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The Holidays—Christmas and New Year's 1942/1943
With the holiday season almost upon us, the problem came up as to who were to be the lucky guys selected to go home for Christmas. Most of the fellows preferred a Christmas holiday rather than the New Year week. Since only half the personnel could go on leave, a request was put forth for people to volunteer to take the New Year's pass instead. Surprisingly, enough did. I wasn't one of them. There was no way I was going to miss Christmas at home. That was the biggest and most important holiday of the year and I wanted to be home with my family. The New Year celebration didn't mean all that much to me. Once the excitement of ringing out the old and ringing in the new was over and done with, there was little about January 1st that was of any further interest to me. except to go to the show.

On arriving back at McLagan Barracks six days later at the ungodly hour of four in the morning along with all the other returnees, I knew the minute I stepped into the place that something had gone awry while we were away. A pervasive odour hung in the air of sour milk, the smell of diarrhea and vomit. We soon learned what had happened while we were gone. Apparently the turkey or one of the side dishes served at the Christmas dinner was tainted and within a couple of hours everyone in the place was sick with food poisoning. From what we heard from those who were there, McLagan Barracks was a pandemonium of vomiting and trouser-soiling men. In other words, it became a stinking hell. Everywhere in the barracks, on their bunk beds, in the spaces between them, in the aisles, in the stairwells and outside on the square men were hung over or on their hands and knees puking their guts up and shitting their pants at the same time. In almost every window in the building someone was practically hanging out, either puking his guts out or sitting on the window-ledge with his bare-ass facing outwards unloading the contents of his tortured bowel. What a mess they made of the brick siding. They had to resort to going out the windows, simply because the latrine was awash with vomit and liquid shit. The toilet-bowls and sinks overflowed with the stinking purgings of the deathly sick. The smell was overpowering, and the sight of the puke and crap was enough to make even cement-lined stomachs give up their contents. From what we gathered from those who had gone through it all, the barracks was an unholy mess, reeking to high heaven, and what could smell worse than diarrhoea? It was so sickening, so foul, that every window, even as cold out that it was, had to be opened wide to air out the place so that one could breathe uncontaminated air. Fortunately the sickness was of short duration and as soon as the men rid their stomachs and their bowels of the poisons and were back almost to normal they were put to work cleaning the mess up. And what a mess it was! It's a wonder none of them got sick all over again. Being what they had gone through, you had to give them credit for doing a hell of a good job. By the time we got back, the place was just about as spick and span as when we left it, with only a trace of sourness detectable. Boy, I sure was glad I wasn't here at Christmas!

There are times in a man's life, as I found out, when insignificant things, become implanted in the memory, over and above what would seem to be much more important and memorable happenings. So it was with my memory of the young 10 year old paper boy who came around through the barracks bays every evening after mess hawking the Stratford Beacon-Herald. Nothing unusual about that, except for the way the lad shouted out the name of the paper. You'd swear it was the mating call of a couple of alley-cats. It didn't sound anywhere near the sound of a paperboy selling newspapers. Instead of "Get your Beacon-Herald. Get your Beacon-Herald, it was more like 'Mrrrrrrow. . . .mrrrrrrow'. You'd swear by it. It got so that every time he came around everybody would start yowling like a chorus of cats in the alley at rutting time. The poor kid must have thought we had all gone nuts. The kid had a pronounced English accent and I guess that accounted for his unintelligible sales pitch. I gathered he must have been one of the English children evacuated to Canada at the beginning of the war. Five months later, plus a few days, when on our way from the docks at Liverpool where we'd debarked from the 'Andes', to our new home at Aldershot, I was to experience a similar misinterpretation of the English language. I'll get to that in proper time.

