War Brides, Part 1: Embarassing Misunderstandings

His uniform, clean and polished for a wedding.

During World War II, Canadian servicemen spent more time away from home than any other nationals—some as long as six years. While British soldiers saw action beginning in 1939, however, the Canadians who were shipped over as early as 1940 remained primarily in England until 1943. This gave them plenty of time to find English girlfriends, and, in many cases, wives. 

Nearly 48,000 women from Britain and Europe immigrated to Canada to begin new lives with their Canadian husbands—often without their husbands and some with young children. While some left their husbands behind, still fighting in Europe, other women were left behind to wait after the war when their husbands were shipped home. In each case, the adjustments to be made were enormous.

Their stories are fascinating, astonishing, and often humorous.

More than one young woman described instances of extreme embarrassment when naïve Canadian boyfriends handed them money in public places, not understanding how this act appeared to onlookers. In one case, the soldier had offered to pay for their tram ride. Not being familiar with British currency, he reached in his pocket, pulled out a handful of change, and held it out. “Here,” he told his date. “Take what I owe.”

In another case, the embarrassment surrounding their leave-taking nearly ended the relationship after a week. Betty was seeing Ken’s train off at the station. As an afterthought, Ken handed her money in clear view of all the other troops, asking if she could get his civilian shoes repaired while he was away. Though she wanted to die on the spot, Betty forgave Ken his faux pas and their lovely courtship continued when he returned.

Connie Robitaille’s Canadian husband, Roger, had been sent home while Connie stayed behind in England, awaiting word that she could join him. When a puzzling letter arrived from Roger, Connie shared it with her friend. Roger had written to say his brother was getting married. “There’s to be a bridal shower here, so everything needs to be clean as there’ll be a lot of women here.”

Connie and her friend certainly knew what a shower was, but they’d never heard of a bridal shower. The only conclusion they could reach about this odd Canadian custom was that the bride-to-be must be required to take a shower in front of all the other women.

“Aren’t you glad you were married over here?” Her friend asked.

Connie surely was.

More next time. 

"I Want Mum"

As an adult, Mary Ann Waghorn’s memories came in snippets of black and white and gray. As a seven-year-old, she’d been told she was going on a holiday to Canada. She had no concept that she’d be leaving behind her three-year-old brother or the many aunts, uncles, and cousins who made up her happy extended family in Maidstone, Kent, England. Early in August 1940, she waited excitedly at the Maidstone West Station with her heartbroken mother. Mrs. Waghorn had agreed the evacuation would be best for her daughter but found the goodbye unbearable.

Mary Ann spent two days in the nearby town of Eltham in the care of CORB volunteers (Children’s Overseas Reception Board), until her party of 200 children was assembled. They traveled to Liverpool where Mary Ann remembers feeling nothing but confusion. The voyage across the North Atlantic on the Duchess of York proved no better. Most of the children were seasick and cold. On August 11, they docked in Canada.

The Duchess of York

Although Mary Ann was a CORB evacuee, it was up to the Toronto Children’s Aid to match her to a family. The process took weeks, during which time she stayed at Hart House, University of Toronto. Finally, she went to live with Roland and Coral Mann in Leaside, a small town on the outskirts of Toronto, and their twelve-year-old son, Teddy, and their dog, Sport. Since the Manns’ parents had been born in England and Scotland, they had close ties to Britain and Mary Ann fit in nicely despite her unsettling beginning. Mary Ann was soon calling her foster parents “Uncle Roly” and “Aunt Coral.”

Teddy proved to be an exceptionally patient big brother. He took Mary Ann skating, taught her to row a boat, fish, and bait her own hooks. At one point, Mary Ann announced to Mrs. Mann that when she was twenty, she would return to Canada and marry Teddy.

Although she looked gaunt upon arrival, she quickly gained weight and made lots of friends in her community. She recalled people being nothing but kind and compassionate to this little English girl. While Mary Ann appeared happy and well-adjusted, her inner feelings came out in her drawings. Her foster mother recalled her drawing pictures of girls in various activities like jumping rope or pushing a baby pram. Always, the girl was saying “I want Mum.” She drew great comfort at Christmas when she received some of her familiar toys from home.

