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Chapter 2

THE FIRST CONTINGENT

The declaration of hostilities made on August 4th, 1914 epitomized the first days of the war. In Canada, at least, those days chiefly revolved around announcements, promises, and words. The prospect of a war had been known to the federal and provincial governments sufficiently long in advance to allow them following the declaration to make immediate promises, but not long enough it seemed, to allow them to take immediate actions.

The reality was that while the Canadian government had announced its intention to send twenty thousand troops to the aid of Britain, it had not yet determined the means by which to do so. Canada had a permanent army comprised of three thousand professional soldiers. It had a mobilization plan by which the best volunteers would be selected by such professionals. This, however, was not the plan of Colonel Sam, who did not trust the professional soldiers, or the “regulars,” as they were called. He envisioned the volunteer militia, not the professional army, selecting the fit among the Canadians who volunteered to serve. It was not then known whose vision for the expeditionary force would prevail: that of the professional army or that of Colonel Sam.

The situation was no different with respect to pledges made of supplies. Within hours of the declaration of hostilities, the government of Canada and the governments of her nine provinces raced to make commitments of goods to Britain. Details regarding how these goods could be acquired and delivered had yet to be determined.

It was the promises of goods of three of those governments that kept the Turners in Brampton longer than their usual four weeks—a matter that brought pleasure to all of our family members but one. Every additional day spent in Brampton was an agony to Roy, who was fearful of not being in Winnipeg when his militia regiment was mustered.

* * *

I rose late the morning of August 5th, my fears of pending doom having led to a poor night’s rest. Aunt Charlotte and Ina were in the dining room when I entered it, discussing the restored condition of Aunt Lil, who had just entrained for Toronto. Father had already left for his dental office. Jim was at the Dale Estate, the internationally known flower grower, where he worked in the summers. Uncle William was at a meeting with Richard Blain, our local Member of Parliament. Mother was upstairs making her bed.

I had nearly finished eating my cold toast when I heard Mother come down the maid’s stairs and go out the back door. Minutes later, she joined us in the dining room. After wishing me a good morning, she turned to Ina. “I see that you rinsed your dress out this morning. Why did you leave it in the bathroom? There’s a good breeze outside. I’ve put it on the line.”

Ina thanked her, and then Mother went on. “My, you were out late last night, Ina. Were the McKechnies in that much need of your society?”

“The McKechnies were fine,” Ina assured her. “We spoke about the war for a bit. They really don’t know much more than we know. We played cards for a time, and then Katie and I went for a walk.”

“A walk? Down to the park?” Mother asked.

“No. There were a lot of people down there cheering and singing, and I knew that Father did not want us to do anything very gay, so we walked to the flats.” The “flats” were the flood plain areas that ran next to the Etobicoke Creek in certain parts of Brampton. They were undeveloped areas. “We stayed there for a while. I must have sat on some wet grass. I noticed the stain this morning.”

“I see,” Mother said as though it was normal for Ina to notice such things. For most of Ina’s life, she had never cared or noticed how she looked. Of course, that had changed since her high school graduation dance a few months earlier.

“When were you there, Ina?” Aunt Charlotte asked. “I hope it wasn’t dark at that time.”

“It wasn’t dark when we walked to the flats. I suppose it was dark when we returned.” I said nothing as I watched her performance. All of the years of amateur theatrics had clearly stood her well.

“Ina, you and Katie can no longer carry on that way,” Mother scolded. “You aren’t fifteen anymore. You’re nineteen. You are young ladies. In addition to your physical safety, you have your reputations to protect. I will hear no more of late night unchaperoned walks to secluded areas like the flats.”

“Yes, Mother,” Ina agreed demurely.

“I have a mind to speak with Mrs. McKechnie. Surely she must be concerned for Katie’s safety and reputation too.”

“Oh no, Mother, there’s no need to do that.” Ina was quite emphatic. “I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again. With no men in the house, Mrs. McKechnie has so many other things to concern herself with.”

“She certainly does,” Mother agreed. “I’ll thank you both to remember that.”