We shared the 2nd floor in McLagan Barracks with another unit, No. 4 Company of the Veterans Guard of Canada. They occupied one half, and we the other, separated by a wall and a wide fire-door which was always open, allowing travel through each other's bays. This was good because one of the Vets was quite an accomplished guitar player and was a pretty good singer of country music, which, at that time, was known as Hillbilly music. Almost every evening shortly after mess he'd get his guitar out and start picking away at the strings and singing a variety of old familiar Grand Ole Opry songs. The one he was really good at, and it was one of my favourites was, The Wabash Cannonball. Another favourite, a popular tune of the day, was "There's a Star Spangled Banner Waving Somewhere." That Veterans Guard Corporal was talented, there was no getting away from it. By the time he was into his second song, the space around his bunk was crowded with young aspiring heroes like myself, enjoying his singing and strumming on the western guitar. Evenings were rarely ever boring for us. If it wasn't the old retread entertaining us with his rendition of those two songs and others, like "the Great Speckled Bird", Sweet Fern, and "Keep On the Sunny Side of Life, songs I used to love listening to the Carter Family singing them.

Another form of impromptu entertainment in the barracks was to listen to the stirring Scottish pipe tunes as played by another Veterans Guard. He treated us to the likes of Highland Laddie, The Road to the Isles, Scotland the Brave, and a few other Scottish marching tunes. How I loved those pipes! They never failed to get my young heart to pumping a faster beat.

By the end of February, with no more 'below zero' weather to contend with, we were able to do a lot more marching in the surrounding countryside, although the snow was still pretty deep, especially off the roadsides and in the fields. In some places drifts were all of three feet or more, but since we kept to the roads we had no trouble getting around. Most of the daily marches amounted to about ten miles or so, but we didn't mind them a bit because it was far more stimulating than sitting on those hard, dusty floors trying to stay awake while the instructor lectured on some aspect of military information not all that interesting to us. As he droned on and on for about an hour, his voice had a hypnotic effect on us and it was a ;losing battoe trying to stay awake. If it had have been something new, it wouldn't have been half so bad, but when it happened to be a repeat of what we'd already had absorbed, it was inevitable that inside ten minutes at least a half dozen guys would be snoring away at a pretty damn good clip. The drone of the lecturer, the stuffiness of the lecture bay, and the supine position on the floor were naturals to put a guy into dreamland. The NCO lecturers knew this, so they never made any big fuss over it. They'd just signal one of the guys closest to the snoozer to give the sleeper a good nudge. I guess our army was little too soft on our guys.

The end of February found us pretty well rounding into decent shape as soldiers, both physically and well-enough versed in the fundamentals of infantry training. We had learned how to read maps and to orient ourselves so that we could navigate reasonably about the countryside. We knew something about poison gases and how they killed or incapacitated a man. We could march and drill with acceptable competence, although there were a few who never did seem to get the 'hang' of it. We also became quite adept at dismantling and reassembl-ing a Bren gun in a specified time limit. We had even done some rifle-range shooting at the Armouries, using the old World War I controversial Ross rifle, refitted to fire .22s. And then it was deemed by the powers above that we were ready to take our Tests in Elementary Training (known as TOET's). I was somewhat worried I might not pass them and be relegated to some menial janitorial job instead of ending up as a paratrooper or at least the infantry. But as it turned out, my fears were groundless, as they always were no matter what I had to do. I passed all of them with flying colours, so to speak. In fact, it wasn't long after I went to Advanced Infantry Training at Ipperwash that I was offered a chance to take a Senior NCO's course because my 'M' test (I.Q. test) indicated I had the qualifications for this rank. I declined the offer because I didn't think—in fact I knew I didn't have leadership capabilities. There were two things about me that I had to believe would make my becoming a Sergeant a tough proposition. I was too 'laid-back' for one thing, and so would find it hard to lash out verbally at a man who failed to respond to orders. And the other negative going against me was that I also had a short fuse. I'd more than likely throw a punch at a guy who challenged me in an abusive way. This was a 'no-no' in the Service. On this basis then, I decided I'd rather take orders than hand them out.

In the final days of our training towards the end of March there was little else of anything to do but hone our skills at marching and arms drill. But it wasn't all that easy to do on the poor excuse of a parade-square that was nothing but slush and puddles of mud and water. You tried not to bring your feet down too hard at the command, "Halt!" or "Stand at ease!" because you'd not only soak the bottoms of your trousers, but also those around you. Of, course they had the same problem. As a result, we didn't look too sharp, practically tippy-toeing back and forth and crosswise on the square. Sergeant Bell knew what we were going through and didn't give us a hard time.