The Manns found it a challenge to know how much news about home to expose such a young child to. At first, they never listened to war news on the radio. Later, Mary Ann was encouraged to take an interest in what was happening and to participate in fundraisers. Letters, photos, postcards, and cables kept her in touch with home.

Mary Ann says she’d have been happy to stay with the Manns after the war had they not so carefully kept her family in mind. Almost five years to the day she’d arrived in Canada, the Manns took her to Toronto’s Union Station where they said a tearful goodbye in front of newspaper photographers.

After a week aboard the Louis Pasteur and another train ride, twelve-year-old Mary Ann reached home—much taller and with a Canadian accent but otherwise the same girl with long blond braids. The brother who had been only three when she left was now eight and barely remembered her. Naturally, he resented this sudden intrusion of a big sister into his only-child status. Mary Ann, used to the older Canadian brother who’d doted on her, resented him as well and they fought a lot. She found the adjustment back to British school and life harder than the first change. Over time, she settled in.

For the next forty years, Mary Ann wrote monthly letters to the Mann family. On the four occasions when they met, she admitted feeling closer to them than she did to her own family.

His Body Kept Score

(NOT John Hutton's house!)

John Hutton’s mother died when he was only five years old, leaving him to live with his widowed father and his grandmother in a big old house in Colchester, Essex, England. One day in July of 1940 when he was seven, John’s father informed him he would be leaving for Canada in three days. He asked where Canada was and whether he’d be able to speak the language. His Uncle Leslie showed him on a map where he’d be going—to Toronto where people spoke English and where he’d be near Niagara Falls, the largest waterfall in the world.

Niagara Falls

Years later, John would recall his father taking him and his rucksack to the train station where he joined several other children embarking on the same journey. None of them had any comprehension of how far they would be traveling or for how long they’d be gone, but John felt the vision of his hometown receding into the distance staying with him throughout his five years in Canada.

The children waited in London through the Battle of Britain, and the gunfire overhead confirmed their parents’ decision was a good one. After they finally took the train to Liverpool, John boarded the troop ship SS Oronsay for Halifax. The crossing took two weeks, which were filled with lifeboat drills and activities organized by the CORB staff (Children’s Overseas Reception Board) who accompanied them. Among his memories are the massive ships in their convoy, the long series of tunnels they walked to reach the Halifax train station after disembarking, and the lower platforms of Canadian train stations that required them to carry their luggage up several steps into the cars. Big steps for a seven-year-old.

SS Oronsay

The journey to Toronto took four days and three nights, and John was impressed by the endless forests and lakes, relieved only by small clusters of wooden buildings. He and the other children were stumped when, at every stop, they were greeted by loud cheers from Canadians.

John settled in with his foster family but grew increasingly withdrawn, concerning both his foster parents and his father back home with his fibs and minor misdemeanors. When his foster family moved away a year later, John was taken in by the Pellett family in the village of Agincourt. Here, he fitted in nicely and found himself at home with foster parents whose families descended from Britain and their two young children.

Soon, John was calling Mrs. Pellett “Mother” and keeping his two fathers separate by referring to his foster father as “our daddy” and his father as “my daddy.” He feared that “My Daddy” would be called up as a soldier and have to leave Colchester.

John was constantly in trouble at school for being inattentive and the Pelletts knew he worried about the war. John grew so anxious that in March 1942, they took him for examination to the Sick Children’s Hospital. Doctors agreed John was worried about the war and there was nothing they could do. When Mr. Hutton’s job was declared war work and the danger of his inscription faded, John settled down. He stayed busy with school, church groups, Cubs, and friends. Though frequently plagued with illness as various anxieties arose, John eventually settled in with improved grades.

In July 1945. John left behind the foster family he’d grown to love and returned home, a tall, heavy, twelve-year-old wearing long pants and carrying a fountain pen gifted to him by his school in Canada. Later, John admitted that it took him a full three years to feel at home in England again.

 

"Will I Recognize Mum and Dad?"

