tell of his crew’s fate.

The six crew are buried at the Berlin War Cemetery, Charlottenburg.

Per Ardua ad Astra to a brave crew, lost on such an important night.

No. 43 (of 125) in the East York Memory Project focuses on a family photograph, a man about to join the Toronto Scottish and fight in Normandy, and the memories left behind ...

It is customary in the Memory Project to present three or four photos that help bring faces to a name.

This story only requires one – preserving the happiness of a young family, visiting a local studio so a professional can ensure a colour keepsake to treasure.

There is Lieutenant George Gregg, 24 years old, proudly in his Toronto Scottish uniform.

George was the son of George William, a wood pattern maker, and Alice Gregg, and they lived in the Toronto suburb of East York. There were two sisters, Gladys and Ethel, and brothers Bill and Jack.

The younger George had a typical upbringing for the time, as the family battled through the Depression, living in a house at 355 Cedarvale Ave.

He completed three years of high school, one at Danforth Technical, and two at East York Collegiate, before leaving to take a job as a management clerk in the grocery business (at a Dominion store, in Kensington Market).

He was a handsome man, well turned out, proud of his appearance and work ethic.

On the right of the frame is the beautiful Marjorie (Wannamaker) Gregg, also of Toronto. She and George had married before the war, first living, his attestation papers say, on Woodbine Avenue, and then at 707 Milverton Boulevard.

Easy to see them dancing cheek-to-cheek to Glenn Miller’s Moonlight Cocktail, down at the Palace Pier Ballroom.

And there in the middle is son George Jr., who at the time of the photo shoot was coming up to one year. Cute as a button – impish smile – hair going this way and that.

A family with a bright future in a world at peace.

But this was a world at war, and hanging over them is the knowledge Lieutenant Gregg will be off to Europe in just a few days.

XXX

George Gregg was an excellent soldier, starting with the reserve Royal Regiment (where his records show an “outstanding” performance in officer training), and then moving to the Toronto Scottish when sent overseas in May of 1943.

His new unit was a specialized machine gun regiment that had suffered badly during the disastrous raid on Dieppe, 19 August, 1942. Now it was girding for the invasion of Europe and George was going to play his part leading men into combat.

They came ashore on July 6, 1944, 1400 hours, as the bloody battle for the city of Caen was at its height. The battalion diary shows they first saw action July 13, and it was hot work.

On the 20th, a push was on toward St. Andre-sur-Orne, and D Company was in support of the Queens Own Cameron Highlanders (Winnipeg), pinned down by artillery and mortar fire from Verrieres Ridge.

Toronto Scottish suffered five killed, 22 wounded on that one day.

A mortar shell came in. Lieutenant Gregg was hit by fragments in the chest. He died on the way to base hospital. He is buried at Beny-Sur-Mer Canadian War Cemetery, Calvados, France.

Left behind were the photos – the joy of parents taking their first-born to capture, in colour,  what should have been many years of family portraits.

Bless them all.

No. 42 (of 125) in my East York Collegiate Memory Project tells of a young man facing a different kind of battle while serving in Italy ...

Countless young men went off to fight in the Second World War, where they found their destiny and gave their lives.

On occasion it would work the other way, and here we find our story.

Gordon Wyatt was born in 1916, to Arthur and Margaret, and grew up around Toronto’s East York suburb. It was a large family, including brothers Arthur, George, Norman, Melville, and Wilfred, plus sister Margaret who was married by the start of the war, living nearby on Cadona Avenue.

Gord went through East York High School (about to be Collegiate), graduating in the mid-1930s and headed out to work downtown as a shipping clerk with the Pannill Door and Lumber Company, on Front Street East.

It was a position he liked, and actually listed it on his army forms as a place to which he might return “if possible.” For recreation, young Wyatt enjoyed tennis and swimming.

War breaks out and Gord reports for Army duty on Feb. 7, 1941, easily passing his medical and drawing attention with his clerking skills. The military runs on paperwork and if they find someone who can type, think, and sort, you often wound up drafted into an office.

An important one in Wyatt’s case – No. 7 Field Ambulance, Royal Canadian Army Medical Corps – a forerunner to the Mobile Army Field Hospitals that would pop up in the Korean War.

It was as close to combat as you could get without being shot.

The unit went overseas first to Ogbourne St. George, Wiltshire, for advanced training and organization, where Gord became an acting corporal and then quickly a sergeant. Simply good at his job.

That March of 1943, Wylie spent 25 days in a military hospital in England, suffering from influenza and bronchitis, leaving in good shape to continue his work at which he would serve with distinction.

The medical records show his next time under care came a year later, April of 1944 in the battle hell of the Italian campaign, as doctors diagnosed pulmonary tuberculosis on the 19th. By the end of the month it was seen as an inflammation of the mediastinal glands, changed again on June 7 to a neoplasm.

Sent back to England the specialists at 19th Canadian General Hospital finally found the truth – Hodgkin’s disease, a cancer of the lymph nodes. There would not be a cure until 1964.