The highlight of our last week of training was the interview with the Personnel Selection Officer. This was the guy who would have final say as to what corps of the army you’d be going to. In other words, he sent you to wherever he felt you were best suited to serve, no matter what your choice. What formula this man used to place people I never did find out, but whatever he used I had some doubts about it. Like for instance, my buddy Bob Scott got one of the highest scores on the rifle range, and where does he get sent to but the Medical Corps. And like Bob said to me with deep disappointment. "Hell, I don't even know how to put a band-aid on, so why in bloody hell do they shove me into the Medical Corps?" There were others that had similar complaints. But there was no way out of it. You went where they wanted you to go, and that was that.

As for myself, my first choice was the paratroops, but I was turned down, apparently because I told the officer, on being asked if I'd suffered any broken bones or other injuries to my legs, that I'd twisted my ankle badly playing football. I couldn't get myself to lie about it, though maybe I should have. On the other hand, deep inside, I really didn't believe I could ever become a paratrooper. I doubted I would have had the guts to jump out of an aircraft at any height. My second choice was the infantry. No problem at all. That's where I ended up, much to my relief. I was afraid I might end up in Medical Corps like Bob Scott did.

The draft notices appeared on the bulletin board a couple of days later and I was intensely happy to see my name on the long list of guys slated for Advanced Infantry Training at Camp Ipperwash. After having read so many books about the infantry battles of the First War, with boyish ignorance I had dreams or aspirations of being a hero and winning the Victoria Cross. With this in mind, I eagerly awaited the move that would bring me closer to that day when I'd find out what kind of soldier I really was. Even though I was well aware of the fact that the infantry suffered by far the greater number of casualties compared to every other branch of the army I still looked forward to combat, cloaked in the armour of ignorance and teenage enthusiasm. I'd never given a thought to the very real possibility that I might not come back, or if I did, it would be as a physical or mental wreck. I suppose most of us looked at battle in that light. We had to or we'd have been washed out of the infantry long before the time for battle was at hand.

When moving-out day finally came, it was a day of high excitement, a day when I was almost beside myself with anticipation of the move and the prospects that lay ahead. However, not everyone at McLagan Barracks was in a holiday mood— most certainly not the Zombies. They were reluctant soldiers and showed it in the hang-dog looks on their faces. While we stood about waiting for the last-minute roll-call, loaded down with big pack, small pack, haversack and two kit-bags like they stood with their paraphernalia, ours was an animated group. We were like a bunch of kids excited about going on a picnic or lined up outside a movie house on Saturday afternoon waiting to get into see their favourite cowboys, Tom Mix, Buck Jones or Ken Maynard chasing the bad guys in a cowboy movie. As for the Zombies, you'd think they were in attendance at a funeral. Hardly anyone spoke to each other, and when they did it certainly couldn't have been anything they could laugh, talk or feel excited about. I failed to understand why they looked so down in the dumps. After all, it wasn't like they were going overseas.

At this roll-call I finally found someone who could pronounce my name right, at least the less tongue-twisting Anglicized version of it. It had to be another Polack, no less, and Lt. Harry Szumlinski was that man. No wonder—his name was just about as difficult to pronounce for non-Polish guys as mine. I'd read about this gentleman in the sports pages of the Windsor Star a year or so before I got my call-up. He was a star halfback on the University of Western Ontario Mustangs football team. I remembered the name from the line-up when the Mustangs played an exhibition game game against the Sarnia Imperials on which my brother Mike was a rookie halfback. In fact, in that game, Mike's first with the O.R.F.U. team, he scored three touchdowns. and before long, established himself as one of the top halfbacks in Canada.

Naturally, before he started calling out the names on the draft sheet I went up to him to let him know Mike Hedgewick was my half-brother). It gave me a feeling of importance. He acknowledged Mike's ability and glad to learn that he was of Polish blood. I guess with the name of Hedgewick he thought he was Anglo-Saxon by birth.

One of the officers conducting the roll and the send-off was a Lt. Asbury, a studious-looking type, who, when the next time I saw him, was in mid-campaign in Italy when he came to the Perths as a reinforcement officer. I never did go up to him and mention about the draft he helped conduct at Stratford.

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