Imagine having just turned five years old and being told you were sailing off to Canada without your parents. Fortunately for John Jarvis in 1940, he had a big brother named Michael, 10, who was going too. Little John had no idea where Canada was. The family lived in Southport, a seaside town close to Liverpool. With increasing bomb raids in the area, Mrs. Jarvis wrote to friends and relatives in Canada searching for a place to send her boys. When a Mrs. Foster from Grimsby, Ontario, expressed willingness, Mrs. Jarvis explained that with private evacuations, she’d not be allowed to send any money to Canada. Instead, she planned to follow the children as quickly as possible and find work.

No sooner had she sent the letter than one arrived from CORB (Children’s Overseas Reception Board), informing her that Michael and John had been accepted into the government program. The boys were on their way to Canada by the time Mrs. Jarvis received another letter from an aunt in Calgary, also agreeing to take the boys. She spent the next several months trying to arrange a visa and passage to Canada for herself. None was granted. Not during wartime.

John stuck close to Michael on the voyage to Montreal and Toronto. Staff at the reception center put the tired, ill little boy to bed. Soon, they went to Grimsby to live with Mrs. Foster, an English immigrant with a grown son serving in the Royal Canadian Air Force. The boys settled in nicely. Though their parents naturally missed them and worried, every time bombs dropped, they knew they’d done the right thing.

John’s memories included the peach farm on which he lived, school, wiener roasts on the beach, rabbits, hollyhocks, jumping in piles of maple leaves, and having to daily swallow a vile fish liver oil potion called Scott’s Emulsion. He recalled visits from members of the Children’s Aid Society where he met with them privately in the family parlor to ensure he was doing all right. To John, these were merely annoying interruptions to playtime. At Christmas, he was allowed to choose the tree. He and Michael received lovely gifts.

A 1940s Christmas

When Mrs. Foster sold her farm and moved into an apartment, however, she found life with two growing boys more than she could handle. Michael went to live on a farm a few miles away, while John went to a family with six children—also surnamed Jarvis. John felt at home with the family who practically adopted him. As he grew more Canadian, heartily singing along to “Oh Canada” at school, memories of home and family dimmed. His parents seemed more like a distant aunt and uncle who sent letters and occasional gifts.

RMS Rangitata

Just before his tenth birthday, John was shocked to be told it was time to go home. It seemed like the whole town came out to say goodbye to him and Michael, yet he couldn’t grasp that he wasn’t coming back. They travelled to New York where they boarded the RMS Rangitata for the voyage to England. When they reached Liverpool, the boys leaned over the railing, holding a photograph of their parents and studying the throngs of people on the wharf, worried they wouldn’t recognize each other. With a huge sigh of relief, they spotted them.

Adjusting back to life in England proved a challenge for John, especially at school. He kept in touch with both Mrs. Foster and the Jarvis family. At sixteen, he joined the Navy but it would be forty years before he returned to Canadian soil for a holiday where he visited his old friends.

You can read a fictional account of the CORB children's adventures in my new novel, "Even if We Cry," available for pre-order now. Click on the book cover to order.

One Day's Notice

A warning for British children during WWII

Fourteen-year-old Hazel Wilson lived with her brother and two-year-old sister in Colchester, England. It was 1940. For the past year, children from larger cities and more vulnerable coastal towns had been evacuated to the countryside for their safety, often billeted with strangers. When the Daily Express published a front-page story about the government’s scheme called CORB (Children’s Overseas Reception Board), Hazel’s parents asked her and her brother if they were interested in going to Canada.

Hazel was thrilled to say yes. She viewed the evacuation as a wonderful holiday away from her parents (what 14-year-old wouldn’t appreciate that?) and didn’t consider the homesickness she might experience. They applied. When a letter arrived in early summer saying they’d been selected to go, they were instructed not to say a word to anyone and to be prepared to leave with only 24 hours’ notice. Hazel didn’t even tell her best friend.

She found the train ride to Liverpool terrifying because of all the strange kids, but still managed to avoid her brother whom she viewed as an immature drag. In Liverpool, they stayed for several days at a school. Nights were spent on straw pallets on the floor, trying to sleep among falling bombs and wailing air raid sirens.

