1.  Enlistment And Embarkation

In 1941, having just finished my internship at the Montreal General Hospital, I was accepted for a residency in neurology. I eventually wanted to be a neurosurgeon, like Wilder Penfield, whom I was most fortunate to know quite well. As any Canadian old enough to remember that year, will recall, there was a feeling that any young men who were fit and free to leave their families, should join the forces.

Accordingly, instead of continuing my medical training, and since I was already in the militia, I decided to join up, July 2nd. We had to go to the medical training centre in Ottawa as soon as possible. It was in the old Horse and Cattle building at Grosvenor Park, and I can still remember the smell of horses that permeated the place.

Our training in Ottawa was to last for a very short time, but a few amusing incidents are still fresh in my mind. One of our officers had never ridden a motorcycle before, and since the authorities felt that this was essential, he was instructed and started the Harley-Davidson, equipped with a side-car. I thought it rather silly, because I had ridden a bike for years and never tried one with a side-car before. In any event, my friend started the machine, put it into gear and turned the throttle on full. He went straight through a high wooden fence, leaving a silhouette of motorcycle and side-car, just as we have seen in the movies. We rushed through the fence to pick him up, and found him quite unhurt, although the poor motorcycle had a few scrapes.

After only a few days, our Director General came to address us. He had just received a message from the British Director General of their Medical Services, asking if twenty-five medical officers could be found to join their army, on loan, since so many of theirs had stayed behind at Dunkirk. Some of their field units were deficient of a medical officer. He said how eager he would be, if he were young enough to go!  We were told that any volunteers would continue to be on Canadian pay and we could keep our Canadian uniforms, a good idea in case we were captured!  He wanted to know our answer within two days, and we were to fill in the necessary forms, provided we were fit, single and prepared to serve anywhere in the world.

Sure enough, those of us who thought it better than staying in Canada, examining recruits, were advised that as soon as a ship could be found, we might expect to sail to England. We had visions of going over on a vessel like the Empress of Britain. If we had only known!!!

As soon as our families heard that we were going to serve with the British, which for most people meant serving with the English, they bought us the latest novels and other writings of their popular authors.

Accordingly, I read Evelyn Waugh’s delightful “Decline and Fall”, ”Vile Bodies” and other stories, little suspecting that I would later serve with him in the commando that he described so well in ”Brideshead Revisited”. Watching the TV production and reading his book, I was happy that although there was a “Captain Kerr”, he was neither a Canadian nor a medical officer. A favourite trick of Waugh’s was to use the name of an acquaintance for a miserable character in one of his stories, and once named a psychotic killer after a Dean who had given him a hard time at his university.

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Another author, whose books I was given and enjoyed immensely, was Daphne du Maurier, again never dreaming that I would meet her, under quite unromantic circumstances, as will be told later.

Looking back over the years, it is difficult to remember just how we felt about leaving our families and our recent military companions, to serve with a foreign, though friendly force in distant parts of the world. It all happened so fast, that we had little time to regret or worry about anything. We were warned that we must keep our date of departure secret, and when stopping in Montreal, must phone nobody. A band got up very early, and we had a formal farewell from Ottawa, July 31.

Every time that I pass the war memorial in Windsor Station, it gives me the creeps. We had all gazed at it, as we waited for our train to the East coast, wondering if they would change the inscription, which read “To the Canadian Pacific Veterans of World War I”, adding “and World War II”. They have done this, of course, and it is undoubtedly one of the best-designed memorials that I have ever seen.

After a brief stop at a military camp, Debert, I think it was, we proceeded to St. John to find our troop-ship. What a disappointment!  The “S.S. Bayano” was an old banana boat, which after sailing into the Carribean for many years, was awaiting recycling when the war broke out. Instead of cutting it up, they put a two-pounder gun on the stern and a machine gun on each side. A gunner was found for the big gun and the crew were to man the machine guns if needed. At night, we were told that we would take turns staying up, and were shown how to fire the things. The cabins had been changed putting twice the number of bunks in each, so we had four in our little room, but we did have a porthole.

One of our roommates was Jewish, and he explained that he had expected to have mal-de-mer as soon as we sailed, since for some reason, his people have a more delicate eighth nerve balance system than others. In any event, he almost never came down for a meal, which he was able to blame on his genes. Many others didn’t go down either, since we had very rough weather during our three week crossing.

Ours was the largest convoy up to that time, and it had to wait for the slowest ship, which might well have been ours. We had two old American destroyers as escort and they sailed around the convoy, with their four smoke stacks looking so important.

The trip was quite uneventful, except for the arrival of the Battleship “Prince of Wales”, which sailed through our columns of ships, its huge guns being raised and lowered in saluting us, with its flags flying (since there was radio silence) to tell us that Winston Churchill was returning from the Quebec Conference and thanked us for going to the help of England in her war effort. We must all have wanted to cry when we heard that this magnificent ship had been sunk at Singapore.

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Although we saw no enemy ships, submarines or planes during our crossing, one of our little vessels had a Hurricane fighter on a catapult-type device, placed on the front deck. The pilot could rev up his engine, when a high pressure of steam pushed a piston to launch the place into the air. Provided he was close enough to Ireland he could fly there, otherwise he would just parachute out near one of our ships.

Imagine our surprise, when we were told that we would land in Ireland. Our cargo was to be landed there, and so were we!  After lunch in Belfast, we went back to our boat for the night, then caught a ferry to Stranraer, in Scotland.