The Bridge with Peter Mansbridge - Your Turn -- Your Family Stories About Remembrance Day

Episode Date: November 9, 2023

I asked for your stories about your family's connection to Remembrance Day. I wasn't sure what to expect but the emails just poured in. Today's episode is all you, and your stories. These represent some of the best of what you sent but there were lots more that could have easily made the cut!

And hello there, Peter Mansbridge here. You are just moments away from the latest episode of The Bridge. It's Thursday, it's your turn, and especially your turn today, your stories, your family stories, about Remembrance Day. And hello there, Peter Mansbridge here. A special day here at the bridge. It's your turn. But we decided just two days ago, just two days ago, to turn today's Your Turn into your stories, your family stories about Remembrance Day.

I kind of threw it out there on Tuesday and suggested you write in. And Thursday or Tuesday night, I looked at my emails and I think there was one letter there. I thought, well, I guess this idea is not going to work. By Wednesday morning, there were dozens and dozens of letters. And by Wednesday night, and now into Thursday, dozens and dozens and dozens more.

I'd never seen anything like it. It's quite something. And some fantastic stories. Now, obviously, I'm not going to be able to get to all of them. And some of them are really long. And you know what that means. It means either don't make it at all or there are little snippets of it. On the odd occasion, I'll try and read a good chunk.

But they're from all over the country, and in fact, outside of the country as well. So I'm going to get to those, and we'll make this truly a special edition. I've asked the ranter. He's got a good rant, but I've asked him. I said, let's hold on to it until next week. Let's just make this a Remembrance Day show. And that's what we're going to do. Let me tell my quick little story. As some of you may have noticed, I've been over in Scotland for a couple of days back next week. And I was in this little town.

I'm on the east coast of Scotland at a point at which the west coast is not far away. It's like an hour and 20-minute drive. Halfway there, roughly halfway there, there's a town called Larg, L-A-I-R-G, Larg, L-A-I-R-G, Larg, Larg. And it's very close to where John A. MacDonald, the family home of Canada's first prime minister was. There's a little sign.

I mentioned this before, a little sign at the side of the road. Home of John A. McDonald. I don't think he ever actually lived there, but his grandparents lived there. Yeah, his grandparents. Anyway, in Laird, like in towns across Scotland and England and the UK and Canada and the United States and many other countries, there's a monument to the communities war dead, those who sacrificed their lives in the First World War,

the Second World War, some in Korea. And in L'Erre, there's a very classic monument that was put up. And I tend to look at these things. I've done a lot of my broadcasts over the years have been remembrance broadcasts of one sort or another. And so I was looking at the one in Lerik. And for the first time ever that I've seen monuments and read names off them, and, you know, it's difficult in some communities because you see, you know, brothers, you know, fathers and sons on that list of names.

But here in Laird, for the first time that I've ever seen, the very first name on the list, and this was a list of people in Lergue who'd served with Canadians, had served with Australians, South Africans, New Zealanders. But at the top of the monument, there was a name with a person who had served with the Medical Corps. And for the first time in all the monuments I've seen, that remember back to the First or Second World War, the first name on the list was a woman.

Sister I. McKenzie is right there at the top of the monument in Lairg, Scotland. Which is a nice reminder that we always tend to talk about the men who lost their lives and served in the great conflicts of the last century and including up to today's conflicts, there were women, much more now than there used to be, but there were women going back clearly into the First World War. And a lot of them were in those kind of roles in the medical corps. But Sister Mackenzie is remembered in Lyric. Okay, let's get to some letters.

The first one is relatively long, but I'll move it along. And as I said, I'm cutting back on a lot of the other ones. So we'll keep that in mind. Ben Sumac from Regina, Saskatchewan. Dad was not born in Canada, nor did he serve in the Canadian military. He was born in what is now Belarus, but in 1915 was Poland. Pre-war service records in Poland are difficult to access, but I know he joined the Polish army in 1938

and was captured by the Russians in the early morning of September 17, 1939, just weeks after the war started, just east of the city of Lviv in present-day Ukraine. From there, he went to a different area before eventually being taken to a labor camp in Vorkuta in Siberia, where he and other Polish POWs would spend the rest of the next 18 months. With the German invasion of Russia in June of 41, an arrangement was negotiated between Stalin and the Allies to release Polish-held prisoners to enable them to fight the Nazis. Dad was one of approximately 75,000 Poles who, by the autumn of 41 and spring of 42, made their way from Siberia to Tashkent and then to