Once Hazel and her brother boarded the ocean liner SS Oronsay, their journey improved greatly as they enjoyed many luxuries and foods that were in short supply at home. From Halifax, they traveled by train to Winnipeg. There, they were housed at Winnipeg’s School for the Deaf, whose students were in their own homes for the summer. They underwent thorough physical examinations at the Children’s Hospital while they waited to be matched with their host families. This experience proved miserable, as Hazel and a 14-year-old boy were the last to be taken. 

Winnipeg's former School for the Deaf, now the Mennonite College Federation campus.

When her assigned foster parents showed up—on foot—they were Bill and Freda Rook, both professional musicians. With no children of their own, they had volunteered to host a guest child as their contribution to the war efforts. They gave up some personal luxuries, such as seasonal concert tickets, to host Hazel. Their house on Woodhaven Boulevard would be her home until late 1944. Her brother was eight miles away.

Hazel found it extremely difficult to adjust. The Rooks led a busy social life and entertained often, while Hazel was used to more quiet solitude. She was nervous about doing something wrong and upsetting her foster parents or, worse yet, her parents back home who had enough on their plates. Life at Linwood Collegiate was another huge adjustment. The winter clothes she was given by the Red Cross (such as a herringbone tweed coat with a fox collar, circa 1930) caused no end of embarrassment, no less than it would for one of today’s teenagers being forced to wear something used by an adult ten years ago.

Despite the challenges, Hazel grew five inches and her brother eleven in the first year. They were astounded by the abundance and variety of food. Items considered rare treats back home became daily fare. Her musical foster parents enrolled her in piano lessons and their church choir, and she joined Girl Guides. Her circle of friends grew, but she continued to miss her parents and the little sister who was growing up without her.

In October 1944, although the war wasn’t over, 18-year-old Hazel and her brother returned home. Her mother’s first words were, “Thank goodness you don’t have a Yankee accent.”

Though it initially felt great to be home, Hazel confided to her diary that she found England dull and dreary. She moved to London to find work and was there for VE Day in May 1945. While she could celebrate the elation of the day, restlessness remained in her part-Canadian heart.

In 1947, she returned to Winnipeg to live with the Rooks, and by 1955 her entire family had settled in Canada.

The list of what CORB kids should pack.

 

Just People I Wrote To

On Nina Laville’s eleventh birthday, September 3, 1939, her country declared itself at war with Germany. At the end of her street in Middlesborough, England sat two huge gasholders. Her mother, well aware of their community’s vulnerability should bombs be dropped, wrote to her Uncle Mark in Canada. Mark, a farmer, had emigrated and settled in Steeldale, Saskatchewan—a town so small, Nina couldn’t find it on the map. Mark replied that he was happy to host Nina if her parents could find the means to send her.

A private evacuation to Canada was beyond the Lavilles’ resources. But when the British government announced its CORB scheme (Child Overseas Reception Board), which would send children to Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and South Africa at no expense to the parents, Nina’s parents immediately registered her.

Nina had never been further than fifty miles from home, but by the following August, she was thrilled to be on her way, first on a train across England to Liverpool and then over the Atlantic aboard the SS Anselm. Traveling in a convoy of ships for safety, the awareness of enemy submarines hung over the CORB children like dark shadows.

When they safely reached Halifax, the children were sent by train to various host homes across Canada. Nina was traveling farther than anyone in her group until she was the lone English child aboard, a novelty in the prairies. She recalled her first sight of the endless prairies with bewilderment (“all that space just sitting there doing nothing”) and disappointment that she didn’t see "wild Indians and buffalo."

When Nina reached Regina, a CORB volunteer met her and drove her to her Uncle Mark’s farm. There, she immediately felt at home and fell in love with the land and the lifestyle that would be hers for the next five years. Had that not been the case, there’d have been little help for either Nina or her hosts, at least from CORB, since the next visit didn’t occur for an entire year.