So home he came, met at Union Station by family, discharged in August for medical reasons, and sent to Christie Street Military Hospital for care. Gord died there on 29 March, 1945, and is buried in Pine Hills Cemetery.

The motto of the RCAMC was In Arduis Fidelis – Faithful through Adversity. It fits Gordon Wyatt to a T.

 No. 41 (of 125) in my East York Collegiate Memorial Project, finds Leslie Sanders serving on HMCS Margaree in the Battle of the Atlantic ...

Dealing with the family of the dead was a huge undertaking during the war and despite all efforts to get it right, mistakes were sometimes made.

NAVAL MESSAGE

MRS. E. SANDERS

427 ½ AGRICOLA STREET

HALIFAX, N.S.

THE MINISTER OF NATIONAL DEFENCE DEEPLY REGRETS TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR SON LESLIE SANDERS ABLE SEAMAN R.C.N. O.N.3494 IS MISSING, BELIEVED KILLED.

This was not Mrs. Leslie’s son … it was her husband and father of two children.

Here we find our story.

XXX

Leslie Sanders’ record shows he was meant to be a sailor.

Born to Francis and Edith Sanders, at Bradford, Yorkshire, in 1918, he would eventually have two brothers, George and Robert, and a sister Evelyn. The family moved to Halifax, Nova Scotia, in 1922 and less than a year later to the Toronto suburb of East York.

Settling at 316 Lumsden Avenue, the children grew up in a working-class neighbourhood. Leslie eventually went through East York Collegiate (then High School), and out to work as a messenger with Canadian National Telegraphs.

Leslie was determined to prepare for sea, so in 1937 he joined the Royal Canadian Navy Reserve, in Toronto – the same year he married Evelyn, at just 19 years old. In three years, there were two daughters, Loretta, and Leslie (named for her dad).

When training was over, the family moved to Halifax – with Sanders on his way to being a regular. His reports are all excellent, his skill noticed, and he was an Able Seaman, Royal Canadian Navy, by the summer of 1939.

XXX

At the war’s start in September of 1939, Canada was six destroyers away from having no navy at all. There were just 3,500 regulars.

Leslie Sanders was one of that small cadre, expected to lend their knowledge and experience to what would eventually be 434 commissioned vessels, and 95,000 men and women.

From October to Feb. 24, 1940, he served on HMCS St. Laurent, coming ashore to help train new recruits before again shipping out on the newly acquired HMCS Margaree, one of the ships the Royal Navy was handing over to the Canadians for help with convoy duty.

Margaree was no newcomer to combat. Originally known as HMS Diana, she was a River Class destroyer launched in 1932 that fought brilliantly in the ill-fated Norwegian campaign, spring 1940. Damaged in a collision, when repaired the RN transferred the ship to the Canadians with a new crew taking over.

Her time would come quickly

Margaree was escorting fast convoy OL8, out of Liverpool and heading home, on a dark, stormy Oct. 22. Station keeping was tough at night in any seas, but in a storm with no running lights or, at that early stage, radar, accidents happened.

The merchant ship Port Fairy somehow collided with Margaree and cut her in half, The bow went down right away, the stern stayed afloat long enough for 34 men to be rescued.

Leslie Sanders was killed along with 141 of his shipmates.

The Navy sent mixed up letters to his wife twice. It was eventually sorted out, but a year later she was still waiting for family allowance to move her and the girls back to East York. That eventually showed up.

Fair winds and following seas to Leslie Sanders, who was about to make Leading Seaman, and the brave sailors of HMCS Margaree.

No. 40 (of 125) in my East York Collegiate Memory Project finds a young man confused about his future joining the RCAF looking for answers ...

You often read or hear tales from the war of young men who found themselves in the forces after an unsettled life during the Depression of the 1930s.

Thus, our tale.

Henry Milton Pope was born in March of 1922 to a working-class family that would be hit hard by the Dirty 30s. His parents were Albert Henry and Lily Etta, and there were two brothers, George and Lloyd.

Milt’s records show the family lived in a number of locations as dad brought home what he could working as a chauffeur, and a cab driver.

They spent much time in East York, a suburb of Toronto, and Milt went through William Burgess School for eight years, then to East York Collegiate (still then East York High School) for one, off for two at Northern Vocational School in the city proper, studying electricity, and was doing a few night courses at Central Technical when the war broke out.

He was good at math and mechanics, and by his own admission, not a fan of history.

Milt was trying to find something – it jumps out of his records.

Worked in rural Erin, Ontario, as a farm hand. Didn’t like it. Worked in a garage that was part of a big laundry. Didn’t like it. Then on to a private aviation company in Galt (now Cambridge), to learn aviation mechanics. There was a spark.

There was also a ticket to ground duty when Milt joined the Royal Canadian Air Force. One look at the mechanical skills and off he went to No. 6 Repair Depot, Trenton, followed by No. 118 (F) Squadron, Dartmouth, Nova Scotia, as a rigger and fitter (airframe and engines), on the Grumman Goblin.

