Northwestern campaign Europe 1945

Bede's photo of the German coastal fortifications along the Atlantic sea wall, 1945

The piece below is a first draft of a scene from my book about the life of Bede Smith

Oldenburg, Germany, May 1945  

In early April, the Fourth Division advanced into northwestern Germany. A campaign of targeted bombing by the Allies cleared the way for them to seize the medieval garrison town of Oldenburg. Meanwhile, less than 300 miles to the northeast, in a labyrinth of tunnels beneath the streets of Berlin, the Nazi leadership imploded, and on the 30th of April Hitler put a gun to his head.

Events moved swiftly towards Germany's surrender, until the guns fell silent on the 5th of May. Bede was 10 miles from Oldenburg when the news came through of Victory in Europe (VE), and the celebrations began. For him, it had been 276 long days since he'd set foot on the four-mile stretch of grey sand in Normandy.

Several days after VE Day, Bede entered the smoke haze of the officers' mess, the notes of Lili Marlene still ringing in his head from the previous night's entertainment. He wandered over to the notice board and stood, arms folded, scanning the announcements. One flyer outlined the three options available post-VE: soldiers could remain in Europe in the Army of Occupation, volunteer for the Canadian Pacific Force, or apply for a discharge. While Bede was examining the fine print, a separate headline suddenly caught his attention – "Australians Land in Borneo." He adjusted the glasses on his nose and bent lower to read the details. The news item reported a military landing at Tarakan, an insignificant island near Borneo, where the Japanese were still dug in. His middle brother Noel would be there with the Australian Eighth Division. And younger brother Kevin, as far as he knew, was serving in the Solomon Islands. For them, the ordeal continued.

Bede's thoughts were interrupted by a burst of raucous laughter coming from a corner-table in the mess. Despite the sore heads from days of celebration, nothing daunted their spirits. He sauntered over to join the group. The men had copies of the Canadian Forces newspaper, The Maple Leaf, spread out on the table.

'Have you seen this?' his colleague said, holding up the front cover of The Maple Leaf Victory edition. One word filled the full length of the front page – "KAPUT."

'Yes,' Bede laughed. 'The cover's a beaut!' He pulled out a chair and sat down to join the men.

'What else have you found out?' asked Bede
'Some more information about volunteering for the Pacific.'
'You going to volunteer?' Bede asked.
'I'm not sure yet. Are you?'
Bede hesitated. 'I haven't decided. No one can say we haven't done our bit.'
'You've got a wife and child at home. You're off the hook, so to speak.'
'That's true,' Bede said. 'Still, the job's only half done.'

His colleague reached into his uniform pocket, tapped out a few cigarettes and offered them around the table. Bede reached over for one and dug into his pocket for a match.

'Some of us are applying for leave,' his colleague said. 'Going to try and see Paris while we can.'
Bede's eyes brightened. 'That sounds terrific!'

He took a short puff on his cigarette. He'd need to make his decision about the Pacific soon. How would Marg react if he volunteered? All this time in the Europe campaign amounted to a 20-month separation from his family. He'd missed out on Pat's first birthday, and her second birthday. His daughter wouldn't know him when he returned home.

Bede worried about his parents in Sydney who had endured the last five years with fortitude. James and Alice Smith had three sons in the military. As well as Bede, their middle son Noel had served in the North African campaign and was now in Borneo. Youngest son Kevin was a pharmacist with 17th Field ambulance in New Guinea and the Solomon Islands. Their daughter Nora worked for the government in Canberra, leaving youngest child Joan (Kevin's twin) as the only one at home.

Towards the end of May, Bede's Division relocated south to Almelo, a town in the eastern Netherlands, where they helped distribute food to the starving population. For the Dutch, after the famine and the flooding of parts of their country, the peace was sweet indeed. At a victory parade in The Hague on the 21st of May, Queen Wilhelmina was welcomed back from exile. Dutch red, white and blue flags flapped in the breeze, and the Canadians were hailed as heroes.

After breakfast on the 25th of May, Bede marched across the quadrangle and joined a queue of soldiers filing across the barracks' yard in Almelo. He stood with the morning sun warming his back, as the line inched slowly towards the entrance to a large canvas tent. Behind the perimeter fence, a flock of starlings roosting in a tree chirped loudly, reaching a celebratory crescendo.

When Bede reached the head of the queue, he paused at the entrance to wait his turn. A dozen officers were lined up in a row inside the tent, seated at makeshift tables, each with a pile of papers in front of him. The pug-faced lieutenant at the next available post looked up, raised his hand and summoned him forward. Bede sat opposite the lieutenant and handed over his completed questionnaire.

'I'm volunteering for the Pacific,' Bede said, confirming his intentions.
'Good to hear, Captain,' he said. 'We're short of dentists.'
'So I'll be in the Sixth Infantry?'
'Correct. All volunteers from Europe will be assigned to the Sixth.'
'What happens next?' Bede said.
'You'll be demobbed and sent back to Canada. Then you'll start training for jungle warfare. Very different from what you've been through here.'
'Yes. I have an inkling.' It was not a welcome prospect either – the heat, the rugged terrain, the tropical diseases.
'So, how long before we sail?'
'It could be a while yet, Captain. Word is, they're having trouble locating enough carriers to ship you guys back across the Atlantic.'