Although her relatives had suffered several years of drought and crop failure, what struck Nina the most at first, was how well they ate. The nearly self-sufficient farm provided home-grown vegetables, butter, cream, eggs, and chicken once a week—to a girl who’d seen chicken only at Christmas.

Nina attended Gopher Hill School, which she described as a “funny little wooden shack” with everyone in the same room like one big happy family. For high school, she had to leave the farm and board with friends in Dinsmore.

Sadly, her parents back in England gradually faded in her memory into “just people I wrote to.” She was 16 when peace was declared, and she knew she’d soon need to return home. As an only child, she felt duty-bound to return. The adjustment was difficult for everyone. While her parents still viewed Nina as a child, she’d grown into an attractive, extroverted young woman who unwisely let everyone know how much better life had been in Canada and how she wished she was still there.

Although Nina stayed in touch with her Canadian friends, she never did return. But her war years in Canada would be remembered with fondness always.

Nina Laville was the inspiration for my fictional character, Nina Gabriel, whose story, "Even if We Cry," releases this December. The Kindle book will be available for pre-order on September 30.

Even If

Are you the type of person who chooses a theme word or phrase for the year? Something you can use to anchor yourself, to aim for, to help find meaning in life’s ups and downs? I’ve tried this a few times but by spring, I’ve usually forgotten it. This year, when I wasn’t particularly looking for one, a phrase chose me. It grabbed at my heartstrings when a certain song came on CHVN radio one day.

For this to make sense to you, I need to back up a bit.

I’m currently writing a two-book fiction series called the “Even If” series (although each book would stand alone).

Book One, Even If We Cry, will release this November from Mountain Brook Ink. It’s about the British children who evacuated to Canada during World War II and some of the things they, their parents in England, and their host families here went through. I’m currently working on edits.

Fair use, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?curid=14805503

Book Two, Even If I Perish, releases in the fall of 2025. I’m about one-third through the first draft and up to my eyeballs in research. It’s based on the true story of a little-known heroine, Mary Cornish. Mary was one of the few survivors of the ship, The City of Benares, sunk by a German torpedo while carrying 90 children on one of these evacuation voyages. Mary survived eight days as the only female in a lifeboat meant for 24 people but packed with 46. Six of those people were young boys whom Mary was determined to keep alive at any cost.

My publishing contract includes the possibility of two more books in the series. You can see why the words, “even if,” have been jumping out every time I hear or see them.

Like you, I’ve known my share of faith-shaking hard times. Maybe I’m simply forgetful, but it truly seems as though 90 percent of those faith shakers have occurred in the last five years. You too? Some family stuff, some career stuff, some world-at-large stuff.

So I shouldn’t have been surprised when, driving down the street one day, the words of this song from Rend Collective caught my attention:

“I’ll find a way to praise You from the bottom of my broken heart
’Cause I think I’d rather strike a match than curse the dark…”

Can you relate? The singer goes on to say he’d rather take a chance on hope than fall apart. Is falling apart the only alternative? Surrendering to the dark? He decides no. That’s when the resounding chorus breaks in, with the repeating phrase which so perfectly applies to drifters in a lifeboat on a cold and raging sea in the middle of the night … and which nailed it for me:
“Even if my daylight never dawns
Even if my breakthrough never comes
Even if I’ll fight to bring You praise
Even if my dreams fall to the ground
Even if I’m lost, I know I’m found
… my heart will somehow say, ‘Hallelujah’ anyway.”

Faith does frequently feel like a big gamble, doesn’t it? Some people wonder why, if it’s really true, do we believers need to constantly convince and remind each other and ourselves, even if current evidence isn’t supporting our beliefs.

It’s a valid question. The only answer I can offer is the Bible’s definition of faith: the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things unseen. (See Hebrews 11.)

Many thanks to songwriters Chris Llewellyn, Matt Maher, and Gareth Gilkeson for giving us this wonderfully personal song, and giving me my phrase for the year. You can hear the whole song HERE.

What History Forgets...

How desperate does a nation need to become before its leader calls for a National Day of Prayer?