In February of 1942 at No. 118, Pope went AWOL (Absent Without Leave) for six days and 13 hours, earning seven days in the base slammer. He must have redeemed himself nicely, as by the end of the year his application for aircrew came through and it was off to the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan.

Things really picked up. Each step on the way to a bomb aimer brevet, Milt graduated near the top of his class. At No. 1 Bombing and Gunnery, (Jarvis, Ontario) he was a passenger in a car that hit the lift bridge at Port Dover, as they headed for a dance. Medical records show a “massive effusion” on his right knee.

By the time he graduated, Pope was highly recommended for a commission and went overseas as a Pilot Officer. On reaching No. 115 Squadron in No. 3 Group he was a Flying Officer.

XXX

On the evening of Nov. 27, 1944, Lancaster I HK 624 (KO-J) lifted from the runway at RAF Witchford, with F/O I.L. Ingham at the controls and Milt Pope as the bombaimer.

It was a somewhat unusual crew of nine, including Sprog pilot G. Purvis in the “Dickey seat” to gain experience, and an extra gunner in the “mid-under” or ventral position – basically a small hatch with a gun sticking out to fight attacks from below. The seven regulars were two trips from completing their tour.

Bomber Command was busy that night, sending out three raids, with 169 Lancasters from 3 Group headed for a heavily clouded Cologne (Koln). They lost one Lancaster – HK 624. It simply disappeared.

A post-war investigation by the RAF solved the mystery. The Ingham crew was approaching the target when it likely took a flak hit to the bomb bay and blew up, scattering pieces and bodies onto Danziger Street and environs.

All were identified post-war and are now in the Rheinberg war cemetery.

Per Ardua ad Astra to the brave crew of Ingham, Pope, Purvis, Light, Spotswood, Hutchinson, McPake, Hogben, and Leveritt.

As a postscript, when Milt’s possessions were checked to send home, it was found he had been carefully saving his money for after the war. There was over $500 in a London bank.

No. 39 (of 125) in my East York Collegiate Memorial Project features a young all-arounder who had so much to give...

If you picked up your telephone in late 1930s Toronto and dialed GR 5585 in hopes of chatting with Richard Killham, chances are he wouldn’t be there.

The student at East York Collegiate might be out playing football, or basketball, or hockey, or cricket. He might be sitting under an apple tree somewhere quietly sketching, working on his perspective.

You’d have to leave a message.

Here we find our story.

On Christmas Eve of 1919, Annie Strang threw her heart into the ring with Henry Killham, a First World War combat veteran, setting out together to build a life in East York.

Over the coming years they would have four boys (Harry, Richard, Donald, and Gerald), find a home at 328 Cedarvale Ave., and send dad off each morning for his job as a lab assistant with the Board of Health.

Richard was born on 21 October, 1922, attending Danforth Park School as a youth, and then East York High School just as it earned Collegiate status in 1937. As he grew there were two talents that developed – sports, at which he excelled, and art, which he loved.

He must have been an active handful at times – the air force medical records show a broken leg as a child.

After some years at EYCI, Richard went to Danforth Technical for night school courses, studying life drawing. It was not his first foray, having taken correspondence art courses in 1935 while just 13.

Finished with education for now, young Killham joined the Royal Canadian Air Force in 1941 on his 19th birthday.

His trip through the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan was a tad bumpier than some others. After basic he went to St. Catharines for elementary flight school and washed out, earning a trip to Trenton for reassignment.

There he went to No. 5 Bombing and Gunnery School, in Dafoe, Saskatchewan, followed by No. 7 Air Observer School (navigation) at Portage, where he earned his “O” brevet.

Richard’s records show after a 14-day leave at home, he sailed from Halifax on Nov. 30, 1942, stopping in New York before joining a convoy for England. Sailing into harbour at The Big Apple must have been exciting for a young man of his interests.

XXX

Bomber Command’s Operational Training Units by 1943 were the second last stop before combat. There you “crewed up” with the young men with whom you’d go into combat,  and introduced to an older front-line bomber, mostly the Vickers Wellington.

Richard Killham found himself a bomb aimer on an all-Canadian crew at No. 23 OTU, flying out of a satellite base of Atherstone, near Stratford-upon-Avon. They had to learn on aircraft that were often “clapped out”, with tired de-rated engines, and airframes that were overworked and underserviced.

Just after 9 p.m., on April 11, 1943, pilot Frank Rogers took Wellington III BJ 786 off the runway for a night navigation exercise. He was still just 19, but the crew was coming together and nearing the end of this step on the way to operations.

This would be a straight-forward test taking them to Wallingford, Peterborough, Hexham, Pocklington, Leighton Buzzard, Hereford, then home.

Around 1:30 a.m. just before the flight was due home, a witness near Ripon, Yorkshire (west of Dishforth), heard an aircraft approach, reporting everything sounded fine. Suddenly it went into a steep dive, struck the ground and exploded.

Killed were Killham, Rogers, Joe Toupin, Alex MacLellan, Don Smith, and Anthony Dorzek.