Ina put down the knife she was using to peel an apple. She had lost her appetite for food requiring a steady hand. After glancing at her watch, she brought the conversation to an end, announcing her need to prepare for her shift at the telephone switch. She expected the day would be quite busy with calls, including those from people like Uncle William with wartime business to conduct. He would place most of his calls from Aunt Rose’s bakery. Our family could not afford to own a telephone. While Aunt Rose likely could have, she did not see the point of having such an apparatus installed in both her house and the bakery. Like most local merchants, she had come to understand the necessity of having a telephone in her business.

* * *

In those first few hours of the war, governments in Canada pledged 1,300,000 bags of flour to Great Britain. Valued at nearly $4,000,000, they were made by the governments of Canada (1,000,000 bags), Ontario (250,000 bags), and Manitoba (50,000 bags). Uncle William’s calls that week pertained to the fulfillment of those gifts. The three governments were not, of course, sitting on stockpiles of wheat or flour. It all had to be procured. Uncle William and others in the national grain industry were advising the governments on the means to grow the grain, to have it milled into flour, and to transport it both to the port in Montreal and ultimately to its delivery point in England.

“Why is this requiring so many meetings, Father?” Roy asked one night before trying again to convince his father to return to Winnipeg on an earlier train. “You deal with grain purchasing and milling every day. Why is this taking so much time?”

Uncle William would have been happy to answer that question if it had been posed by anyone else in the family. He thought his eldest son, who had been working as a part-time junior clerk at the Maple Leaf Milling Company for the two prior years, should have known better. “This involves enormous amounts of grain. You know how much wheat must first be purchased in order to create that much flour. And the milling of this wheat is in addition to the amounts that are being milled to satisfy existing customer orders. It will be difficult to meet the commitments made to Britain—particularly for Ontario. That province doesn’t produce enough grain to support its own population, let alone the amount required to meet the commitment it just made to Britain.” Ontario’s days as Canada’s wheat king had ended in the prior century.

“The Ontario government will urge its farmers to devote as much acreage as possible to fall wheat, but it’s August. Decisions like this need to be made in the spring. Ontario will not be able to grow enough wheat to meet its commitment. It will have to purchase wheat from the west.”

“Or from the States,” Roy said, now applying more of his knowledge.

“Oh, no. Not from the United States. We’ve been working hard with the federal government on this. Canadian wheat! We are quite clear on this: the government orders must be filled with nothing but Canadian wheat.”

“Unless it is more expensive than American wheat,” Father said.

“Even if it is more expensive than American wheat,” Uncle William replied firmly. By this, we knew that it was likely to be just that.

Then, showing his interest in Canadian families, Uncle William went on. “One million, three hundred thousand bags of flour—that much demand will certainly increase the price of wheat, flour, bread, and everything else made with flour and sold in our bakeries. That is to be expected. But if we don’t procure this properly, there will be some real price-gouging. Farmers and mill owners will be seen to make unrealistic profits from these generous commitments. All Canadians will pay the price. We don’t want that.”

Fortunately for consumers, the other provinces pledged other gifts. Quebec pledged 4,000,000 pounds of cheese; New Brunswick, 100,000 bushels of potatoes; British Columbia, 1,200,000 cans of salmon; Prince Edward Island and Alberta, collectively, 150,000 bushels of oats; Nova Scotia, 500,000 tons of coal; and Saskatchewan, 1,500 horses. But all the gifts—the flour, potatoes, salmon, oats, coal, and horses—had to be transported. Uncle William was concerned about that as well.

“Trains and ships,” Uncle William said in response to a question about the method of conveyance. “And of course, they will both be required for use at the same time we need to transport overseas twenty thousand men, all of their equipment, and thousands of horses—not just the fifteen hundred pledged by Saskatchewan. The federal government is preparing to commandeer a number of ships for its use during the war. That is one of the things we have been discussing with Dick Blain.” Uncle William was again referring to our Member of Parliament. He went on, “But the ships—they raise another concern. They could be threatened by the German navy.”

“Surely the Germans would have no ability to pirate our ships,” Mother said.

“Don’t be so sure of that, Mary,” Uncle William replied. “It’s for that reason we currently have over seven million bushels of wheat in our Montreal ports that we cannot ship east.”

“Because you’re afraid of the wheat being stolen?” I asked.