On May 24, 1940, the British needed a miracle. One of the greatest disasters in its history seemed in the making. When France fell to the Germans, the British Army of 350,000 men were hemmed in with their backs to the sea at Dunkirk and no one to save them. The water was too shallow for a Navy rescue. The commander of the British Forces, Lt. General Sir Frederick Morgan, stated that there was no way out, barring a miracle.

Then something happened that has only happened a handful of times.

King George VI (grandfather of our current King Charles) went on the radio to call for the first National Day of Prayer, imploring citizens to plead for divine intervention. You may have seen the iconic photographs of long lineups at London’s Westminster Abbey. Millions flocked into churches to pray, while others prayed from home. Historian Dr. Victor Pearce wrote, “Hardly anybody stayed away. The churches and halls were crammed full and overflows outside were sometimes bigger than the crush inside.”

Britain received its miracle—in fact, several miracles—in the days that followed.

No one could explain how the English Channel remained absolutely calm all the days during which thousands of private boats traveled back and forth, rescuing members of the British Expeditionary Army from the sands of Dunkirk. Had the weather been normal for those few days, the world map would no doubt look much different today.

No one could explain the freak storms that simultaneously grounded most of the German air force. Only a few planes were able to take off, and no one could explain the fog that prevented those few from attacking the civilian vessels in the channel.

No one could explain Hitler’s order, overruling his own generals. Just as his tanks prepared to advance, he ordered to halt the attack and sent his troops in a different direction. This order remained in effect for two days while soldiers were evacuated by civilian boats. Some writers speculated that Hitler had given the order out of a misguided sense of mercy, hoping the British were ready to surrender. The historian Brian Bond stated that few historians now accept that view. In later years, Adolf Hitler lamented that Churchill was “quite unable to appreciate the sporting spirit” in which he’d refrained from annihilating [the] British Expeditionary Force at Dunkirk.

 

No one could explain the apparent immunity of 400 soldiers who rose to their feet after lying face-down in the sand beneath a rain of German ammunition, to discover themselves unhurt. No one could explain the image of their own silhouettes in the sand, surrounded by bullets.

 

338,226 soldiers were successfully evacuated from a seemingly impossible situation. So convinced were the British of the value of prayer that more National Days of Prayer were called in the months and years to follow. Yes, much damage was done and many lives were lost, but those who experienced it would never forget what became known as The Miracle at Dunkirk. Unfortunately, the story has faded from memories and history books. Though you can find numerous YouTube videos about the event, most ignore the call to prayer.

 

While it’s hard to imagine Parliament calling for a national prayer day in 2023, nothing need stop you and me from praying. My Bible tells me the heart of the king is in God’s hands (Proverbs 21:1) and that we are not fighting against flesh-and-blood enemies, but against an unseen world (Ephesians 6:12). Matthew 8 tells me of a Saviour who stops the wind with his words.

 

This Remembrance Day, let’s remember not only those who sacrificed, but those who prayed and the God who hears.

 

Lest we forget.

 

(For a moving, 8-minute video that tells this story far better than I can, CLICK HERE.)

 

 

To Any Length

In his 1976 collection, Six War Years, 1939-1945: Memories of Canadians at Home and Abroad, author Barry Broadfoot shares hundreds of stories from those years that you won’t hear in novels or movies. He recorded, verbatim, anonymous interviews with every-day Canadians after asking them one simple question: “What did you do in the war?”

Their admittedly one-sided stories, told with language far more colorful than I’m accustomed to, are as varied as they are interesting—from fellows who enlisted just for the free boots to women who signed up in order to follow their soldier boyfriends overseas, to men who married only to avoid the draft. Such is the story of one Manitoban named Tom.

Tom’s farmer father needed Tom’s help to keep the farm afloat. Often in this case, a young man would receive a deferment from service because growing food was vital to the country’s defense. But if a family had two sons, one was sure to be marched off to do his duty, at least on the home front.

Tom’s father had three sons, all single. The youngest was intellectually disabled, although they wouldn’t have used that term then. His biggest contribution was helping his mother gather eggs. The middle son showed no interest in farming and leaned toward the lazy side, according to the anonymous storyteller. The eldest at 28, Tom would surely be wanted by his country’s military no matter how much his parents might need him on the farm.