The investigation noted the cause “was obscure.”

As a sad sidenote, Rogers’ elder brother Fred would be killed four months later on a raid while flying for 428 Squadron.

Per Ardua ad Astra to Richard and his brave crew.

No. 38 (of 125) in my East York Memorial Project tells of a young man from Springdale Boulevard trying to decide whether to marry before going off to war ...

One of the most important decisions in the war for countless young couples was whether to get married before the potential groom went into combat, or to wait until he came safely home.

If they did marry the question of getting pregnant also hung in the air.

Here we find our story.

Albert Victor Carter was born in 1922 to his father, also Albert Victor, and mother Edna. They settled at 116 Springdale Blvd., in the East York suburb of Toronto.

Dad worked at Standard Brands (yeast, baking powder, coffee) as a salesman.

Young Albert was educated at R.H. McGregor School, and then East York Collegiate, where he was a good student and athlete. Baseball, basketball, and swimming, were his favourite sports.

Graduation found Carter first working as a delivery boy for the R.W. Redman Drug Store and then taking on a clerkship with the Aikenhead Hardware company.

When Albert joined the RCAF in July of 1941 he was 19, and had already flown as a passenger, falling in love with the experience. He was quickly tagged as a future pilot in the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan, going through Initial Training School at Belleville, elementary in St. Eugene, and advanced (SFTS) at St. Hubert.

Those beautiful pilot wings were sewn on in April of 1942.

Life then threw Carter a couple of curveballs.

He fell in love. And the air force sent him to MacDonald, Manitoba, for 18 months of flying aeroplanes at No. 3 Bombing and Gunnery School. Not the most interesting job for a young birdman.

But there was Bernice, and promise of occasional leaves that could bring them together, where the discussion of what to do must have been front and centre. In May of 1943, they married, moving into his parent’s home. The air force sent Carter overseas at the end of September.

Shortly after he arrived a letter announced his wife was pregnant.

XXX

On Dec. 12, 1944, Flying Officer Albert Carter took Halifax VII, LW 200, off the runway at Linton-on-Ouse, Yorkshire, and headed for Germany. It was his seventh operation (the newspaper reports said 16, but that was his “points” earned) for No, 426 Thunderbird Squadron, as part of No, 6 Group.

About an hour into the flight, still over England, the aircraft collided with a heavily laden Lancaster (KB 768) from 428 Squadron, piloted by Harold Shewfelt, of Medicine Hat. They came down about a mile east of Yelvertoft, itself east of Rugby city. Both crews were killed.

Albert Carter was buried with his crew at Brookwood Military Cemetery.

His daughter Victoria, whom he never met, was just seven months old.

Per Ardua ad Astra to two brave crews.

Halifax LW 200

Albert Carter

Albert Downing

Richard Dowding

William Murrell

Ian Myron

E.J. Hartwood

D.L. Bourner

Lancaster KB 768

Harold Shewfelt

John Reid

E.E. Cooper

S.W. Pechet

Arie Baxter

James Virag

C.N. Collingwood

No. 37 (of 125) of my East York Collegiate Memorial Project brings home how little time there really was between the two world wars. And of how it affected an East York family on Woodbine Avenue...

As the Nov. 11 Armistice Day approached in late 1945, the Toronto Telegram set out to find a mother who might encapsulate the losses of both the First World War, and the just completed second global conflict.

They found Mrs. Cordelia Perrott, of 1044 Woodbine Avenue, in the Toronto suburb of East York.

Here lies our story.

Harry Perrott was raised in the Welsh iron mill town of Ystalyfera, in the Swansea Valley. As he came of age, the community came to hard times as the new steel industry overtook the production of iron in importance.

The young man was able to find a career in the engineering department of the Great Western Railway, and to find a wife in Cordelia. They had four sons.

When the Great War began, Harry joined up right away (number 6946) and found himself in the Royal Munster Fusiliers, a northern Irish regiment that was, as part of the New Army recruitment, massively expanded to include men from other parts of Britain.

Harry saw a lot of war -- Gallipoli, the Somme, Messines, and Passchendaele. Once the German spring offensive was turned in 1918, he fought with the Fusilliers in attacking the “Hindenburg Line”, which would eventually end the conflict. He died Sept. 12, 1918, two months before the end, and is buried at Oueant Cemetery, in the Pas de Calais.

Among his children, he left behind son Arthur, not quite two.

XXX

Cordelia Perrott packed up the kids and, along with other family members, moved to Canada in 1921, finding their way to East York.

Art did his schooling there, going through East York Collegiate in the early 1930s, then went out to find work during the Depression. The beginning of yet another War To End All Wars found him managing a gas station on Danforth Avenue.

Perrott joined the Governor General’s Horse Guards (Royal Canadian Armoured Corps), in the 3rd Armoured Reconaissance Regiment. That kind of unit was charged with advanced scouting, and protecting the flanks. Dangerous work.