“Because we’re afraid of the gold necessary to pay for the wheat being stolen. We fear an attack on the ships carrying the gold. It has affected trade between Canada and the United States with England—and others too. But a new scheme is being proposed. Our minister of finance is going to act as trustee for the Bank of England. It will no longer be necessary to ship gold. The ships in our port should soon be able to depart.”

“William, you seem to know a lot about the goings-on of our Conservative government,” Father remarked in a not very complimentary way.

* * *

While Uncle William was using the telephone in Aunt Rose’s bakery to conduct his communications. Roy was using the more traditional method—the telegram. In Brampton, telegrams were sent and received by our family friend and Brampton Excelsiors Lacrosse Club executive member, Thomas Thauburn. From his general store premises on Main Street, next to the jewellery store of Mr. Woods, the former telegraph master, Mr. Thauburn operated the local Canadian Pacific Railway ticket and telegraph office. Of the two businesses, Mr. Thauburn far preferred the telegraph business, for, being a caring man, he enjoyed knowing the details of the lives of his fellow townsmen. Of course, he regarded the confidentiality of all telegrams as a sacred trust. He would never divulge to others the content of a telegram, a feat that was not particularly difficult to observe when the telegrams pertained to such matters as the purchase and sale of livestock, birthday greetings, holiday reports, and other ordinary matters, which most telegrams did.

No matter the topic, each such missive, once received, was placed in a manila envelope, addressed to the recipient, sealed, and then handed to one of Mr. Thauburn’s local bicycle-riding delivery boys, each of whom he called “Johnny,” no matter the Christian name conferred on him by the boy’s parents. If an illness or a family emergency prevented one of those boys from completing his delivery or if the destination was too far, Mr. Thauburn took charge of the sealed envelope and personally transported it by foot, horse, coach, or, later, by car.

Mr. Thauburn was acknowledged as being a fine telegraph master in large part due to two edicts by which he operated his business. The first edict was that no telegram was to be hidden. Mr. Thauburn, not wanting himself or any of his delivery boys to be accused of converting another person’s property as his own, insisted that all telegrams be delivered in plain view—either in the carrier’s hand or bicycle basket. They were never to be stored, even temporarily, in a pocket. The second edict was that all telegrams received during normal business hours were to be dispatched to the recipient promptly upon its receipt—ideally within ten minutes and certainly within thirty.

Being well aware of the efficiency of Mr. Thauburn’s telegraph office and of his adherence to the second of those two requirements, a person expecting a telegram waited to receive it at his or her home or place of business. Only occasionally would a prospective telegram recipient have the temerity to enter Mr. Thauburn’s premises and inquire as to whether a telegram had been sent to him. If the inquirer purported to be making the inquiry in an effort to save Mr. Thauburn the trouble of having it delivered, he or she would be politely thanked for the inquiry and provided with a reply. But that civil response applied only to a first inquiry. Mr. Thauburn viewed any subsequent inquiry not as a considerate gesture, but at best as an irritation and at worst as an aspersion on his service record.

“If I had a telegram for you, Mrs. Smith, would it not now be in the course of delivery to you?” This was as polite a response as one might receive for a first inquiry made without a suggestion of trying to save Mr. Thauburn the time of delivering it or as one might receive to any second inquiry. Few in Brampton knew his rejoinder to those who inquired more often than that. But on August 7th, 1914, three days after the hostilities commenced, my cousin Roy became one of them. It did not start that way.

For three successive days, Roy sent telegrams to his commanding officer in Winnipeg, seeking instructions as to how to proceed. Should he return to Winnipeg immediately? Should he instead proceed directly to Camp Petawawa? Should he wait and return home with his parents departing Toronto on August 16th? Roy’s commanding officer responded to the first telegram sent August 4th with genuine appreciation for being consulted. “Acknowledging with thanks your telegram of yesterday’s date. No orders have yet been received. Unless orders otherwise sent, suggest you return to Winnipeg with family Aug 16.”

In response to a similar telegram sent by Roy on August 5th, his commanding officer replied in a less appreciative but still friendly manner. “No orders received. Reiterate suggestion of yesterday.”

The commanding officer’s response to the third telegram, this one sent August 6th, was an order. “Pending further instructions, you are commanded to return to Winnipeg, departing Toronto Aug 16.”

