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St.Luke Road Barracks
The call-up notice directed me to present myself to the powers-that-be at the enlistment depot at St.Luke Road Barracks sharp at 6:00 a.m. on the morning of November 14 for attestation. In other words I'd be going through all the rig-marole that would transform me from Stan Scislowski the civilian to A116651 —Private Stanley Scislowski, Canadian Army. And so to make sure I wouldn't go into the army on the wrong foot I had my mother wake me up at the ungodly hour of 4:30 a.m. so I'd have plenty of time to present myself to my new keepers. Naturally, I got very little sleep, tossing and turning, pounding the pillow all night long, visualizing all that lay ahead for me. I vaulted out of bed even before my mother could shake my shoulder. In almost no time flat I wash-ed, got dressed, wolfed down a breakfast of bacon and eggs, porridge and coffee, and was on my way along the dark and silent streets. Not another soul was in sight.

In those days of the thirties and forties no one thought anything about walking the streets at night, especially in the wee, small hours of the morning. People didn't have to worry all that much about being mugged or waylaid in those days like they do now. In fact, walking almost anywhere at night was more than reasonably safe. I didn't even pause to think twice about taking a shortcut along the Essex Terminal railway tracks where it was dark as the inside of a tomb. I made good time, and arrived at the barracks a good half hour before the place opened for business. For the next quarter hour at least I was the only guy standing outside in the cold under a street light. The barracks building was dark except for a single light glowing in what I presumed to be the guard room at the corner room of the three-story former factory building at Charles St. and St.Luke Road. Ten minutes to six and I was still all by my lonesome. I began wondering if I misread the date when I was supposed to report. A few minutes later, however, a couple more souls emerged out of the darkness and joined me under the street light. And not long after six bells, another half dozen or so other fellows came on the scene.

Sharp at the stroke of six a bugler from somewhere inside the building started tooting-out reveille. No sooner did the last note fade away, when another god-awful sound emanated from behind those brownstone walls. "What in the hell is that?" I think we all exclaimed at the same time. It took at least twenty seconds before we could make out what it was that was causing all the racket. It sounded like a couple of alley-cats in the high heat of love-making. And then we realized that it was only a Piper adding his own bagpipe reveille to start the soldiers' new day. If the bugler failed to stir the two floors of newly-inducted Defenders of the Right into awakening, then sure as hell the Pipes did.

Over the past decade and more, the building had been used as a factory warehouse, and then for a few years served as a Ford Motor Company 'sick leave' employees food distribution centre. But shortly after war was declared the Department of National Defence took it over and converted it into an army barracks. Pre-fab wooden huts were built on the property across the road to serve as Mess-hall, Sergeants' and Officers' messes, staff quarters, and vehicle workshop. When war was declared on September 3, 1939 the newly-mobilized Essex Scottish Regiment's first home was the Marketorium Building next door to the Masonic Hall. A short time later it was handed over to the Navy. Within the month the Regiment moved across town to the somewhat renovated old building on St.Luke Road and there the rabble-at-arms learned the basics of what it takes, at least on the square, to become a soldier. The Essex Scottish occupied the barracks up until May 25 of 1940 when it entrained for Camp Borden. I remember how thrilled I was every time their long column marched through the city streets, once even down Parent Avenue where I lived. The peal of the pipes made the blood race through my veins and arteries. God, but was it ever exciting! I'd invariably follow the parade down Parent to Ottawa Street, then along Ottawa as far as Lincoln before I turned about and headed back home. Little did I know at the time that in less than two years time I'd be doing the same thing only this time I'd have a uniform on and marching in the column, not as an Essex Scottish, but as a recruit, untrained and yet unattached. About the only training the Essex did outside regular parade-ground drill was to conduct field training around Walker Farms and Yawkey Bush. After the Regiment had departed for Camp Borden, St. Luke barracks became an enlistment centre making up drafts to be sent on to the Basic Training camps.