They went to Italy and began the long slog up the “soft underbelly of Europe”, finding themselves on the Adriatic as

December, 1944, began. Fighting for Rimini, and trying to further pierce the Gothic Line on the way to the River Po, the battles were nasty, muddy, murderous affairs.

When they went back into action after a rest, on Dec. 1, Trooper Perrott was badly wounded. He died in hospital on Dec. 5, at the age of 28. Arthur is buried at Coriano War Cemetery. The family chose this memorial for his stone: Sweet Memories Linger For Our Dear Son And Brother.

Left behind were Cordelia, brothers Robert, Charles, and Thomas.

No. 35 (0f 125) in my East York Collegiate Memory Project finds a young man from Peard Road meeting his destiny on a dark night over England

Coming in at night in those busy war skies wasn’t quite wing and a prayer, but it was nerve-wracking, especially for Sprog crews without a lot of experience. Your young navigator would get you in range, helped by the radio “beam” sent out by base.

Then you had a “pundit beacon”, the Drem system of circuit, funnel, and runway lights, and an air controller to keep you a safe distance apart from the a/c in front, and the one behind.

Despite this, mistakes were made, things went wrong. And here lies our story.

Ricky Whitby was born and raised in the Toronto suburb of East York, one of Frederick and Alice’s three children (including a brother Fred, and sister Bernice). They were listed during the war at 33 Peard Road, near Victoria Park and St. Clair avenues.

Whitby went to Dawes Road School, and then to East York Collegiate. While a youngster, Ricky took a newspaper route for the Toronto Daily Star.

Enlisting in the RCAF in March of 1942, the young East Yorker was identified as pilot material and eventually earned his wings in the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan, flying Ansons at No. 5 SFTS, Brantford, Ontario. Then overseas in June, 1943.

There you twiddled your thumbs for a bit at the reception centre in Bournemouth, before heading through pilot advanced training, the two parts of Operational Training (where you first crewed up), Heavy Conversion, and a quick run through Lancaster Finishing. In Ricky’s case, No. 3 LFS, at RAF Feltwell, Norfork.

Here we find Whitby and his crew, including four other Canadians (F/O Philip Duval, F/O Donald Ross, Sgt. Arthur Hrycenko, Sgt. Otis Libby) and two RAF-types (Sgt. Tom Bettridge, and Sgt. Cyril Quanborough).

They climbed into Lancaster ED 376 on June 16, 1944, for a long-range night navigational practice trip that would take them into the 17th by its completion.

Also in the air from Feltwell was Lancaster W4851, skippered by Rex Newman, from New Zealand.

As the time for return passed, reports came in from the village of Southery (six miles to the north west) that two Lancaster aircraft had collided and fallen out of the air, at 1:57 a.m. Everyone aboard the planes died.

That close to fulfilling the goal of making it to combat.

Per Ardua ad Astra to two brave crews.

Information on the landing system is from Murray Peden’s superb A Thousand Shall Fall.

No. 34 (of 125) in my East York Collegiate Memory Project tells of a young man from Woodbine Heights, and a mother who never forgot ...

A letter from Mrs. Mary Francis Driver, a Silver Cross mother, sent in February of 1956 to Canada’s Department of Veterans Affairs:

Dear Sir:

Could you please send me full location in Belgium of my son Paul E. Driver’s grave.

He was killed April 27-28, 1944, service number J85612 …

God willing, I may have the good luck to visit my son’s grave, with a friend, in the spring ...

Here we find our story.

Paul Driver was youngest son of Paul and Mary, completing a family that included Jack, Fred, Tom, and sister May. They grew up at 309 Cedarvale Avenue, a working-class neighbourhood in East York, a suburb of Toronto.

He went to the local Catholic elementary St. Brigid’s (where the grandfather of this writer’s wife was custodian), then to East York Collegiate, and Danforth Technical School.

Too young when the war started, Paul went to work at the Coleman Lamp Company, waiting until his 18th birthday before enlisting in the Royal Canadian Air Force in November of 1942.

Driver started his training at No. 1 Manning Depot, Canadian National Exhibition, and would eventually graduate in June from the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan as a gunner, at No. 3 Bombing and Gunnery School, Macdonald, Manitoba.

He went to England in July, 1943, crewing up and finding his way to No. 432 (Leaside) Squadron, at East Moor, in north Yorkshire.

Xxx

Two months before the invasion of Europe in early June, the focus of both RAF and USAAF attacks turned to attacking transportation links and wiping out the Luftwaffe’s ability to respond to D Day when it happened.

On the night of April 27-28, 144 aircraft were sent to attack the rail yards at Montzen, Belgium. One of those from 432 was Halifax BIII LW 592 (QO-A), flown by Harry Whaley. Flight Sergeant Paul Driver was in the mid-upper turret. They were an experienced crew, about 2/3 through their tour.

Post-war research shows Oberleutant Johannes Hager, of 6/NJG 1, brought his night fighter into attack near Liege, and shot it down.

The aircraft stayed up long enough for five of the seven crew to jump safely and land by parachute. Navigator John Burrows, and gunner Driver were killed.