One evening while the family sat around after dinner listening to the news on the radio, they heard the announcement that all single men would be called up the next day. Tom’s only chance of avoiding conscription would be to get hitched by midnight.

Well, Tom had been taking a friend named Gwendolyn to dances—a nice girl, but, in the storyteller’s words, “plain as a mud fence.” Tom’s sister called Gwendolyn and told her to be standing by the gate when Tom arrived. Then Tom, along with his brother and sister, picked up Gwendolyn and headed down the road to Shoal Lake. It was nine p.m. by the time they discovered the preacher out for the evening. They drove to Hamiota. The minister there, knowing what game they were playing, refused to marry them.

Time was running out. Backtracking to Binscarth, they woke up a policeman to find out where the preacher lived. The ruckus at their door awakened the preacher and his wife. Tom yanked out a ten-dollar bill and told the minister, “You get this business over with in ten minutes, before midnight, and I’ll double this.”

The preacher grabbed his book, tore through the ceremony, and completed the paperwork. All parties signed it with ten minutes to spare. The minister, twenty bucks richer, saved Tom’s hide.

I have no idea how Tom and Gwendolyn’s marriage turned out, but folks in the community allegedly saw Tom as a bit of a hero for racing around those country roads late at night and outsmarting the government by evading the draft.

Canadian historian Jack Granatstein (author of Who Killed Canadian History?)
wrote, “no single issue has divided Canadians so sharply” as the military draft. Given the current issues dividing our citizens, I can’t help wondering if Granatstein, now 82, still feels the same.

Lest we forget.

Lazy Farmers Don't Grow Sugar Beets

Ask almost anyone where sugar comes from and they’ll probably tell you the sugar cane. Obviously, they are not wrong. In fact, not until the 19th century did alternate sources of sugar become known.

One of these was the humble sugar beet, or Beta vulgaris. If you’ve ever worked a physically taxing job, multiply that effort by fifty and you’ll begin to grasp the difficulty of getting a sugar beet from seed to processing plant.

If you were a child of a migrant worker during the first half of the 20th century, you might be all too familiar with the whole process as you were forced to work alongside the adults in your family. Though it got you out of school by the end of April, you’d feel giddy to return in October after harvest. Long days in a hot field, bending over the entire time whether planting, thinning, weeding, or harvesting, would make a day in the classroom feel like a piece of cake.

Cake for which the world needed its sugar.

Each multi-germ seed was a tiny pod containing five or six separate beet plants. Once planting by hand was complete, it was time to thin the plants. Workers, on hands and knees, had to carefully pull out all but one tiny seedling without damaging the one left to grow. Monogerm seeds were not developed for use until 1967 and became the biggest breakthrough for this challenging industry.

Harvesting proved no easier. Many a finger was lost to the sinister-looking sugar beet knife, which came to North America with German and Russian immigrants. Here in Manitoba, farmers from across the southern half of the province manually unloaded their sugar beets into train cars which transported them to the Manitoba Sugar refinery in Winnipeg.

During World War II when cane sugar became difficult to import and rationing went into effect, the sugar beet industry thrived despite the intensive labor required. Among the laborers were many Japanese Canadians, relocated from their homes along the west coast to farms on the prairies to fill the gap left by young men off fighting the war. The industry would not have survived without the help of First Nations laborers, German prisoners of war, and the interned Japanese.

Though sugar beet farming eventually grew easier with the advancement of machinery, seeds, and irrigation systems, demand diminished as more economic and efficient sources of sugar took over.

The characters in my new novel, Rose Among Thornes, are subjected to the rigors of sugar beet farming during WWII. Much of my research came from a book called Sugar Farmers of Manitoba by Heather Robertson, loaned to me by Kelly and Cheryl Ronald who farm east of Portage la Prairie. Kelly used to raise sugar beets like his father before him. Bill Ronald served as president of the Manitoba Beet Growers’ Association.