Now, getting back to our sparse and shivering group of soon-to-be soldiers waiting outside the barracks while the Piper played "Brose and Barley" or whatever tune it was that opens the days for Scottish fighting men. Almost at the instant the piper stopped playing, the big doors swung wide and out strode with great military bearing this imperious-looking guy with a single chevron on his upper sleeve. He directed us to the documentation room with a snap and a flourish as though he was on some Royal Inspection Ceremonial. He was our first contact with the lowest status of army command structure, known by the something less than glorious title of Lance-Corporal, also commonly known by the mildly derisive term of Lance-jack. Being the naive civilians that we were, we looked up to him with some considerable awe and respect at the power he seemed to wield. But it didn't take us long, however, to become educated on just how low on the command totem pole they were. I don't mean to say they were all bad eggs. As with everything else, there were some real good ones amongst the one-stripe wonders. This type didn't remain long with one chevron sewn on their upper sleeve. The army saw their worth and soon promoted them.

Anyway, this little peacock of a man herded us inside and indicated to us to make ourselves comfortable on the hard wooden benches outside this office with a sign DOCUMENTATION alongside the door. In the almost two hours I waited for my name to be called I observed the 'comings' and the 'goings' inside the barracks, men hurrying every which way on some errand or order. What struck me the most about the building was the incredible squeakiness of the wide wooden stairways. No haunted house could have ever matched the groans and squeaks those staircases gave off whenever any good-sized group of the defenders of freedom were going up or coming down. And with scores of people constantly going up and coming down, the din was not only hard on the ears, it was also distracting. It's a wonder any of the staff were able to keep from going nuts listening to the infernal racket day in and day out. And when the bugler sounded mess-call and there was the god awful stampede shaking the old stair-case you'd swear the vibration would shake the whole building down.

The barracks reeked of pine-oil disinfectant. But as strong as the smell was, it failed to mask completely the pervasive stale and musty odour of antiquity. The two odours blended into one of such peculiar quality that it impinged itself on my memory to the point where I never forgot it. Whenever and wherever I had the occasion to enter an old factory building or even a government office housed in one of the old structures built back around the turn of the century or before, I instantly detected that smell, that old familiar penetrating odour and my memory shot back to the days I spent at St.Luke Barracks. In retrospect it seems odd that I could associate or connect a specific odour with a place or an event so long after first contact with it.

As the morning wore on, quite a few other fellows joined us outside the documentation cubicle. I was there for the better part of the morning before a Corporal stuck his head outside and called my name. But I hadn't really minded the wait all that much. After all, the activity going on around me was too exciting, too interesting to miss and I took in everything. . .the faces. . .the platoons marching in and out. . .the orders being shouted— it meant everything to me. I would never forget it.

I might say here, one of the most interesting pastimes overlooked by many, can be found in the mundane interest of 'people-watching'. Yes, people-watching. And I watched a lot of people hurrying one way or the other inside St.Luke Barracks. I was young yet, still wet behind the ears, as my mother used to say, as I got my first introduction to this quite unspectacular pastime. Before this I'd been much too busy doing all those things and more that a growing lad is usually involved in, like playing endless games of ball, hunting for golf balls in the roughs at Roseland and Dominion Golf Courses, picking up junk in the alleys of South Walkerville and just hanging around with the gang in general. I hadn't the time or the inclination to be wasting an hour or two watching people go by. There was far too many other interesting things for me to do. And now here I was, sitting on a bench with nothing else to do but wait for my name to be called, watching fascinated by all that was going on around me. I took note of their mannerisms, their facial make-up, their attitudes towards others, the way they carried themselves. Some were tall, good-looking fellows, sure bets to be leaders, I mused. Others looked to be farmers, no mistaking their clothes and their "walk behind the plough" stride. I couldn't help wonder how in bloody hell they'd make out on the parade-square. Still others were small, skinny and looked to be a trifle undernourished. How did they get this far without being rejected? But then I wondered what some of these same fellows might have thought of me.
From where I sat on the bench I could see the counter at the Q.M. stores where recruits like myself were being issued with clothing, webbing, and all the other gear necessary in their new way of life. With their arms heaped and steel helmets plopped awkwardly on their heads they hurried up the stairs to their assigned bays to begin transforming themselves from civilians to soldiers, or reasonable facsimiles thereof. I could hardly wait for my own turn to come.