While the sending of such telegrams began to irritate Roy’s commanding officer, they had no such deleterious effect on Mr. Thauburn, who never objected to sending telegrams. Nor was Mr. Thauburn bothered by the reply telegrams sent by Roy’s commanding officer, since they were delivered to Roy in the ordinary manner at Aunt Rose’s house.

Circumstances changed on August 7th. That was the day it became known that Colonel Sam’s view of the recruitment of the expeditionary force had prevailed. Earlier that day, telegrams had been sent to the militia commanders across the country, advising them that they would be responsible for the recruitment of the volunteers that would form the Canadian Expeditionary Force. With that information and hanging on to those first few words of his commanding officer’s missive, “pending further orders,” Roy went to the telegraph office to ascertain whether a telegram with such further orders had been received.

“How many times did you go to the telegraph office today, Roy?” Bill asked him that night as the family gathered on the Darlings’ verandah.

Roy hesitated before answering. “A few.”

“A few?” Ina asked incredulously.

“A few plus a few,” Roy confessed.

“Six times?” Uncle William asked, clearly startled. “I hope you are not bothering Mr. Thauburn.”

To Roy’s negative reply, Ina issued a small harrumph. We all looked at her.

“Do you know something about this, Ina?” Aunt Charlotte asked.

“No. No,” Ina said, blushing slightly. “It’s just that…well, I can imagine that it could be bothersome to have someone asking the same question of you six times in a day.”

We couldn’t really blame Roy for being anxious. Though the local armouries were not open for recruitment on August 4th, the day that hostilities were declared, reports abounded of the hundreds of men who encircled armouries across the country that day and the next. With no other way to disperse them, by the night of August 5th, the armouries began opening their doors to applicants. Roy was beside himself at the notion of new recruits being accepted in Winnipeg while he was still in Brampton. Colonel Sam said he would take any man who wished to serve. There were so many men who wished to serve, Roy was afraid that his captain might not need him.

Uncle William tried to calm him. “The armouries are taking the particulars of these men because they do not know what else to do with them. They are giving them application forms. That is all.”

“Be patient, Roy,” his mother said. “You’ll hear soon if you should return to Winnipeg early or if you should go directly to Camp Petawawa.” We all thought it would be a shame for Roy to travel twelve hundred miles west from Toronto to Winnipeg, only to take another train east from Winnipeg to Petawawa, a town two hundred and fifty miles northeast of Brampton.

“I’m not sure the troops will be gathering in Petawawa,” Uncle William said to everyone’s surprise.

“What?” Roy said. “Why wouldn’t we gather there?” Petawawa was Canada’s largest military camp.

“The talk is that Colonel Sam has other plans for this new Canadian volunteer force. Apparently, he doesn’t want to use the grounds that have traditionally been used by the regulars. He wants a new training ground for the volunteers before they depart for England. Richard Blain told me about it while we were waiting to commence our meeting today with the local grain dealers.”

“I continue to be impressed by how much time you spend with our Conservative Member of Parliament,” Father said once again, in a way that made it clear he was really not impressed at all.

“Colonel Sam has his eye on a site northwest of Quebec City. Sal Cartier or something like that. I’ve never heard of it before.” Far from providing a balm to Roy, the additional information his father imparted only stoked his anxiety.

“Do you think I should send another telegram?” he asked one and all.

“No!” we cried in unison. It would have been his fourth in as many days.

“No, Roy,” his father repeated. “I do not. It will take time to get this Sal Cartier—or whatever it is called—to be prepared. The land has to be cleared. Latrines, plumbing, electricity, and telephone lines have to be installed. Buildings, parade grounds, and rifle ranges have to be constructed. I doubt any troops will be called up before September.” That additional information seemed to appease Roy. He did not suggest sending another telegram or making an earlier departure for Winnipeg for a full twelve hours.

* * *

It was soon revealed that Uncle William’s knowledge of the purchase and transport of wheat and flour exceeded his knowledge of military matters. The new military training grounds were being made ready in record time. Within ten days of the hostilities commencing, the local volunteer militias were preparing to be mustered.

Working an overnight shift at the telephone switch, Ina returned home the morning of Friday, August 14th, while my parents, Aunt Charlotte, Uncle William, and I were eating breakfast. She told us about one of the last calls she placed late the night before. It was from Captain Baldock, the regimental commander of the Peel 36th Regiment, to our Member of Parliament, Richard Blain.

“Ina, you know you’re not supposed to listen to the calls you connect,” Mother reprimanded. Ordinarily, it was Father who took Ina to task for this. I took pleasure in the scolding. There was a time when anything that brought Ina discomfort brought me an equal amount of pleasure. But that was less the case now. No, my pleasure on this occasion was derived from the knowledge that I was not the only member of our family who eavesdropped on other people’s conversations. Further, I took delight in my higher moral ground. Unlike Ina, I generally did not disclose to others what I surreptitiously overheard.

“And if you accidentally overhear a conversation you are not to repeat it to others. How many times—”

“That’s enough, Mother,” Father interjected. Mother stopped to let Father assume his ordinary role as the dispenser of discipline.

“Will it affect the Brampton boys?” Father asked.

“Yes,” she said. “They’re all being called up.”

All being called up. I was horrified. All of the Brampton boys. This was it. This was what I feared. I thought of Jim and his best friend, Eddie, and all the boys they worked with. I thought of Clarence Charters and Dutch Davis and all of the members of the Excelsior lacrosse team that went west earlier that very summer. I thought of the members of the Young Men’s Debating Society, of which Jim was a member and all of the boys in his Sunday school. I thought of Ina’s friend Michael and all the boys that had been at her high school graduation dance. Did the Brampton boys include those who were visiting Brampton at the time, like Bill and Roy? Not that either of them would mind if it did.

Father continued to question Ina, but I heard none of it. I was desolate at the thought of all these boys going to war. It had only been a month since I had concluded the future was so bright.

Eventually my tears turned into sobs and my sobs into wails. “Jessie, what is the matter?” Father demanded. “Why the deuce are you crying?”

Why was I crying? Why were the others not crying? “Jim,” I said through what were now heaving sobs. “Jim.”

“What about Jim?” Father asked.

“I don’t want Jim going to war,” I managed.

“No one wants Jim to go to war,” Father snapped, “least of all Jim. Jim isn’t going to war.”

“But Ina said—” I stammered.

“Yes?”

“Ina said that the Brampton boys are being called up.”

“Yes, the Brampton boys who are members of the militia. There are eighteen of them. They are all going. Not every Brampton boy. No one is being compelled to go.” Mother and Aunt Charlotte looked at me with sympathy. Father and Ina shook their heads and continued their conversation.

“And where will the Brampton boys be taken to? Will they go directly to the new training grounds at this La Cartier, or whatever it’s called?”

Ina did not hesitate to disclose the details, which were by that time all very public. “No, they are going to Ravina Rink in Toronto until La Cartier, or whatever it’s called, is ready to receive them. But they do not think that will be very long.”

“Ravina Rink is in the west end of Toronto,” Uncle William offered. “I heard about it yesterday. There is no ice in it now, and it’s a good-size piece of property. I heard Blain say that Jesse Smith, the owner, was going to donate its use to the 36th and a number of other regiments. It can serve as a temporary barracks and training ground until they go to Bal Cartier, or whatever it’s called.”

“There should be a group at the station when the boys leave. There should be speeches, hymns, and anthems,” Father said. He was not particularly supportive of the war, but he wanted the Brampton boys to depart with at least the amount of ceremony accorded to the Excelsiors two months earlier when they left by train for Vancouver. “What train are they catching? Do you know?”

“The 9:30 a.m. from the CPR station,” Ina replied. “But don’t worry about ceremony. The bands have already been called. Mr. Blain is alerting the businesses. He’s trying to encourage as many people as possible to accompany the boys to the station and to be there when they leave.” It was already eight o’clock. Jim had left for work at the Dale Estate half an hour earlier.

We put down our napkins and stood to leave. We proposed to stop at Aunt Rose’s house to retrieve the other members of the family. They were already on the verandah when we arrived, having been informed of the departure moments earlier by our neighbour, Mr. Hudson.

The eighteen Brampton boys did not leave Brampton quietly. They did not leave it without ceremony. Having gathered together at eight thirty that morning, dressed in their militia uniforms, they were paraded north along Main Street, the Citizens Band leading them and hundreds of citizens following them. At Queen Street, they were met by a similar throng of citizens walking south, in this case led by the workers of the Dale Estate under the furls of a massive Union Jack. Jim was near the front of the pack. Together the two groups proceeded west to the CPR station, where they were met by hundreds of others. All of the factories in the area had released their workers to provide the boys with a proper send-off. In the end, fifteen hundred people attended, including some who had fought in the 1885 Northwest Rebellion, the Fenian Raids that ended in 1871, and the Boer War that ended in 1902—some in their old, moth-damaged, now barely fitting uniforms.

After a number of solemn speeches and two heartfelt hymns, the Citizens Band led the assembled in the “Maple Leaf,” “O Canada,” and “Rule Britannia,” all sung with the greatest solemnity. As we sang, I took stock of those there. Most of the eighteen boys were Jim’s age, although none of them were his particular friends. The eighteen did not include any of his Excelsior teammates. They did not include any of his Sunday school classmates. Ten of the boys attended Christ Anglican Church. At least four were older than Jim—three quite a bit older. Two of them had fought in the Boer War, which had ended twelve years earlier. One of the older men was the only married man among the eighteen.

The boys returned to their families to say their final farewells. There was no cheering, no levity, no boasting, just a dignified adieu to those brave boys—those brave men—who volunteered to protect a nation—an empire—well before anyone knew such service would be required. With not a dry eye on the platform, the eighteen boys, the first from Brampton to flock to the colours, entrained for service to king and country.

After the train departed, I walked with Jim down Queen Street on its north side amid those jostling, ten or more abreast, as they returned to their homes and places of work. The pace was slow. At one point, Mr. Thauburn squeezed in between Jim and me.

“That was a wonderful send-off, wasn’t it?” he asked. “I didn’t think there could ever be a send-off better than the one they had for us when we went west in June.” After Jim agreed, Mr. Thauburn asked him about his upcoming school year. Jim answered as we continued moving slowly along the street. We crossed George Street when Roy, pushing through the throng, joined us. He had been walking with a crowd on the other side of the road.

“Hello, Mr. Thauburn,” Roy said enthusiastically. Mr. Thauburn returned the greeting with much less enthusiasm. “That was a wonderful send-off, don’t you think?” Roy asked. But before Mr. Thauburn could reply, Michael Lynch, one of Mr. Thauburn’s telegram delivery boys, tapped him on the shoulder. Mr. Thauburn fell back behind us.

Roy turned to us and shrugged. We knew he was trying to make amends for the annoyance he had caused. His frequent visits to Mr. Thauburn to inquire as to the arrival of telegrams had not stopped on August 7th. Roy could not understand why the 36th had been mustered but his regiment had not. “Don’t worry, Roy. You’ll be called up soon. I have no doubt about that,” Jim said in response to an unspoken lament.

“I’d have asked Mr. Thauburn if he had a telegram for me, but Father has forbidden me to do so. Apparently, I am becoming a nuisance,” he said.

“That you are,” said Mr. Thauburn who, with Michael, was still just behind us.

“I apologize, Mr. Thauburn,” Roy said. “Really I do. I won’t bother you again. I will patiently wait and see if a telegram comes for me before we leave on Sunday.”

“I rather doubt that you will,” Mr. Thauburn replied dryly.

Before Roy could protest again, Mr. Thauburn reached into the inside pocket of his coat, extracted a manila envelope, and passed it to Roy. “Came in at eight o’clock this morning.”

Michael looked at Mr. Thauburn in astonishment. It was now nine forty-five. Mr. Thauburn had breached his two cardinal rules. He had been in possession of the telegram for well over half an hour, and he had stored it in his pocket rather than holding it in plain view.

“Don’t look at me that way, Johnny,” Mr. Thauburn said to Michael. “I wasn’t going to let you or anyone else miss sending those boys off right. Besides, who would have been home to accept this? I knew where I’d find young Roy.”

Six days later, on August 20th, the 260 volunteers comprising the 36th Peel Regiment left their quarters at Ravina Rink in Toronto. Added to those first eighteen Brampton men were twenty-one others who had been members of the Brampton regiment in prior years, hailing from such places as Port Credit, Mono Mills, and Orangeville. Their destination: a new training ground for the first contingent of the Canadian Expeditionary Force, Canada’s largest, in a place we all then knew was called Valcartier.