One aspect I love about being a writer of historical fiction is how, every time I learn more about life in the 1940’s, I’m more grateful for modern-day conveniences. These hot summer days, I feel privileged to sit on a comfy chair in my air-conditioned home, describing for you the challenges of backbreaking work—as though I’d experienced it myself. While I hope we’re all learning to consume less sugar, I hope we’re also learning to appreciate the effort and history behind all the many, easy treats we enjoy.

Happy Labor Day!

Tommy Prince: One Canadian Hero

Did you know that one of our most decorated Indigenous war heroes came from Manitoba?

A descendant of both Chief Peguis and Chief William Prince, Thomas George Prince was one of 11 children born to Henry and Arabella Prince of the Brokenhead Band at Scanterbury.

Tommy Prince became a superb marksman with exceptional tracking skills gained from hunting in the wilderness. He attended Elkhorn Residential School (also known as the Elkhorn Industrial School and the Washakada Indian Residential School). After completing grade eight, he worked at a variety of jobs—primarily as a tree feller. While a teenager, he joined the army cadets.

In June 1940, Tommy Prince enlisted with the Royal Canadian Engineers at the age of 24. Two years later, he volunteered as a paratrooper and trained with the 1st Canadian Special Service Battalion. Soon after, his battalion joined an elite American unit called the 1st Special Service Force. German soldiers nicknamed it the “Devil’s Brigade” because its members gained a reputation for skillfully sabotaging enemy tactics.

On February 8, 1944, near Littoria, Italy, Reconnaissance Sergeant Prince was spying on the Germans from an abandoned farmhouse 200 metres away. He had a clear view of the enemy’s artillery emplacements and promptly reported them using the 1,400 metres of telephone wire connecting him to his force.

When the shelling severed Prince’s communication line, he donned civilian clothing and grabbed a hoe. In full view of German soldiers, he slowly worked his way along the telephone line, “weeding his crop,” until he found the damage. Pretending to tie his shoelaces, he rejoined the wires. To complete his performance as an Italian farmer, he shook his fist at the nearby Germans, then again toward the Allied lines. With his line repaired, he returned to his real work. As a result of his continued reporting, four German positions were destroyed. Sergeant Prince earned the Military Medal and a citation proclaiming, “Sergeant Prince’s courage and utter disregard for personal safety were an inspiration to his fellows and a marked credit to his unit.”

Six months later, Sergeant Prince earned another honour when his force entered southern France. On September 1, he scouted deep behind German lines where he located the gun sites and encampment area of an enemy reserve battalion. He walked 70 kilometres across mountainous terrain, going without food or sleep for 72 hours to report the information. After leading his brigade to the encampment, he joined the battle, which resulted in the capture of the entire German battalion, about 1000 men.

Prince was later summoned to Buckingham Palace, where King George VI decorated him with both the Military Medal and, on behalf of U.S. President Roosevelt, the Silver Star. Part of his citation said: “The keen sense of responsibility and devotion to duty displayed by Sergeant Prince is in keeping with the highest traditions of the military service and reflects great credit upon himself and the Armed Forces of the Allied Nations.”

Tommy Prince was one of only three Canadians awarded both the Silver Star and the Military Medal during World War II. He was honorably discharged on June 15, 1945, and returned to the Brokenhead Reserve where he worked in a pulpwood camp. He married Verna Sinclair, with whom he had five children.

In 1950 Prince returned to the Canadian Army to fight with the United Nations troops in the Korean War. Later, he commented, “As soon as I put on my uniform, I felt a better man.” Once again, Prince proved his skills and earned more military medals.

Sadly, adjusting to civilian life was not easy. Painful arthritis, racial discrimination, and alcoholism plagued him and ultimately resulted in estrangement from his family and the placement of his children into foster homes. Prince spent his final years in a Salvation Army hostel, selling off his medals to support himself. He died in 1977 at the age of 61 at Winnipeg’s Deer Lodge Centre and is buried at Brookside Cemetery. His medals eventually resurfaced and can be viewed at the Manitoba Museum. Tommy Prince did not live to see the many buildings, schools, roads, awards, or scholarships named in his honour. 

Private Thomas Prince