My introduction to army cuisine was a disappointing one. I didn't like the looks of what the kitchen workers behind the counter deposited on my plate at my first meal. Not too appetizing. It was nothing like the stew, that ma cooked. Fat, even the smallest shred of it was like poison to me, and this particular stew was loaded with it. Great lumps of what I called 'blubber' were still attached to smaller pieces of the edible meat. And when I unknowingly guided a thumb-sized hunk of the stuff into my mouth I gagged. "Oh God!" I'm thinking, "Is this the kind of cooking I'm going to have to put up with from now on?" As it turned out, this army brand of cooking happened to be one of the bad ones I had to suffer through, not counting, of course, what we had to put up with on the daily menu in Italy. At breakfast next morning, things meal-wise got even worse. The scrambled eggs looked to be only half-cooked, and the bacon was stringy, and the slices of fried potatoes were so greasy you had to scrape an eighth inch layer of grease off the roof of your mouth when you were finished. And another thing about breakfast, I'd never eaten potatoes in any form at breakfast. It was strictly evening-meal fare as far as I was concerned. But then I eventually got used to it. A mind over matter thing. The coffee only vaguely tasted loke that of the real stuff. I don't think I had a single meal at St.Luke that could come close to what my mother set in front of me. The meals at St.Luke Barracks were barely edible and that was about the only way I could describe it.

After lunch, the Documentation clerk called out my name and with bubbling spirits and great anticipation I entered the office. where an expression-less countenance greeted my eyes. I guess he'd so many guys pass through he'd reached the point of indifference. He went through the routine of asking me a lot of questions—like who my next of kin was, what my religious denomination was, what sports I played, what musical instruments I was skilled at, my hobbies, if any, how much education I had, and a lot of other questions long since forgotten. Although I'd never gone to church except to funerals, I knew I'd been baptized Roman Catholic, so that's what I told the man I was. Okay, the next question was, "What sports did I play?" I named all the sandlot sports, but told him that football was my favourite and the one I was best at. As for music—nothing, except maybe my being able to wield drum-sticks and come up with a recognizable marching beat. As for hobbies, I had none to speak of, except if you could call playing with chemicals in a makeshift chemical laboratory as a hobby. It was more of an interest rather than a hobby, I'd say.

As for the Corps of the Army I'd like to serve in, I told him Chemical Warfare. My second choice was the infantry. In all respect, though, it was my first choice. I guess when I told him I wanted to be a chemist in the Chemical Warfare department in Ottawa I only wanted to impress the man with my imagined qualification that I was somebody to be looked up to. I knew my chances were pretty slim, if non-existent, to work in a laboratory because I simply didn't have the required educational credentials, like a B.S.C., M.S. or a PH.D. I mentioned Chemical Warfare anyway just because my mother was hoping I'd go in that direction, and not as an ordinary soldier in the infantry where there was not too much of a chance of survival. I'd said to her that if I expected to get into the Chemical Warfare Labs up in Ottawa I could only do so by signing up for 'Active Service'. I doubted that I fooled her. I could see she wasn't all that convinced by my explanation. Ma didn't want me to go 'Active' because she knew I'd end up as cannon-fodder. You can't fool mothers.

I might mention here, that some ten or so years after the war when involved in a pension claim I came into possession of a transcript of my attest-ation papers, and couldn't get over that part of the papers where it said, 'Description of soldier'. A clerk, a product of the times, typed in, "a Polish lad of average foreign appearance." I couldn't believe my eyes. Average foreign appearance?!! How in bloody hell do you average out a foreigner's looks. And I wasn't a foreigner anyway—I was born in Canada. Did I have the sharper features and darker complexion of the Italians, or did I have the higher cheekbones of a Hungarian? Were my eyes slightly slanted like the Chinese? Was there a strong resemblance to the Slavic people? Or was I blend of all these? What was a Polish boy like me supposed to look like? I most certainly wasn't handsome, but yet I knew there were a lot of Polish boys who were blessed with Hollywood good looks. Average foreign appearance be damned! What a stupid way to describe a person! But I guess that's the way things were in those days for anyone of European blood. We were all lumped together under the derogatory title of 'wops' even when most of us were born in Canada.
Once we were through with documentation we were directed across the street to the mess hall where we took an I.Q. test. The army called it an 'M' test. It was supposed to determine the inductee's intelligence quotient, presumably so that the army could determine how and where they could employ the man. I was afraid I might fail the test, and so be rejected from serving my country in war, something I lived and dreamed about ever since I started reading books on the Great 1914—1918 War. Why I should have been so unsure of myself I really don't know. After all, I was smart enough to go through grade school in the top third of my class. And I must have had enough 'smarts' to go as far as the 4th year in Secondary school. I really had no reason at all to fear that I might fail. As might be predicted, my fears or doubts turned out to be groundless. Although we weren't given our scores, I did learn through the copies of the attestation papers as mentioned above that came into my hands about 10 years after the war, that my 'M' test indicated I had Senior NCO potential. It's too bad I wasn't told this in Advanced Infantry Training or I might have asserted myself a lot more than I did. As it was, I drifted along with the common throng, firm in the belief that I was just an ordinary guy, content to be just an ordinary soldier, to do what was asked or demanded of me, nothing more. As for taking on stripes, I couldn't see myself giving orders as a Sergeant or Corporal. It just wasn't in me. I was two people, a sort of Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, non-assertive most of the time, even somewhat on the timid side, but when someone got under my skin a little too deep, my volatile temper would explode. I wouldn't give a damn whether that man in front of me getting my goat was a Private, an NCO, or even an Officer—it didn't matter—I could very easily have unloaded a hard right hand on him. But you just can't do that. And that's one reason why I remained a Private all through the war. I made no effort to move up in rank.

The next step in my transition to soldier was a Medical examination by Medical Officers, obviously a double-check on the civilian doctors to make sure the new recruits were free of any hidden medical problem the civvy doctors had somehow missed or covered up. And so I found myself in a long line-up of fellows in various stages of undress, a good many of them, like myself, showing signs of being ill-at-ease. I was just too damned modest for my own good. There was no valid reason why I should have been this way since I had showered so many times in the company of a lot of other naked bodies(male, of course) after football practises and games.

Taking showers with a lot of other guys was one thing, but when it came down to an examination from head to foot of every orifice on my body was another matter altogether. Worst of all, there was no privacy whatsoever. You stood there stark naked in full view of other naked bodies while the M.O. took a close look at your genitals, probing about the pubic hair in search of crabs and other species of insect life and parasites And then horrors of horrors, you had to bend over and pull your buttock cheeks apart while he scrutinized your asshole for piles. I was never so embarrassed in all my life, especially with the other guys standing there waiting their turn, looking on. Bent over and with my cheeks apart I fought back the strong urge to ask the doctor, just to be smart, if he could see the midnight train coming. Yeah, it was somewhat of a traumatic exper-ience, something I hoped I'd never have to go through again. Little did I know but that there were many more such intrusions of my modesty awaiting me in the three and a half years ahead.

As for the above examination, a story swept through the barracks concerning a certain local yokel from somewhere out in the county who was so dumb, that when the M.O. asked him to bend over and pull his cheeks apart he did as he was instructed but instead of pulling the cheeks of his ass apart he pulled on the cheeks of his face. He was rejected right then and there as mentally unfit. At the time, I actually believed it really did happen. It did not. Just another one of the many unlikely stories that made the rounds every so often.

I came out from the final medical exam with an A1 category. From here on in I figured everything would be clear sailing. I was wrong. There was still one more embarrassing hurdle to make, and that was the short-arm inspection. Even up until the final moments before the humbling moment, I still thought that a short-arm inspection was nothing but a figment of some wise guy's wild imagination, a myth, a joke played on all young and naive fellows like myself. If there was anybody more gullible than me, I hadn't yet come across him. I'd always thought of short-arm inspections as falling in the class of the kind of trick played on a guy where you send him for a left-handed monkey wrench, or a sky hook, or a bucket of steam, stuff like that. But now I was about to learn the awful truth. No such prank. Very shortly, somebody in a white coat would be handling my genitals to see if I had V.D.

So there I was, standing in another long line-up, and I asked the guy behind me what this one was all about, since we had just had our medical examination. "Short-arm inspection," he replied. The doctor is going to handle your jewels to see if you have a dose of claps." "Short-arm inspection! I exclaimed with rising panic. "Oh my God! No, it can't be!" But it was, as I was soon to find out. The line of loose-trousered men shuffled slowly along the dusty hallway on the top floor to enter an opening in the wallboard partition. As I rounded the corner I beheld a long table behind which three Medical Corpsmen, a Captain, a Sergeant and a Corporal were doing just what I was afraid they'd be doing. They were handling the genitals of every man in the long line-up, skinning them back as they scrutinized the organ for signs of VD. I broke into a sweat and damn near keeled over in a dead faint.

I knew I had nothing like 'blue balls' or clap or syph, or for that matter, crabs, so why I should I be so uptight? The only thing I had to be concerned about was getting one of those involuntary erections young and virile lads like me were prone to coming on when you least wanted one. I had to think about anything that would take my mind off what was about to take place. I let my mind flit between funerals, church services, old people, trains, cows, anything at all that would take my mind off what I was about to have to face. And then, I was, at the point where I had to drop my trousers and expose my privates. Gritting my teeth, I stood there praying the damn thing between my legs wouldn't start rising, and before I knew it, it was all over. What a relief!
It occurred to me at this point that every move I had made thus far was something in the nature of a minor crisis. This next move was to the Dental Office certainly, and as far as I was concerned it was one of the greater crises. Anything to do with my teeth, and my muscles turned into jelly. In other words, when it came to an appointment with the dentist I was nothing short of a coward. Dentists I feared with an unholy terror. I'd much rather face an operation, even without anaesthesia than have a dentist drill or pull my teeth. The phobia I had about dental work started way back in grade five when I had to visit old Doc Biehn at John Campbell School, who we all suspected was out to hurt uus as much as he could, that he loved to hear children cry. And judging from the screams and wails that every now and then echoed through the hall on the second floor whenever he was at work, he must have really been having a good time. He and his successor, Doctor Deans did more to plant the fear of dentists in a generation of kids than any doctor or strap-inclined teacher ever did. So it was only natural that on my second or third day in the army when I was motioned to the dreaded throne of pain ˆI had to call on every last shred of courage that was in me to walk those dozen or so steps. I was scared shitless. I couldn't back out of it, so I put on a false front to the others behind me as I sat in the padded chair to face the tortures of the damned. After a few tension- filled minutes in the chair, merely an examination as it turned out, no greater sigh of relief had ever escaped my lips as it did right then. All the dentist did was mark on a chart repairs that would be needed one day to bring my teeth to accepted standards.

Now with the worrisome part of my budding army service over and done with, I hiked on down to the Quartermaster stores to pick up my clothing issue, webbing, packs, gas-mask, etc., and of course, the steel helmet. I'd never felt prouder as I did then, my arms full of army issue, hurrying up the creaky staircase to my assigned cot on the 3rd floor.. I dumped the heap on the bed and after taking off my civvy clothing, I began getting into the raiment known as khaki. And what a hilarious session it was that afternoon! With two hundred or more guys doing the same, the third floor bay was a shrieking funhouse. Good-natured kidding was going on all the time. Never had I heard such shouts of laughter and outrageous comments as we slowly transformed ourselves into reasonable facsimiles of what should be soldiers.

Putting the uniform on was no problem. Getting the webbing together, how-ever, was another matter. You'd think it was a Chinese puzzle by the way we struggled with it, watching the successful ones to see how they did it. And once we had everything together and our uniforms on we couldn't help but feel somewhat self-conscious. Though all of us were strangers to each other, it didn't matter, we all laughed at each other, made rude but good-natured comments as though we'd known each other all our lives.

The only negative aspect of my first days in the army, as I had said earlier, was the lousy food. Every time the bugler blew, "Come to the cookhouse door, boys, come to the cookhouse door", I didn't respond with the same degree of enthusiasm as I did a month or so along in my training. By that time I'd become pretty well adjusted to what the cooks served us. By that time, the quality and the menu had vastly improved. Or so it seemed. Four hours of intensive physical exertions in the course of training can do wonders to a man's appetite and one doesn't become as choosy or critical of what was set before him at the mess table. We were always as hungry as bears and would have eaten anything set in front of us.

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