Memoirs of a Worldly Guy
Speaking of cold, I think I am eminently qualified to do so. I was taking all of my meals at the Phi Kapp house by this time. I was living on 111th Street just north of 80th Avenue, eight blocks south and one block west of the fraternity house. During the winter of 1942/43 the temperature in Edmonton never rose above minus 50 degrees Fahrenheit for a period of over five days; it might have been longer but you know how reluctant I am to resort to hyperbole. We used to say in Calgary that when it got that cold at least there was no wind. Not so in Edmonton! There was a wind blowing straight from the north each morning as I headed eight blocks straight north for the Phi Kapp house, bringing the wind chill factor to somewhere around -70 degrees. In order to avoid freezing I wore long underwear, two pairs of socks, two pairs of pants, a heavy shirt, a sports jacket, a parka with a drawstring hood, shoes, buckled overshoes, gloves covered by leather mitts and a wool scarf to partially cover my face.
I know this sounds like a bad joke but the risk of frostbite was real. Once outside, I would make it a little over a block facing into the wind before I was forced to hold my books up to my face to stave off the wind. This would be effective for another three or four blocks until my hands would start to freeze. At that point I would turn around and walk backward with my arms folded in front of me. Understandably, my backward progress was somewhat slow, in case you're wondering why I didn't make the whole journey in this mode.
I never reached the level of stress that resulted in a regular pattern of suicides as anguished students leaped from the High Level Bridge but something must have happened to my so-called brain during the first year of my attendance. During the depth of winter it was dark when I went to bed and dark when I rose and went to classes, especially on moonless nights with an overcast. One night while I was staying with the Fords just north of 80th Avenue two hours of study from 8 p.m. to 10 p.m. were enough to make my lids as heavy as lead and I undressed and crawled into bed. When the alarm clock sounded I had the feeling that I had just crawled into bed but that was not unusual. I dressed automatically, went down to the bathroom, washed my face and brushed my teeth and headed down the stairs. Mr. and Mrs. Ford were sitting in the living room reading and looked up when I passed. I was too groggy to wonder about their unusual timing and merely muttered a greeting to them as I left the house. I didn't go to the fraternity house for breakfast but put my head down and walked directly to the Arts Building some twenty minutes north. Why did I skip breakfast? Don't ask me! I arrived at a darkened and deserted Arts Building and stood at the front door wondering what the hell was going on. I suddenly had a rush of sludge to my addled brain---I looked at my wristwatch! It was fifteen minutes before midnight! I blamed it on my alarm clock!
Usually, by the time I arrived at the fraternity house I was wide awake. Ordinarily the first to arrive in the dining room I was usually stuck into the oatmeal porridge and toast by the time the first stragglers entered from upstairs for breakfast.
'Mornin'!' I would say cheerfully to each arrival.
'Shut up and eat your porridge!' was a typical response. Some just glared and said nothing. I soon realized that I was having breakfast with a house full of slow starters. Some never spoke until they had consumed at least one cup of strong black coffee substitute (chicory was popular). Selling coloured margarine was still illegal, thanks to the efforts of the dairy lobby. Each package of margarine came with a small capsule of yellow colouring which was intended to be incorporated into the white margarine. What a ridiculous farce! As a result, the capsule was ignored and everyone became accustomed to eating white margarine.
Bacon and eggs were rarely if ever seen. The meagre rations seemed to mysteriously disappear. Heinz 57 Sauce was, on the other hand, not rationed. There were 21 young men eating at the house and we figured we were consuming at least a case of 12 bottles of 57 Sauce per week. Meals with a high component of macaroni or potatoes were literally obscured by a coating of 57 Sauce in order to convey an element of flavour to the food. Regrettably, beef heart (we referred to it as 'bee fart') had begun to find its way onto the menu occasionally, but we had a reasonable amount of roast beef and roast pork.
We were fortunate if we had a competent cook who was willing to return the following year to do the same job. As a result we had some quite good ones and a few who seemed to have learned their cooking skills in an iron foundry. One of the most memorable was a woman called Greta who seemed to lack the ability to plan ahead. If we were having a roast of beef or of pork she would wait until about thirty minutes before dinner time, then turn the oven up to maximum heat (450 degrees F.). Once the oven reached the top temperature she would shove in the roast and wait impatiently for it to cook sufficiently for her to slice off the first inch or two of each end. The first eight or ten diners would receive meat but the rest would endure a ten minute wait.
'It's coming, just be patient!' she would call out from the kitchen prior to slicing off another few inches of cooked meat. She was soon replaced.
Nevertheless, cooking for a mob like that was a big chore, considering that the cook had to operate without all the fancy stainless steel vessels available today. The maid was usually pressed into service at mealtimes. However, sadistic practices didn't all end after initiation time. Food was usually delivered to the head of the table just beyond the door to the kitchen and passed along for each person to take a portion. The first time I had the dish of potatoes held out to me from the smartass on my left I made the mistake of starting to serve myself while he held the dish. He promptly dropped it and it fell to the table, surprisingly unbroken.
On another occasion we were served a caramel pudding for dessert, already placed in dishes. My knowledgeable but unkindly neighbor, a senior student of medicine, held his hand over his dish and turned to me.
'That's really quite hot,' he said, holding his hand over his pudding. 'Feel it!' As gullible as usual, I held my hand over my pudding with a view to testing the temperature. He immediately slapped the back of my hand so that it was forced into the cold pudding. Multitudinous 'yucks' ensued.
The people 'across town' seemed to regard the students at the university as a bunch of shirkers and permanent 'layabouts'. Those with sons and daughters overseas or worse were understandably disgruntled. Presumably as an attempt to mollify this resentment which was happily exacerbated by the crosstown newspapers, the university governors decreed that any student able to pass the basic physical requirements would be required to join the reserve of one or the other of the armed forces. The idiocy of this decision should, I believe, become obvious as I describe it in more detail. Those of us lacking the wit or experience to know better automatically allowed ourselves to become reserve army privates.
We were issued the coarse, ill fitting, scratchy woollen army uniforms which I suspected were leftovers from World War I. Once a week we would don our fighting outfits and learn how to march in unison, wheel right, wheel left, fix bayonets and other useful bellicose moves. Before the cruel winter winds and snow set in we would frequently drill in the open; afterwards during inclement weather, we would hone our warlike skills in a huge building aptly named the Drill Hall.
I remember being lined up along 109th Street just east of St. Stephen's College one clement autumn afternoon in 1942. Perhaps we were awaiting a review by Colonel Warren, who was the CMFIC of the university reserve. In the meantime we were being harangued in turn by RSM Harries, CSM Shoctor, CSM Cormie (with his glistening white teeth and dimples and tailor-made serge uniform) and whoever else felt the compunction to shout at us for a while, which all of them did. We referred to them as 'Order Shouter-Outers' and were supposed to be paying close attention to the military matters with which each of them was at present preoccupied.
We, in fact, were all looking attentively straight forward and slightly upward. There was a three-story house immediately across the street with a four-sided roof which sloped down to a narrow surrounding walkway. A corpulent elderly man obviously had access to the roof through a trap door and was in the habit of walking slowly around the border of the roof, ostensibly to examine the condition of the shingles. It was about forty feet to the ground.
'That crazy old bastard's gonna fall off some day and kill himself , you know!' I muttered to Follett.
'How sad,' Art replied, 'that would require us to listen instead to the 'Order Shouter-Outers!'
'What a gloomy prospect,' I said. 'Nevertheless, I'm convinced the old bugger has some kind of a death wish; he's up there risking his skin every time we parade here!'
'Maybe he's just a natural-born show off,' Art said. I would have laughed aloud at the comment but restrained myself, knowing that such a display would inevitably draw a stern reprimand from one of the O.S.O.'s. Several years later I was reminiscing with one of my old classmates and fellow potential army officers (read 'cannon fodder') when I asked him if he remembered the quirky old gentleman who'd so entranced us at the time.
'Of course I remember him,' he replied. 'You know he fell off the roof and killed himself, don't you?'