Palestine under the command of General W. Anders. They were known as Anders' Army and eventually formed the 2nd Polish Corps under the British Middle East Command. Ultimately, the 2nd Polish Corps ended up in Italy, fought at the Fourth Battle of Monte Cassino, liberating the strategic abbey from Nazi's control on May 1844 and opening the southern road to Rome. At war's end, Dad went from Bologna, Italy to Suffolk, England, where he and other Polish soldiers were stationed as part of the Polish Resettlement Corps. These soldiers were encouraged to go back to Poland, however, because of the agreements made between Stalin, Churchill, and Roosevelt, which granted Russia control of Poland. The vast majority of veterans refused to

go. As my dad told me, the Russians threw me in jail once. Who's to say they won't do it again? He was right, as 90% of those who did go back did, in fact, end up in camps again. He eventually immigrated to Canada in 1947, working on a farm as a laborer near Yorkton, Saskatchewan. He was required to put in two years of work to prove he was worthy of Canadian citizenship, which he did. In 1950, he met my mother, another displaced person from Poland, and they married that year in Regina. I'm an only child. They had no blood relations in Canada and yet even after locating two of his brothers in Russia, being in communication with them and meeting one in Poland in 72, dad never considered anywhere else home

but Canada. His initial years here were very difficult at times. These resettled Poles, or DPs as even I remember being called, were treated with scorn, disdain, and prejudice. In my family research, I've discovered newspaper articles and letters written to government by Canadians being violently opposed to these immigrants. Funny how times don't really change. But to the end, he loved his country and had only good things to say about it. Every Remembrance Day when I'm at the Cenotaph here in Regina, I take the time to honour him. He didn't lose his life, but he lost a huge part of what might have been. He went from unlimited

potential in pre-war Poland to being a house painter in Canada. I realize now that he also lost a part of himself which he never got back. For me, his sacrifice is as great as any others. Thanks, Ben, for sending that along about your dad and about that story. It's funny how of late we heard other stories about the situation because of Russia and Germany, allies at the beginning of the war. Two years in, they became enemies, and people were caught in the middle, and in your case, your dad was just that.

All right. Sam Obermeyer. Now we're back into shorter letters now, okay? Sam, you know, said, I thought you might enjoy this letter from February 44. My great uncle rode from England to his family in Indiana. Four months later, on June 12th, Allen's regiment went into France. He was in southern France near the Italian border, where on March 20th, 45,

all fairly close to the end of the war, he and 16 other soldiers were killed when a time bomb exploded in the building they were investigating. He was 28, leaving a wife, parents, and siblings back home. He'd written this letter, and not long before, Dear Dad, Mom and family, Sunday and somewhere in England, it's not rained here quite so much the past week. The moon is shining rather bright here tonight. I received your box of candy a couple of days ago, Dad. I'm enjoying it very much. I'm making it all right and feeling fine.

I just got through washing my boots and some of my equipment. I've noticed a few wooden houses over here. The people and things seem to be so far behind time. Must close, hoping this finds all of you in good health. Your son, Alan. Boy, that must have been hard. It must have been hard to write letters. It must have been hard to receive them

on either end of the ocean. Derek Andrews writes from Fredericton, New Brunswick. This is a story of Betty and Kenneth. Betty was my wife's grandmother that I had the pleasure of meeting several times while my wife and I were first dating. Betty was born in Ireland in the early 20s. I moved to London in the 40s to help with the ongoing war effort. Betty trained to become a nurse working with wounded soldiers.

London, of course, was home to many a foreign soldier in those days, and Kenneth, a Canadian, happened to be a lucky one. One fateful night on the streets of London, a local pub, their paths crossed and their lives wouldn't be the same. They fell into an instant friendship, spent their time together, fended off other admirers, fell in love and married. Because of the raging war,

her wedding dress was borrowed and all photos of the event were processed on overexposed film, but a wedding it was. It was also in this period that Betty had time to give birth to their son, Stephen Daniel. To cut to the conclusion, things did indeed work out.

Life was good. Betty arrived in Canada along with many war brides and returning soldiers, boarded a train for Beachwood, New Brunswick, to settle in with her newfound family. Kenny made it through the war, arrived home, rejoined his family, and they went on to have four more children and planted roots in their town that still grow to this day. Lots of stories like that.

Malcolm McKay writes from Calgary. Thank you for the opportunity to share thoughts about Remembrance Day. When I always think of my uncle, Glenwood McKay, Glen served in the RAF Ferry Command in World War II. After World War II started and France and Belgium fell to the Nazis, the Allies were desperate for aircraft. Canada and the United States were able to manufacture the necessary aircraft, but transporting them to Europe was difficult. Transatlantic air travel in the late 30s was dangerous, and few aircraft had the range to make the flight, and only half were expected to complete any Atlantic crossing. It was also considered unsafe to fly across the Atlantic in

the winter, so the transport of aircraft was restricted, sending them by ship to Britain, reassembling them there, which was slow and susceptible to ships being sunk by German U-boats. The ferry command was started in an effort to tackle these problems. It was a military operation. However, it was unique in that it was manned entirely of civilian volunteer pilots and crew from Canada and the United States. The U.S. was eager to help with aircraft, but because it was still neutral in the early 40s, it could not send men or aircraft directly into the war. Roosevelt arranged for planes to be flown to border crossings, initially at Emerson, Manitoba,

where the planes would be towed across the border by horses, and then flown east eventually to Gander, and then across to Britain, flying in groups of seven. My Uncle Glenn had met his wife Margaret in Rivers, Manitoba, likely at the Air Force Base there during one of the covert border crossings. Shortly after they were married, Glenn would have continued on his overseas flights, and one such flight took him to an Air Force Base near Presswick, Scotland. That's where my dad was first stationed at Presswick. Once the planes had been safely delivered on the return flight,

which would have taken my 23-year-old uncle back to his new bride of two weeks, the plane crashed on takeoff. All 20 on board were killed. Over 10,000 aircraft were delivered by the Ferry Command. Like Glenn, there are many other Canadian civilians who served and lost their lives in World War II although as a civilian in the war he's not officially a military hero I'm grateful for my uncle Glenn McKay's service and glad to know his story and to think of it each year at this time. Good for you, Malcolm. By the way, there were some

women who flew those aircraft in Ferry Command as well. Suzanne Shear. On Remembrance Day, I often think of my mom, who grew up in Birmingham, England and was 18 when the war broke out. I often forget about how young she was. Her contribution during World War II was in helping others, which couldn't have always been easy to a teenager. Here are a couple of her journal entries. I find them comforting, and I hope you do too. At the beginning of the war, we'd been training during the summer months of 39 as Red Cross nurses.

My sister, girlfriend, and I were sent to the ARP, the air raid post, to help civilians in air raids. During the quiet times, we also knitted helmets, a knitted cap, scarves, socks, or gloves for the forces. I wasn't the best at knitting, and I pity the poor servicemen that were given anything I made. A lot of girls would put their names and addresses in with a scarf or socks, hoping someone would write to them, but not me. I didn't want someone giving me heck because one sock was smaller than the other. Percy Phillips in Portage La Prairie, Manitoba. My great-uncle Carl was born in Minnesota in 1896 to Swedish immigrant parents, and he moved with his parents, brothers and sisters, to northeast Alberta

in 1908. His oldest brother was my grandfather. During the latter part of World War I, when conscription was implemented, my grandfather was exempted because he was a farmer, so his little brother Carl became part of the expeditionary force from Alberta, and he qualified as a sniper. He died September 27, 1918. That's getting close to near the end of the war. At 22 years old, during the Battle of Canal du Nord, I've been there, been to that very spot, six weeks before the end of World War I. This was a pivotal battle that the Expeditionary Force was the lead on. The first battle in history that coordinated infantry, engineers, signals, and air force, a Canadian innovation. Carl was born an American, adopted Canada as his country and home, and forever will be a resident of France, because

that's where he's buried. Canada has paid a very high price for our freedoms and country. We are not a post-national state without collective core values. Canada requires unifying leadership to celebrate the country because the costs paid and freedoms we enjoy should never be taken for granted. Peter Johnson, Upper Oxford Mill, Ontario. That's just outside of Ottawa. After my mother passed away, I inherited much of the family history in the form of photographs, mostly in black and white, dating back to my parents' wedding in 1943. Among the photos was an envelope on RCAF stationery.

It was written to my mother by my 18-year-old father, explaining his sudden decision to enlist. He'd not talked to her about this beforehand, and I think it was because he didn't know how to explain his decision. When he did write it down, all he could say was that he felt he could not stand by and do nothing at a time when there was so much wrong going on in the world. When I turned 18, a new schoolmate introduced me to his father, Maxie Brom. Mr. Brom was the most decorated officer in the RAF in the Second World War. As a group of 18-year-old grade 13 students, we wondered if we would be brave enough to do what he and his generation had done

at the same age. His response was, of course you would. If your country were under attack, as mine was, you would not hesitate. The words of my father and Mr. Brahm have stayed with me all these years after. Phil Weiner. I was raised Catholic, Phil's in Hamilton. I was raised Catholic and as many have thought that I understood the meaning of the ultimate sacrifice during war. There'd be no one way, one-sided perspective. In Kroon, south of Munich, I had time to visit the small local cemetery

and saw the horrors of rows of graves of 17- and 18-year-old German boys, headstones marked by Catholic symbols who made the ultimate sacrifice themselves. Boys like our boys, who were raised Catholic, like me, all lined there, under the blue sky. These boys were the same as us, but died fighting against fellow Catholics. Never looked at the perception that they were the same as us in this religious sense. What a strong message. David Blatherwick in Coquitlam, B.C. My great-grandfather was a young Ukrainian private in the Austro-Hungarian Army in the late 1800s. Family lore is that he got angry with his Austrian commanding officer and punched him lights out.

Seeing as he was likely going to be shot, his buddies grabbed him and his belongings and threw him on the next train out of the country with the advice to go join your family in Canada, as his brother had left for Saskatchewan a couple of months beforehand. He settled in Winnipeg, found a wife, and had 12 children. Twelve! Then the First World War started and he found that he and his family were designated as enemy aliens, as he and his wife had both been born in Austria-Hungary, the part that is now part of Ukraine. To prove his loyalty, he signed up, and in 1917 he found himself as a 38-year-old private at Vimy Ridge. He survived that battle and others,

then returned home and had two more children, including my grandmother and my only surviving great-aunt. His sons all signed up, or tried to sign sign up when the next war began. Dave Piercy in Sherwood Park, Alberta. In my 20s, I worked with the Northwest Company. In 1999, I had the good fortune to be posted to Nunavut, the Nunavut region of Quebec. Here, an Inuk elder named Eddie Viteluk visited me daily. Once a month, Eddie would pick up a pension check payable to an Eddie Vital.

I asked him why. Eddie explained it was his veteran's pension. Many years earlier, at the age of 18, Eddie happened upon a group of Canadian soldiers on exercise in northern Quebec. He was fluent in Inuktitut and Cree at the time, but could neither speak English or French. Perhaps Eddie impressed the soldiers with his charm, or maybe it was just a miscommunication, but he wound up accompanying them back to Montreal. Here, Eddie joined the army himself, soon landing in Korea. Eddie Viteluk was born in an igloo and was still living on the land when he met those soldiers in northern Quebec.

At the time, Canadian law required Eddie to identify himself to Canadians by an Eskimo number hung around his neck. I talk about that in my book. At the recruiting office in Montreal, Canada, reassigned his name from Viteluk to Vital, deemed easier to pronounce. Sadly, Eddie passed away in 2015. He was a kind and gentle man. He was tremendously proud to be Canadian and of his service to Canada,

despite Canada's disservice to him. There's plenty to learn about service, not to mention truth and reconciliation in his life story. Bruce Butch Coolidge in California. My great-granddad served in World War I. Before he left, he bought a wristwatch from a general store in Knoxville, Tennessee. The watch purchased by private doughboy Ernie Coolidge on the day he left for France. It was to be my granddad's war watch, made by the first company to ever make wristwatches. Till then, I'm told that most people just use pocket watches.

My granddad wore that watch every day of the war. Then, when his duty was done, he went home, took off the watch, put it in an old coffee can, where it stayed until my grandfather, Dane Coolidge, was called upon to fight again, this time in World War II. My great-granddad gave the watch to granddad for luck. Unfortunately, his luck wasn't as good as his father's. He was a Marine, was killed at the Battle of Wake Island with so many other Marines. Knowing the risks of that battle, he asked a gunner on an Air Force transport named Winnocki, a man he'd never met before, to deliver to his unborn son his old watch. Three days later, Granddad was dead.

But Winnocki would keep his promise, and after the war, he delivered the watch to my grandmother and her infant son, my dad. Dad would end up wearing the watch during the Vietnam War on every combat mission he flew with the U.S. Air Force. Although Dad's now gone, I have the watch and wear it as a reminder of the servicemen in my family and their sacrifices for freedom.

Great story, Butch. Sounds like a script for a movie. Laura Grantham in Edmonton. My grandmother, Vera Southern, was engaged to Adam Cruikshanks, who went to fight for Canada in World War II, or is that, as a sniper in France. Sorry, it's World War I. As a sniper in France, after he was killed by a German sniper, Vera decided she needed to do her part, joined the Canadian forces as a nurse and left for England. Working in England at a hospital for officers, she received many marriage proposals and accepted one from a fellow Canadian, Franklin Collins, who had his foot amputated after being hit with a grenade fire

at a battle near Arlou, France. They married in Broadstairs, England, after knowing each other for two weeks and had to travel on separate ships returning to Canada, he on a troop ship and she on a hospital ship, not knowing whether their ships would survive the journey. Grandpa received further amputations in Canada. I never heard him complain once about his leg,

amputated below the knee at the age of 22. They settled in Vancouver, had six children, and Grandpa became a Supreme Court judge in B.C. Adam Cruikshank's name is on the Vimy Memorial, and we still have the Lacey Belgian love notes he wrote to my grandmother. Lacey love notes or Racey love notes, says Lacey. Josh Baker.

Josh writes from Washington. During a high school trip to Normandy in 2015, I visited Le Menis Patrie, a tiny French village that was liberated by the Canadians in 1944. While visiting the village and observing the Canadian memorial that was located in the center of the town, an elderly French woman came out of her home to speak with me and my fellow classmates.

In our conversations, she revealed that when she was a child, An elderly French woman came out of her home to speak with me and my fellow classmates. In our conversations, she revealed that when she was a child in Le Ménin-Ci-Patrie, during the Normandy campaign, and remembered vividly the days she and her family were finally liberated by the Canadians. More than 70 years later, at the time, she was still so grateful to the Canadians who liberated her village that she offered me and my classmates Calvados as a thank you. Looking back, that experience was a very proud Canadian moment for me, and I think you would enjoy the story since you, many a time, have reported from Europe on Remembrance Day or VE Day ceremonies. I do, and that's so similar to so many places in france and netherlands especially eric van viesenbeek in barry ontario

both my parents were dutch immigrants to canada in 1960 all my siblings and I were born in Canada. Growing up, we've heard many wartime stories. Vividly remembered by mom and dad who were 10 and 12 years old when the war ended in 45. During their formative years, they married 16 years later in Montreal where dad was enrolled at McGill. They remember the many Canadian soldiers who liberated Nazi-occupied Dutch towns like Schindel, where my mom and dad were living as young kids. Their two families spent several weeks holed up together in a small cellar, 14 people, several being toddlers or babies. In my opa and oma's house, while the bombs rained down. They were so happy to see their Canadian liberators marching down Main Street as the Nazi soldiers finally retreated.

I bet they were. Okay, we're going to take a quick break. We've got lots more letters. And I'm going to read, as I said, as many as I can. But as we said, time for a quick break. We'll be right back. And welcome back. You're listening to the second segment of The Bridge for this Thursday.

It's your turn, and we're reading your letters about your family's connections to Remembrance Day through letters, through stories, you name it. We've got lots of them. You're listening on SiriusXM, Channel 167, Canada Talks, or your favorite podcast platform. Glad to have you with us on what's a special day. Just a couple of days before Remembrance Day. Okay, back to our letters. And I should, again, remind you that the ranter is,

we give him the week off. He's got a good rant. We're going to save it for next week. This is a purely Remembrance Day show today. Terry Lynn Woodhouse in Niagara-on-the-Lake, Ontario. My grandfather and his three brothers went overseas to fight for Canada. His oldest brother, Alf, had a family already, so he stayed back. Plus, he was to look after my great-grandmother as the other boys were gone.

Through the war years, they were separated in Europe. My grandfather, towards the end of his life, talked about the war days, always the fun times. Like most vets, they rarely talked about the realities. My grandfather, Art Woody, drove the fuel trucks. He always said it was an easy way to get some wine or beer as a trade. He never talked about how dangerous it was and how he was a constant target. My two great-uncles, Fred and George, were in Italy and Japan on the front lines through the war.

Fred was classified as missing in action and considered dead. My great-grandmother received the dreaded telegram. The story, I can still hear my grandpa's voice saying with such joy and laughter, when the war was over, my grandfather and great uncle George were back in England riding a bus. They noticed a guy that was super thin and looked shell-shocked. They both thought he looked like their dead brother Fred and whispered back and forth about it. Then my grandfather called out his name and sure enough he turned and looked. It was Fred. He was alive and never the same. He was a POW in Japan for years. Us grandkids would always ask, what happened next grandpa? He'd say with a big laugh we rang the bell the bus stopped the three of us

got up and went to the nearest bar we all spent our entire paychecks boy was your grandmother ever mad at me when she was still alive he would look over with a smile and wink at her and he'd laugh at the fun they had that night art fred and george all came back to canada married and raised families they were really lucky and George all came back to Canada, married and raised families. They were really lucky that they all came home. Christine McDonald of Sal, Ontario. Remembrance Day in our family has always been observed and ceremonies attended for the last 41 years and will continue. My father-in-law was a World War II vet and he was proud to have served the country. We were proud of him, and each year we would go and watch as he marched with his comrades, stood in the audience, and when he passed, we continued.

My daughter's 36, never missed, and will continue to go after when I'm gone. Janice Wilder. My great-uncle Harold, his wife Carmen, and his brother Keith served in World War II. My great-uncle Keith did not come home. He was a pilot of a Halifax bomber, and the plane crashed in England on its way home from a bombing raid in Dusseldorf. Uncle Keith was 25. The crash was in a farmer's field, which later became a golf course. The golf course members hold a Remembrance Day service every year,

and they planted eight native Canadian trees, maples and oaks, in memory of the men who died. The members of the golf course send us an order of service every year at this time so that the relatives of these men know that their sacrifice is still appreciated. It's a beautiful gesture. It's always appreciated by us. T.C. Tseng from Vancouver. I often find it uncomfortable when people, especially politicians, claim that those in the armed forces fought for our freedom. While I support honoring those who served and made huge sacrifices, I think we need to put it in a better context. Germany wasn't threatening the freedom of Canadians. I think that's debatable. Moreover,

while Canada fought the Korean War under a UN mandate, it was fighting on the side of an authoritarian dictatorship, which later turned into a military dictatorship. No disagreement on that one. Don Stone from Edmonton. My grandfather was a soldier in the First World War and survived the trenches coming home with damaged lungs from gas attacks. My father enlisted in 1940 in the RCAF in the First World War and survived the trenches coming home with damaged lungs from gas attacks. My father enlisted in 1940 in the RCAF in the Second World War and survived, seriously being wounded. My uncle, Dave, served in the Second World War as an engineer craftsman from 1941 to 1946, seeing action in France, Belgium, Germany, and Holland. My Uncle Joe enlisted in 1943 and fought in the Second World War and in the Korean War among the unit of 700 soldiers

at the Battle of Kapyong, being honored with the presidential citation for bravery. All four men survived the war years, but psychologically acclaimed their lives. In war, there are no winners, just survivors. Doug McDougall.

My dad, Walter McDougall, was a tail gunner with the RCAF from 43 to 46. He was in Southeast Asia in what's now Sri Lanka, what's now Bangladesh. Okay, I'm just checking to see what part of this I'm going to read. My story is when I was in mid-40s, two sons, late teens, dad, early 70s, and the four of us did a family and heritage trip

to Europe and Scotland. Our first stop was London, and we met dad's pilot, Jeff Smith, and navigator George Smith, and spent the afternoon listening to the three of them talk about their crazy experiences, just a little older than my son's. And that's so much the part of the story, how young these guys were. Some in their teens, some in their early 20s. Cole Christie tells a story about his grandfather, Bob Christie. This one's on the lighter side, if such a thing exists during a world war,

but it always was my favorite of his war stories. I feel it's just as good and genuine a moment between friends during those awful years. The war had him scattered across a variety of postings with the RCAF, but this took place in Prince Rupert, B.C., where he was tasked with loading and unloading bombs and other ordnance on Canadian Canso coastal patrol aircraft. One day, he and another crewman were tasked with disposing of several depth

charges and based on what happened next I can only assume where their orders ended. So the story goes they took their load up to a nearby lake, loaded the depth charges onto a rowboat they found, rowed out to the middle of the lake. Over the side they went and with the speed and stamina of Olympic rowers they found their way back closer to shore. You can guess what the end result of this is. The old ordinance was blown up and they found fish, trout, all over the place. There was quite a fish fry that night, I'm sure. Mike Thornton.

Mike's a bridge loyalist. He's written before, and we've had great stories to tell. He flies a de Havilland Chipmunk, and he knows I'm partial to that little plane. That's part of our Canadian aviation history, because that's what I flew in the brief time I was in the Navy in the 1960s. I fly the De Havilland Chipmunk. The Chipmunk served as a post-World War II trainer from 56 to 71 at CFB Borden, that's where I flew it, Centralia, Portage, and likely others. After being struck off strength, it was purchased by flight officer John Weir. Mr. Weir was a Spitfire pilot during the war and is a founding member of the Canadian warplane heritage. During the war, Weir was shot down over enemy territory, successfully bailed out. Although he was badly burned, he survived and was eventually taken to Stalag Luft III. This was the POW camp made famous, or infamous, by the Great Escape, later portrayed in a post-war movie starring Steve McQueen.

Great movie. When Weir arrived at the camp, he joined in plans with other POWs for an escape. Having worked in gold mines in Timmins in the late 1930s, Weir had the knowledge of how to shore up three tunnels named Tom, Dick, and Harry, planned for the escape so that they wouldn't collapse. He became the master tunneler. Before the escape could happen,

the Germans offered Wehr plastic surgery. His burns had left him without eyelids, which led him to be very susceptible to disease. Thinking he would only be out of the camp for a couple of weeks, Wehr was elected to take the surgery. By the time he returned, months had passed and the great escape had already taken place. Since most of the escapees were executed by the Nazis, the surgery likely saved Weir's life in more ways than one. Flight officer John Weir purchased the chipmunk because the registration of the airplane is CFPOW

and is in recognition of his wartime imprisonment. As a pilot of this airplane, I am a steward of Weir's story and memory as well, as all those who maintained, flew, and gave their lives on Canadian aircraft. Our museum is full of these stories, and we continue to remember them every time we fly. It's an honor to fly flight officer John Weir's airplane and share his story. Great to hear from you, Mike. Mike lives in Paris, Ontario, not far from the museum, which is Mount Hope, near Hamilton. Man, I'm never going to make it here. There's so many letters, so many great letters.

Julie Smith Allen in Lethbridge, Alberta. My dad, Norman Smith, was a proud member of the 1st Special Service Force, known as the Devil's Brigade. The men he fought with in World War II became his brothers, and up until his death in 2008, he attended as many of their yearly reunions as he could. These men understood what the rest of us could not. Julie DePass has a letter from her family her grandmother wrote about an air raid. She was a great storyteller.

It was from February 1940, this letter. The bomb shook the foundation of the house. The boy from up the road with his burnt face from for my grandmother to bandage the frantic search for my grandfather's helmet which he'd only just been issued so that he could go out to fight the fires how she was trying to make meatless meals as no meat to be found plus knitting socks for me. The little girl at the window. Julie Pass is, what is she? She's now 87.

She was just, you know, obviously not much more than a baby at the time of this. The little girl at the window opposite watching the bombs falling. The time she was writing under the kitchen table and said she was shaking, and the handwriting bears this out. My grandfather was in and out, two houses gone, but no deaths. He was disappointed two of his fellow wardens had not turned up. At the end of the letter, after the all clear,

she remembers Rory Williams' wife, Heather, who's expecting a baby any time, and she hopes that she'll be able to hold out until morning. Carmen Bowles in Quebec City. My aunt and uncles told me about my father, that he was a self-absorbed son of a gun before he enlisted. Never even said goodbye to his mother as he ran off on his adventure. The war changed him, of course.

Hungry children would hang around, hoping the Canadian soldiers might offer them some of their food. They did, even if it meant going hungry themselves. The Dutch were so grateful, but everything our Canadian soldiers did for them, that marked him. My father, as I knew him,

was the most humble, grateful, generous man I ever met. He and my mother took in many stragglers, fed anyone who needed a meal, and dad insisted that we share whatever we had when we could. I understood why. Al Short in Coldstream, I'm not sure that's Coldstream, Alberta or Coldstream, BC. There's one in each place. Al writes, my father, James Short, was a flight instructor in the early 40s teaching new pilots near Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan. Then in early 44, he became a Lancaster pilot flying RCAF night missions

out of England for a year. He was afforded the Air Force Cross. I was born in 1954. I'm very lucky to be here. Trevor Barry in sunny Saanich, BC. We lost my grandmother two years ago. Diane Catherine Washtock was born in 1935 and was a very young child when World War II broke out. They all lived in a CP Rail Company town in the Fraser Canyon, so the men were all essential service workers and didn't get conscripted nor serve overseas. But the war effort at the home

front was taken very seriously. She was taught in the schoolhouse how important it was to ration and conserve, and I still have food stamps that she had collected from that period. Al Viedman, St. Albert, Alberta, or Weedman. My maternal grandfather, Alan Hodgson, fought in the First World War in the trenches in Europe, and although he was subject to gas attacks, he was fortunate in that he did not suffer any life-threatening injuries as a result. He passed in the late 70s, and I've always regretted that I wasn't able to spend time talking to him about his service.

My mother relayed to me that he was very thankful that the Salvation Army was always there to provide coffee, dry socks, underwear, and other personal articles. Primarily, as a result of his commendations of the Salvation Army, I've been manning a Salvation Army kettle in our local shopping center at Christmas for the last 15 years. It makes me feel good. Gary Gould. As I listened to your podcast today,

I was volunteering at our local grocery store selling poppies for our Legion. I heard your request to send in any stories that relate to our veterans. During World War II, my father was between the ages of 29 and 35 due to a debilitating accident working on his family farm. During World War II, my father was between the ages of 29 and 35. Due to a debilitating accident working on his family farm at an early age, he could not fight in the war. He did, however, work for Cockshuts at the time, a local farm implement manufacturer,

who converted their operations to making shells for ammunition for the war effort. He did this beside the woman who eventually became my mother. Their participation may not sound or appear heroic, but the reality of war and its far-reaching effect ring clear to me, as does the most current conflicts in Europe and the Middle East. Dr. Jamie Rothenberger in Calgary he writes he's with the Canadian Army Veterinary Corps

he writes about the horses I don't know whether you saw the movie War Horse or whether you saw it on stage I saw it on stage in London, unbelievable here's a very short excerpt from the good doctor's letter. Prior to the First World War, horses have played, he also writes for the Western Producer, Canada's largest agriculture publication, and this was in there. Prior to the First World War, horses have

played a pivotal role in military history. Imagine the abject terror one would feel when facing down a cavalry charge as a foot soldier trying to hold a line. The charge of mounted soldiers seeking to terrorize and overwhelm their opponents had been a critical military strategy since the time of the Mongolian Empire and their game-changing invention of the stirrup. As depicted in the 2011 film War Horse, the cavalry charge was rendered brutally obsolete when facing modern machine gun fire. Although mostly removed from a direct role in battle, horses were still essential to the war effort. At one point in 1917, for the movement of supplies, etc., etc.,

it was estimated that over a million horses were in service on all fronts. And an estimated half a million horses died in the British and its Empire units alone. Canada had a lot of horses at the Western Front. They sold them all to Belgium at the end of the war. And Belgium made it clear they thought their Canadian horses were in great shape. Dave Cole from Wallaceburg, Ontario. First time, because of your request to submit stories, I'm writing. My story is one that a good friend of mine shared with me about his time serving during the Second World War.

Unfortunately, my friend Jim is no longer with us, although I will always cherish the stories he shared with me. Jim was a young man from Wallaceburg, Ontario, who became a Lancaster bomber pilot and flew bombing missions out of England. Jim was shot down three times during his time as a pilot, once in the English Channel, once in France, and also in the North Atlantic, of which he was the only survivor. The story that hit home the most was a conversation we had about him being promoted to squadron leader at the age of just 21. My comment back to him was, wow, you must have been some aviator.

What struck home was his answer. Well, Dave, you move up quick when 17 to 19 planes leave the airfield. Only six or seven return. I'm going to have to, I'm not going to get through some of these. I'm sorry to say. But a thank you to Terry Sims in Victoria, Rob Green in Toronto, Doug Johnson in Vernon, B.C., and Ann Chellew for Blackstock, Ontario, for all of your stories.

Because I want to close on this one. It's actually Anne's letter. Anne Chellew from Blackstock, Ontario. I heard that you'd like stories about Canadian soldiers. My father, Clifford Frank Chellew, had a very unusual encounter with Germans a few days after D-Day. I think you might find it interesting. So here it goes. A war story by Clifford Frank Chellew.

My father fought in World War II as an RCAF radar officer. He landed on Omaha Beach on D-Day and led a unit of 42 men onto the beach. Not many people know that British and Canadian soldiers fought alongside the Americans on that day. By nightfall, half of my father's unit had been killed. The story that follows was taken from my father's memoir. It happened as he was battling retreating Germans who were fleeing deeper into France in the days following D-Day. The fighting was fierce. We pushed forward and found a unit of German infantry blocking our passage. We realized their objective was to capture the radar vehicles. A firefight was soon in full swing with hand grenades, rifles, and small arms all in use.

During a flight of this nature, there are moments of silence as both sides regroup or rearm. I was certain that I heard a woman crying, and a few minutes later, I heard a baby crying. Many of the nearby houses had been severely damaged in earlier battles, and I believe the sounds were coming from one of those wrecked houses. Apparently, the German officer also heard the crying, and one of my men shouted to me that the Germans wanted to talk. They tied a rag to a rifle barrel and raised it in the air. I ordered a ceasefire. I raised my left hand, and I saw a German helmet slowly rising. I stood up, moved into the neutral ground. We met in the center of the space and he asked me if I

spoke German. I said no, I asked if he spoke English and he replied a little. Since we both spoke some French, we were able to agree on the sounds we heard and that we would cease fighting and try to find the woman and her baby. We both called up four men and the ten of us began the search. We located the ruined house and we could get a glimpse of the woman with her baby in her arms in the cellar covered by debris. I called down to her and told her using my rough French that English and German soldiers were going to help her get out of the cellar and where she'd been trapped. My men carefully began to remove all sorts of timbers. We eventually cleared enough space. We were able to lift the

woman and her baby out of the cellar, put them in a jeep and sent her to an American field hospital. The German officer nodded to me. I nodded to him. We turned our backs to each other and returned to our firing positions with our men. We began to fight again. I'm so glad that my father shared this story with us. It gave me hope that even in the throes of a horrible war, there are acts of compassion that help to restore my faith in humankind. Yeah, not sure how often that happened, but every once in a while you do hear something like that. You heard about it in the First World War, the Christmas Truce.

This has been quite the hour listening to your stories. I really appreciate what you've done. I wish I could have read even more, and there were lots more. But I will keep them, because they're certainly now memories for me as well. Tomorrow, it's good talk. Chantelle Hebert, Bruce Anderson will be here. Saturday is Remembrance Day. Find a moment to remember. I'm Peter Mansbridge. Thanks so much for listening on this day. We'll talk to you again in 24 hours.