Bede's face broke into a broad smile, buoyed by the news. Chances were he'd be in Europe a while longer – time for a trip to Paris.

More than 60,000 volunteered for the Canadian Pacific Force. Bede spent another six weeks in Europe and visited Paris. He also inspected the remains of the massive German fortifications along the Atlantic Sea Wall. The beaches were still covered in barbed wire and discarded military hardware and the once palatial seaside hotels remained boarded up.

Bede sailed back to Canada, on the troopship SS Pasteur and disembarked in Halifax on the 7th of July, 1945. There was much talk among the soldiers on board as to how much longer Japan could hold out. He prayed that this next stage of combat could be averted.

Bede in the Canadian Army 1943

Capt Bede Smith, middle row seated on the left. Photo probably taken in the UK in 1943 or 1944

 The piece below is a first draft of a scene from my book about the life of Bede Smith

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Bound for Europe, 1943 

On 5 September 1943, Bede left the army transit camp in Windsor, Ontario and travelled by train to Halifax, where a carrier waited to transport the Canadian Fourth Armoured Division across the Atlantic. The SS Queen Elizabeth, had been stripped of its luxury fittings and converted into a troop ship. Repainted battleship grey, the modern ocean liner ran the Atlantic at high speed, zig-zagging to avoid encounters with enemy warships and U-boats. There were 13,000 personnel on board for the crossing. With so many troops, all needing to be berthed and fed, the operation was handled with military precision. Bede, like all the others, wore a coloured label indicating in which zone he was berthed. The ship's dining room held 2,000 and meals were served around the clock. No sooner had the last breakfast been served, than lunch began. After lunch the queues formed again for the first evening meal.

Six days after leaving Halifax, the ship landed safely in the United Kingdom. The invasion of Europe was imminent, but no one knew exactly when or where it would occur. All military intelligence was shrouded in secrecy. As it turned out, the Fourth Division would remain in the UK for another 10 months, undergoing rigorous training in an atmosphere of mounting tension.

Upon their arrival in Southampton, the Canadians were transported to a busy military camp in the town of Bordon, East Hampshire in the south of England. The once quiet country roads around Bordon growled with the flow of military vehicles coming and going. Situated in a picturesque landscape of rolling hills and lush green pastures, Bordon offered the troops some recreational opportunities off-base. Whenever he had the chance, Bede took a pass which allowed him to walk into the local town.

More than a month after arriving in Bordon, Bede was returning to barracks by foot along a winding country road. It was harvest time and the haystacks, piled high in the stubbled fields, were touched bronze by the setting sun. In the calm of the late afternoon, the only sound was his own footfall and the plaintive bleating of a lamb. Bede stopped along the road to inspect a flock of black-faced sheep curiously eyeing him from behind the hedgerow. Just then, true to form, a soft drizzle began to fall. The road became shiny and slick with oil residue – time to hurry back to barracks. He quickened his pace.

All of a sudden, came a loud rumble from behind. A vehicle bore down on him. There was a screech of brakes. Bede had no time to react before a truck loomed up and flung him side-ways into the ditch. He hit the ground with a thud, doubling over in pain.

A few yards up ahead the Bedford truck pulled over, its engine still running. A cloud of acrid smoke wafted back and Bede felt himself starting to retch. The driver leapt down from the truck cabin and ran back to where Bede sat dazed on the ground.

'Bloody hell. Sorry, mate. I didn't see you. That bend in the road. Are you OK?'
Bede looked down. The wool of his khaki army jacket was torn at the elbow. He tried to move and sit up, but winced in pain.
'Damn. It's my arm,' Bede said, a sharp tone to his voice.
His hand and arm had taken the full brunt of the fall. Blood congealed around a wound on his hand which was dirty with grit and gravel.
Bede tried to flex his hand.
'Ouch! Christ!'

The truck driver moved in closer. He was a pale, freckled young lad, with a cigarette hanging from his lower lip. He stared down at Bede and flicked his cigarette on the ground.
'Blimey. You're as white as a sheet.'
Bede sat up and moved his arm and shoulder again.
'I hope it's not broken,' he said, trying to remain civil.

Bede felt like he'd done ten rounds in the boxing ring and was down for the count. Finally he pulled himself up to his full height, shook himself off and straightened his uniform. The pants were soaked through from the muddy ditch.

At this point the driver, observing his rank, started up again.
'I'm dreadfully sorry, Captain.'
'Look. I'm OK.' This lad was starting to annoy him now.
'I'll take you to Bordon Camp.'
'That would make sense,' Bede said, a slight tone of sarcasm in his voice.

In the dwindling light they drove back to the army base. The driver attempted to make conversation, but Bede was occupied with his own thoughts. The injury weighed heavily on him. Some years previously, he had hurt himself playing cricket. Since then, he'd been plainly aware that his hands were his lifeline. Any accident could derail his future career in dentistry. And he hadn't even seen action in this war. He tried to put such bleak thoughts aside and remain calm.

It was dark by the time they saw the lights of Bordon Camp and drove through the security gates. Bede directed the driver to the front door of the hospital, where he hauled himself down from the truck and went indoors to find the duty doctor.

Hunger winter

Hunger Winter The Canadian Army slogged north through the harsh winter of 1944-5. