大象传媒

LIFE IN THE WAVY NAVY BEGINS
Chapter 2

By Ray Culley from his book 鈥楬is Memories Can Survive鈥� - Wartime memories of the Newfoundland 鈥擠erry run during The Battle of the Atlantic.

Wavy Navy is a slang expression meaning Voluntary Service, as the Officers arm braid was in gold wavy stripes.
It was in January 1943, and World War 2 had already been
waging for two and a half years. I was seventeen the previous June.

Johnny Dykes and I were walking home from Western Canada High School, on a cold but clear winter day. There was no snow on the ground, as we had just had an infamous Chinook wind, which invariably left the lawns a dirty brown colour. Both of us had our study books under our arms with no intentions of opening them that evening; they were for show only. We were in a melancholy mood, as the Sadie Hawkins Dance was coming up at Western and to date, nary a girl had requested us to accompany them. We both hung out with a gang of boys and girls, but never paired up. It was just a bunch of students hanging out together, going to shows, the soda fountain outlet, and talking about school gossip, teachers and parents alike.

To our dismay, none of the girls in our group, or any other group for that matter, had approached either one of us to go to the dance. We had learned from them and others,that they had searched and found young enlisted men in uniform to ask. It did not take an Einstein to figure out that it was the uniform that attracted them, not necessarily the boy that was in it.
To this day I do not remember which one of us came up with the idea, as we lay lounging on someone鈥檚 lawn, bemoaning our horrible predicament. Needless to say we both agreed that we should hurry down to the RCAF recruiting station eager to join. Neither Johnny nor I knew why we chose the RCAF, probably because it was the closest recruiting depot.

Off we went, at a quick pace, eager to get a uniform and a possible request to the dance, which was only five days hence. I did not mention to Johnny that I greatly feared flying.
Knowing the recruiting depot was in East Calgary, we arrived at this large old brick house that had been converted to offices. There was a wide flight of stairs leading up to a verandah and then a glass panel door. Just as we neared the door, a blind quickly came down the window of the door. It read in large letters 鈥楥LOSED鈥�.
There was a sign that read 鈥極ffice hours 9 am to 5 pm鈥�; it was presently 10 minutes to 5 o鈥檆lock. On reflection now I realize what a person on the other side of the door saw two scrawny 121 pound lads, with schoolbooks under their arms. They did not at this late hour wish to get into a long discussion as to why we should just go home, and wait another day.
We took umbrage at their actions, and immediately began to plan our next quest for uniforms, any uniform; it mattered not of which kind. Almost in unison we thought of the Navy, so we trucked on down to the Navy recruiting office. This was in the downtown area, in an old hardware store. We were soon to learn that this old hardware was now known as I-IMCS Tecumseb, as all Canadian Naval establishments, be they a building or a ship, were referred to as HIS MAJESTY鈥橲 CANADIAN SHIP.
With much trepidation we approached a strapping man in full Navy uniform, including white gaiters and a white belt. He announced, without our asking, that he was the Duty Quartermaster, and was at our service. We simply said (in unison), we just want to join up. He promptly spoke into a funny funnel apparatus on the wall and said 鈥� Officer of the Watch鈥檚 presence requested on the Quarter deck鈥�(I could not detect anything that resembled a deck). He had just finished the announcement, and an Officer appeared from an office door. The Quartermaster briskly snapped a salute, and the Officer equally as snappily returned it. The
Officer suggested rather abruptly that we follow him. We quickly jumped, and my schoolbooks went crashing to the floor. The Quartermaster quickly retrieved them and reached out for Johnny鈥檚, placing them on a shelf by the entrance.
The Officer led us up a short flight of stairs into a small office. He offered us a chair (there were only two) and immediately placed a single official form in front of both of us. Without giving any details of what was on the form he proceeded to advise us that should we pass a medical examination, we would be required to attend parades Tuesday and Thursday of each week at 1900 sharp. The parades were to take place on the Main Deck (the floor of the old hardware store). Our first parade tomorrow night would consist of a medical, and if all went well, we would be issued uniforms. AT LAST! Those magic words, like music to our ears. Before requesting us to sign, he suggested that we might want to discuss the matter with our parents, and if they approved, report to the Quartermaster at 1900 sharp, tomorrow evening. He then motioned where we were to sign and promptly placed the sheets in a 帽ling basket. He then said curtly 鈥測ou are excused鈥�.
After retrieving our schoolbooks we raced to catch a streetcar as we were late for supper. Seated in the caboose of the streetcar, which was for smokers (we didn鈥檛 smoke, but it was the 鈥渋n鈥� thing to do for young High School students) both Johnny and I reflected on the events that had just taken place. It was immediately decided not to tell anyone at school, in case we failed the medical. The ugly prospect of telling our parents was discussed (in my case, just one parent, as my Dad was already serving overseas) and for the same reason it, was decided not to tell. We rationalized, why upset everyone needlessly?
In our rationalizations we also thought we would be going to parades twice a week for at least six months, and surely the war would be over. At any rate we would attend basic training at HMCS Tecumseh for a further six months, so we were certain, the war would be over.
True to our word, we told absolutely no one.

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