Gunner Alf Phillips was captured and made prisoner of war but remarkedly, the other four were able to evade and eventually get back to England safely – Whaley, Kerwin Doyle, Don McDonald, and Danny McCoy.

They beat long odds.

Paul Driver (whose promotion to Pilot Officer came in shortly after his death) and John Burrows are buried at the CWGC cemetery in Heverlee, Brabant, Belgium. After the war the Driver family chose the following inscription for his stone: “Death can never separate those who are bound together by the ties of pure love.”

The writer does not know if Mary Driver made that trip.

Per Ardua ad Astra to a brave crew.

No. 33 (of 125) in my East York Collegiate Memory Project is a young man from Gowan Avenue who went overseas as a navigator ...

On the afternoon of March 18, 1942, a Royal Navy patrol boat was operating just off the coast of Cape Espichel, Portugal (about 20 miles south of Lisbon) when the crew picked up the sounds of engines low over the water.

There were two aircraft in the distance – one they identified as an RAF Bristol Beaufort torpedo bomber, the other “an enemy aircraft.”

They were no more than 50 feet up, and quickly disappeared over the horizon.

Moving in that direction, there was no indication of a crash, or survivors.

This is where we find the end of our story.

It begins with Peter Brinkworth arriving five days before Christmas, 1920, the son of Ernest and Christina Brinkworth.

His parents were from England, dad born in Hampton, west of London, and mum in the city itself. They had emigrated to Canada, become citizens, with Ernie taking work as a clerk. At some point while his son grew, the father passed away.

Peter grew up at 274 Gowan Ave., and went through East York Collegiate in this suburb of Toronto.

War took the young Brinkworth into the RCAF where he earned an Observer brevet (navigator and bomb-aimer) in the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan, finishing with the single stripe of a Pilot Officer.

There is a photo of him posing with three other young men in front of No. 1 Manning Depot, Toronto, for a promotional shot taken on Jan. 23, 1941 as they prepared to go overseas. Great smile and eyes. Confident. Happy to be going.

It was quite common during the war for young people going overseas to look up extended family members when they arrived. In Peter’s case, it was his late father’s brother, who lived at 5 Ashridge Way, Morden, Surrey (southwest London).

A letter sent to the Air Ministry by the uncle later in the war tells us Peter brought his Australian pilot, Bill Thornton, home for at least one visit.

xxx

In March of 1942, the ever-growing needs of the RAF in the Middle East saw hundreds of replacement aircraft making the trip from Britain, many in the hands of No. 44 Group Ferry Service.

There are some things we know about the final flight of Beaufort I (W6474) by piecing information together.

• The crew of Thornton, Brinkworth (navigator), Sgt. Cyril Bohling, and Sgt. Andrew Brigstocke (both listed as wireless air gunners) took off from RAF Portreath, in southwest Cornwall, on the morning of March 18, headed south for Gibraltar. That meant transiting the dangerous skies over the Bay of Biscay.

• They were nominally listed as member of No. 86 (Coastal Command) squadron, but the Operational Record Book for that month shows neither the aircraft, nor the crew, on strength, or the flight itself recorded.

• Once W6474 cleared English air space, the crew were never seen again.

• The patrol boat off Lisbon identified a Beaufort and enemy aircraft, but there is no confirmation it was the Thornton crew, though a letter sent to Brinkworth’s mother does say the RAF believes it to be so.

Per Ardua ad Astra to the brave crew of Thornton, Brinkworth, Sgt. Cyril Bohling, and Sgt. Andrew Brigstocke. They are remembered on the Runnymede Memorial, northwest of London.

No. 32 (of 125) in my East York Collegiate Memory Project finds young Gordon Yeates at very low level off the German coast ...

Dropping anti-ship mines or attacking convoys by air during the war was always a dangerous chore, whether it be off the Heligoland Bight, in the Mediterranean, or the Bay of Bengal.

Flak ships, shore batteries, searchlights, unexpected winged company, and the difficulty of judging your own height over the waves only added to the challenge of trying to interdict the enemy’s ability to move supplies, troops, and equipment.

Thus, our story.

Gordon Richardson Yeates grew up in East York, Ontario, a suburb of Toronto, coming of age in the Depression.

He was raised by his mother at two addresses found on the records – 249 Donlands Avenue, and 37 Westwood Avenue, both in the same neighbourhood. After graduating from East York Collegiate, he went to work.

The war breaks out in September of 1939 and Yeates is among the first in line, going through the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan, happily avoiding being chosen as an instructor, and heading out to Europe bearing the pilot wings of the Royal Canadian Air Force.

Rather than a place in the early, mostly inaccurate missions over the Ruhr with inadequate equipment and undeveloped science, Gordon joined Coastal Command, landing with No. 608 (North Riding) Squadron, an Auxiliary Air Force unit dating back to 1930 that is hampered by inadequate equipment and undeveloped science.

