My father could not join the army in the 2nd WW because he had black lungs from working in a gold mine in Quebec. He died on November 11 at 11am. I will always remember that date
November 11 is a tough date for so many, including the families of those who served as well as those who could not. All stories have merit, Lara. Take care and be proud.
Such a tragic story, important for us all to hear these personalized accounts of those who fought the war and paid so dearly for it. My father and mother both served, respectively in the RCAF, in Britain from 1941-43, my mother in the Canadian Women's Army Corps. Also three of my dad's brothers served, one each in Army, Royal Canadian Navy and the RCAF. All were lucky to return unscathed...
I sat down with my Dad a few years before he passed, with a box full of his WW2 photos. Some were since declassified pictures of battles from his aircraft carrier. Others were the usual group pictures with friends. He was still able to tell many tales, many about how they partied whenever they could because, as he put it, "You never knew if you would be alive tomorrow." He would also pause regularly, touch a figure in a picture and say something like "He didn't make it," or "He disappeared over the North Sea." Lest we gorget.
My father was what was called a "radio mechanic", a euphemism for radar, which was brand new and top secret. I believe what he did was keep a bunch of little Briggs & Stratton type motors running, which powered the radar. I believe he was selected for this sort of duty because he was a farm boy and pretty handy in a lot of areas as farm people are.
He wanted to get onto aircrew but I'm actually glad he didn't, given the 50% or so fatality rate amongst those brave ones who flew missions. After two years in Britain he was shipped back to Souris, Manitoba for pilot training. He got his wings but the war ended before he could be shipped out to the Pacific Theater after VE Day.
Amongst the many stories he told us there was one of hanging around the squadron when it was strafed by a German fighter plane, everybody on the top floor was killed, he just happened to be on the ground floor...
For decades after the war, the records of those who fought and returned home injured were largely hidden—part of the reason was that Veteran Affairs wanted to minimize their financial obligations to the survivors. The pay book at the head of my post was lost by my grandmother for many years (I was the one who actually found it buried in a box of old papers). Without the paybook, she was unable to collect a widow's pension, pretty hard cheese in the Depression.
My father could not join the army in the 2nd WW because he had black lungs from working in a gold mine in Quebec. He died on November 11 at 11am. I will always remember that date
November 11 is a tough date for so many, including the families of those who served as well as those who could not. All stories have merit, Lara. Take care and be proud.
Such a tragic story, important for us all to hear these personalized accounts of those who fought the war and paid so dearly for it. My father and mother both served, respectively in the RCAF, in Britain from 1941-43, my mother in the Canadian Women's Army Corps. Also three of my dad's brothers served, one each in Army, Royal Canadian Navy and the RCAF. All were lucky to return unscathed...
I sat down with my Dad a few years before he passed, with a box full of his WW2 photos. Some were since declassified pictures of battles from his aircraft carrier. Others were the usual group pictures with friends. He was still able to tell many tales, many about how they partied whenever they could because, as he put it, "You never knew if you would be alive tomorrow." He would also pause regularly, touch a figure in a picture and say something like "He didn't make it," or "He disappeared over the North Sea." Lest we gorget.
My father was what was called a "radio mechanic", a euphemism for radar, which was brand new and top secret. I believe what he did was keep a bunch of little Briggs & Stratton type motors running, which powered the radar. I believe he was selected for this sort of duty because he was a farm boy and pretty handy in a lot of areas as farm people are.
He wanted to get onto aircrew but I'm actually glad he didn't, given the 50% or so fatality rate amongst those brave ones who flew missions. After two years in Britain he was shipped back to Souris, Manitoba for pilot training. He got his wings but the war ended before he could be shipped out to the Pacific Theater after VE Day.
Amongst the many stories he told us there was one of hanging around the squadron when it was strafed by a German fighter plane, everybody on the top floor was killed, he just happened to be on the ground floor...
Wars are full of irrational coincidences that kill or preserve. Good that in your father’s case he happened to be on the ground floor!
A beautiful tribute. His legacy lives on!
Thanks for your kind words. Take care.
My grandfather died under similar circumstances. My mother was 6. Still too young. Lest we forget.
For decades after the war, the records of those who fought and returned home injured were largely hidden—part of the reason was that Veteran Affairs wanted to minimize their financial obligations to the survivors. The pay book at the head of my post was lost by my grandmother for many years (I was the one who actually found it buried in a box of old papers). Without the paybook, she was unable to collect a widow's pension, pretty hard cheese in the Depression.