'No, I didn't know that! I always predicted it, you know; it's a pity I missed it when it finally happened!'
'You're a really sick person, you know!' said my informant disgustedly.
'Yeah, I know; it's my specialty!'
Since it was nearly supper time we went directly from the parade dismissal to the fraternity house to have supper. Art thought of the entire COTC (Canadian Officer's Training Corps) exercise as farcical; 2nd Lieutenant Richard Soley, on the other hand, was deadly serious about the army. He wore a tailored uniform and carried a swagger stick. (Swagger stick, n. a short stick or cane, often leather-covered and sometimes carried by army officers or soldiers. Webster's Dictionary). The dictionary defines 'swagger' as 'an arrogant strut'.
Dick was in the habit of walking briskly along the sidewalk, arms swinging, cleated boots smacking loudly against the concrete; Art was in the habit of walking in lockstep immediately back of Dick, arms swinging, mocking him deliberately. It seemed only reasonable for me to do the same, as a result the three of us would walk back to the house in this manner. It would not have seemed unreasonable for Dick to lash back at us with his swagger stick but he chose instead to ignore us completely. Dick was not a happy man, he took his own life a few years later. Should I feel guilty?
What I think of as 'Army Asininity" reached its culmination during the first two weeks of May 1943, when the entire regiment was entrained for the World War I training camp at Sarcee on the T'suu Tina Nation Indian Reserve southwest of Calgary. We were 'comfortably' lodged in bell tents, which were presumably survivors of WWI and were eagerly looking forward to two weeks of rigorous "boot camp-style' training, long route marches and simulated warfare. Whoopee!
Bear in mind that the idiots in charge had decided to 'make men' out of several hundred youths who had been working out on their books instead of their bodies for approximately seven months, completely lacking any regular exercise in most cases and in deplorable condition. Square up, you men! Don't you know there's a war on? Sarcee camp was ideally suited for our needs, of course, low in a valley, cold and damp. The first night under canvas it snowed roughly four or five inches of wet snow!
Our beloved R.S.M. and his fellow 'gung-ho' NCO's and officers were in 'army heaven' needless to say. Promptly at 06:00 hours (army parlance) the R.S.M. came stomping up to our tent.
'Wakie, wakie, soldiers! Everybody out to the parade ground in five minutes for exercises. On the double, now!'
'Go fuck yourself!' came a muffled reply.
'All right! Who said that?' Dead silence. He finally went on to the next tent.
I lasted about four days before my prediction came true and I was sent off to the 'infirmary'.What a joke that was! The old wooden building (another relic from WWI) had eight beds lined up four to a side facing toward the sole source of heat, a cast-iron wood burning stove! Great Caesar! In the bed next to me was a soul mate who detested the army as passionately as I and we started to complain about nearly everything as soon as we arrived.
The surly son of a bitch who served as 'nurse'/'ward aide'/'general dogsbody' was a putative medical student who presumably thought that emptying bedpans was a more preferable way to spend his two weeks than were route marches. I tended to agree with him on that point. Perhaps the fact that we pointed this out to him engendered his initial resentment. The food we were served was bad enough to begin with if we stood in line in the mess and got it hot but by the time we got it cold in the infirmary and the grease had been given a chance to congeal...well!
The state of the food we were served was only one of the things we were able to complain about during our confinement. As soon as we perceived the degree of smouldering resentment lying in the breast of our sullen ward aide we immediately thought of a plethora of other minor complaints with which to harass him. It was either too hot or too cold, there was a light shining in our eyes and keeping us awake, the mud on the floor was drying out and causing dusty conditions that irritated our throats and lungs. Why wasn't it being swept up? Maybe he'd be happier if I just went home and
didn't bother him any more!
The following morning I was confronted by a covey of senior military personnel who lined up beside my bed with threatening aspects. The 'bedpan dumper' had obviously 'gone upstairs'. I wondered if I were expected to salute. Captain C.R. Tracy, who headed the contingent, chose to adopt a sarcastic approach, ostensibly as a means of causing me extreme embrrassment, not only in front of those within earshot, but also for the the purpose of exposing my unwillingness to 'be a man!'.