Its official job was reconnaissance, but it also attacked convoys, jumped passing destroyers and E-boats, and generally kept an eye on the German shipping lanes.

On the night of Nov. 5-6, 1941, Yeates took Lockheed Hudson V (AM 642 – R Robert) into the air from RAF Thornaby, in North Yorkshire, and headed for a general North Sea line between Terschelling (Frisian Islands) and the Heligoland Bight. The idea was to patrol and attack anything found.

The strike was led by Wing Commander Rupert Derbyshire, who had eight Hudsons on the operation. It turned out to be a busy, costly evening.

O Orange flew right by a Luftwaffe Me 110, and probably a JU 88, without being seen, then attacked a convoy and likely overshot with its bombs. G George found the same convoy, hit something and caused a fire, without definite results. L Lion surprised a flak ship (which must have scared hell out of the crew as well), dropped its bombs, and came home with a six-inch hole in the starboard wing.

H Harry dropped on a merchant vessel of some description, “starting a fire.”

Nothing was ever heard again from the wing commander and his crew, or Gordon Yeates and his (Sgt. J. Sansome, Sgt. Francis J. Hazlett, Sgt, Eric Elkington). They disappeared into the North Sea and are remembered on the Runnymede Memorial, north west of London.

Per Ardua ad Astra to eight brave airmen.

Number 31 (of 125) of the East York Collegiate Memorial Project finds a young man of Pape Village finally earning his chance to fight in combat ... 

In the early months of the war young men began bubbling through the doors of the Royal Canadian Air Force manning depots with dreams of flying a Spitfire, or Hurricane, dancing in their heads.

Some would wash out, some would be streamed to other aircrew positions, some would be sent to Trenton and become groundcrew of some type. For many a worse fate meant earning their pilot wings and then being sent off to instructor training and a “ticket to nowhere” teaching fledgling intrepids.

A lot of these instructors stayed in the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan for the duration. Many others begged and cajoled their way into a spot overseas, often years behind others of similar experience.

This is where we find our story.

Ernest William Watson grew up in the working-class area of Pape Village, part of the Toronto suburb of East York.

Along with two brothers and a sister, they lived at 161 Westwood Avenue (still there). Bill attended Hartman Jones School (now Westwood Middle) and East York Collegiate, where he was strong at both academics and athletics (especially hockey and football).

Watson joined up in November of 1940, just as the Battle of Britain was ending, and found success in the air, showing himself to be a fine pilot with a natural understanding of what was happening, why, and how to explain it.

An unfortunate combination of skills for someone who wanted to fly in combat. The air force spoke, and Bill found himself an instructor.

Off to Boundary Bay, B.C., for a year, then through Dunnville, Trenton, and Brantford, all in Ontario. Always hoping for a chance at combat. (Through a complicated early-war system, Watson was actually a “civilian” instructor for two years before coming “back” to the RCAF.)

Bill’s time came and he was off to England in November of 1943, where he did final training, crewed up and made his way to 420 Squadron (Snowy Owl), No. 6 Group, Bomber Command. They were based at Tholthorpe, in Yorkshire.

The night of January 15-16, 1945, found Watson’s crew with 16 operations in the bag as they wheeled Halifax III NA192 (PT-Q) onto the runway for what would turn out to be the Snowy Owl’s worst night of the war. There were 18 aircraft headed for Magdeburg, Germany, and by the time the kites returned 420 was down four, with 15 crew dead.

NA192 made it to the target, but took heavy damage from anti-aircraft fire and went into a dive. Two of the crew, F/Sgt. D. Jacobi, and F/Sgt. T. Lynch, managed to escape and were captured, but the other five were killed.

Per Ardua ad Astra to those brave men, pilot E.W. Wilson, F/O Quon Jil Louie, P/O W. Partridge, and two RAF airmen, Sgt. A Parker, and P/O C. Way.

No. 30 (of 125) in my East York Collegiate Memory Project finds a young man earning his WAG brevet in the BCATP before going off to hunt U-boats in the Bay of Biscay ...

If the son of a Canadian family was missing in the Second World War (something most common in the RCAF), there was usually a list of things that happened.

First was a Canadian Pacific telegraph, then a note from his commander officer assuring everything was being done to see if he was safe in a prisoner of war camp. A few months later came the official letter saying the young man’s status had changed to POW (far less often) or was now listed as killed in action.

Finally, a knock on the door, or a phone call, from the local newspaper.

That is where we find our story.

Charles Walter Woodward was an East York boy, the son of Alfred and Amelia. He grew up at 237 Linsmore Cres., in the Toronto suburbs, attending Plains Road for elementary, and East York Collegiate Institute.

He enlisted early – November of 1940 – and went through his RCAF training in the burgeoning British Commonwealth Air Training Plan, featuring stops at No. 2 Manning Depot, Brandon, Manitoba, then off to Calgary for wireless, and Fingal, Ontario, for gunnery.

Proudly wearing a WAG brevet, Woodward went overseas and became part of a crew in No. 407 (Demon) Squadron, RCAF.