'So, I'm told you'd like to go home to 'Mommy'! he said in a contemptuous tone of voice.
'Where could you possibly have gotten such an idea, sir?' I asked in my most humble manner.
'Never mind where I got my information,' he said curtly. 'Is it true or not?' I could see our arch enemy lurking and smirking in the background.
'Well, sir, as a matter of fact it is. My home is virtually a stone's throw north across the hill from here, as a matter of fact our gang used to hike out here on Easter holidays during the thirties. I've come to the conclusion that I'm not doing any good here; if I were at home I feel sure my mother would be pleased to nurse me and supply good hot nourishing meals at no cost whatever to the Canadian Army. That would also free up a bed for some other poor victim for whom you can't provide your loving care at present.' His acolytes grumbled and shot murderous glances in my direction. Tracy could not himself effectively disguise his fury. My partner in disturbance in the next bed was not successfully able to conceal his delighted laughter as evidenced by his ill-concealed snortings and snufflings.
'Maybe you'd prefer to be downtown at the Belcher Hospital!' The captain said menacingly.
Fresh cotton bedsheets, real female nurses, good hot meals, ambient temperatures that were thermostatically-regulated! I had a sudden mental image of Bre'r Rabbit crying 'Please Massah Fox, doan t'row me in de briar patch!'
'Well, sir, I've never been in the Belcher Hospital but if those are the wishes of you and Commanding Officer Warren, I will, as any good soldier would, obey your wishes.' I had the impression that Tracy was beginning to realize that he had painted himself into a corner.
'Then so be it!' he said angrily, turned on his heel and stamped out of the building, followed by his faithful retainers.
'You clever son of a bitch!' said my fellow resident.
'I guess it pays to complain!' I said with a smile.
I bid a tearful farewell to the other patients the following morning and was driven to the old Belcher Hospital on the south side of Eighth Avenue between Fifth and Sixth Streets West. It has now been renovated as Penny Lane. It was all I had anticipated and was fussed over by the female nurses from the outset. They wore crisp white and blue iniforms and approached their assignmments with a much more positive attitude than the surly son of a bitch at Sarcee.
'Well, you've got some pretty high-powered company arriving here from Sarcee these days,' said a pert young brunette nurse one morning. 'High-powered'? I thought. Who could that possibly be? Surely not my old friend Captain Tracy--that would be real hoot! No! Of all things it turned out to be Lt. Col. P.S. Warren no less, 'stud duck' of the entire COTC from the U. of A., confined to bed with a case of pneumonia. Now I wonder how that could have happened? It seemed as though they had failed to 'make a man' of him!
'I presume he has a private room.' I said.
'You presume correctly,' she replied, with a giggle.
Dad came in to visit me one day and when I told him about the poker games he gave me five dollars, no strings attached. It only lasted one day! Every time the man who organized the games and owned the cards decided to play 'low ball'; he won! Even as ignorant as I was of the game of poker it struck me as unusual that the man was always getting a 'bicycle', impossible to beat in 'lowball'. I'd had my first lesson in the game.
I was dozing in my bed one afternoon when I heard someone approach and stop by my bed. I opened my eyes and was astounded to see before me none other than the 'Sarcee Monster', our surly warde aide from boot camp.
'What the fuck are you doing here?' I said. 'Correct me if I'm wrong, but I thought I'd seen the last of you!'
'I had some time off so I thought I'd come down and see you one more time.'
'Well, now you've seen me,' I said.
'What I'd like to do,' he said maliciously, 'is reach over there and strangle you!' The look on his face made me think he was quite serious, although perhaps slightly insane.
'Let me tell you what I'd like you to do,' I said. 'I'd like you to get the fuck out of here right now, before I call the Military Police!' My nemesis flushed, hesitated, then turned on his heel and started out of the room. 'Don't forget to drop in on Colonel Warren before you leave!' I called after him. I couldn't help myself; the guy was obviously nuts.
— The End —