This was a special squadron, and the first Canadian one. Their job was low-level shipping strikes, first flying the Handley Page Hampden for a short period and then onto the Lockheed Hudson through the end of 1942.

They were moved often, to be in place where German convoys were expected, and the Demons (so named by the press) went through Thorney Island, North Coates, Bircham Newton, St. Eval, Docking, and Skitten, all in less than 18 months. Everywhere they went, the food was, as they often said, bloody awful.

In October, 1942, the squadron began hunting U-boats full time, mostly down in the Bay of Biscay, off western France. From Bordeaux down to La Rochelle, the German submarines had their lairs from where they sailed to attack Allied convoys in the Battle of the Atlantic.

Aircraft trying to sink U-boats not only had to deal with anti-aircraft fire, but with patrolling aircraft ranging from fighters, to bombers, recon craft, and even float planes. The Hudson bomber was a solid aeroplane, but no match for the Luftwaffe if found.

By the time Flight Lieutenant James Ellam took his crew into the air on Dec. 23, 1942, they were an experienced bunch. The skipper himself had already been rescued from the Bay of Biscay back in April, when his Hudson had been shot down while with 233 Squadron.

Charlie Woodward, meanwhile, was one of the best wireless air gunners on 407, had been Mentioned in Dispatches for his bravery, and made an officer.

They never came home. Disappeared.

A telegram went to East York, then the two letters. A Globe and Mail reporter asked for an interview, and Charlie’s sister Hazel stepped up.

She spoke about his letters and how they were usually general, or personal.

“We never knew much about (his flying) however, since he wasn’t allowed to send us any information,” said Hazel, with great grace and bravery. “We believe he had completed his operational tour of (unreadable) flights when he was reported missing.”

Hazel was only 17.

Per Ardua ad Astra to a brave crew of Ellam, Woodward, Joe Gauchier, and E.F. Willson. They are remembered on the Runnymede Memorial, north west of London.

No. 30 (of 125) in my East York Collegiate Memory Project finds a young man earning his WAG brevet in the BCATP before going off to hunt U-boats in the Bay of Biscay ...

If the son of a Canadian family was missing in the Second World War (something most common in the RCAF), there was usually a list of things that happened.

First was a Canadian Pacific telegraph, then a note from his commander officer assuring everything was being done to see if he was safe in a prisoner of war camp. A few months later came the official letter saying the young man’s status had changed to POW (far less often) or was now listed as killed in action.

Finally, a knock on the door, or a phone call, from the local newspaper.

That is where we find our story.

Charles Walter Woodward was an East York boy, the son of Alfred and Amelia. He grew up at 237 Linsmore Cres., in the Toronto suburbs, attending Plains Road for elementary, and East York Collegiate Institute.

He enlisted early – November of 1940 – and went through his RCAF training in the burgeoning British Commonwealth Air Training Plan, featuring stops at No. 2 Manning Depot, Brandon, Manitoba, then off to Calgary for wireless, and Fingal, Ontario, for gunnery.

Proudly wearing a WAG brevet, Woodward went overseas and became part of a crew in No. 407 (Demon) Squadron, RCAF.

This was a special squadron, and the first Canadian one. Their job was low-level shipping strikes, first flying the Handley Page Hampden for a short period and then onto the Lockheed Hudson through the end of 1942.

They were moved often, to be in place where German convoys were expected, and the Demons (so named by the press) went through Thorney Island, North Coates, Bircham Newton, St. Eval, Docking, and Skitten, all in less than 18 months. Everywhere they went, the food was, as they often said, bloody awful.

In October, 1942, the squadron began hunting U-boats full time, mostly down in the Bay of Biscay, off western France. From Bordeaux down to La Rochelle, the German submarines had their lairs from where they sailed to attack Allied convoys in the Battle of the Atlantic.

Aircraft trying to sink U-boats not only had to deal with anti-aircraft fire, but with patrolling aircraft ranging from fighters, to bombers, recon craft, and even float planes. The Hudson bomber was a solid aeroplane, but no match for the Luftwaffe if found.

By the time Flight Lieutenant James Ellam took his crew into the air on Dec. 23, 1942, they were an experienced bunch. The skipper himself had already been rescued from the Bay of Biscay back in April, when his Hudson had been shot down while with 233 Squadron.

Charlie Woodward, meanwhile, was one of the best wireless air gunners on 407, had been Mentioned in Dispatches for his bravery, and made an officer.

They never came home. Disappeared.

A telegram went to East York, then the two letters. A Globe and Mail reporter asked for an interview, and Charlie’s sister Hazel stepped up.

She spoke about his letters and how they were usually general, or personal.

“We never knew much about (his flying) however, since he wasn’t allowed to send us any information,” said Hazel, with great grace and bravery. “We believe he had completed his operational tour of (unreadable) flights when he was reported missing.”

Hazel was only 17.

Per Ardua ad Astra to a brave crew of Ellam, Woodward, Joe Gauchier, and E.F. Willson. They are remembered on the Runnymede Memorial, north west of London.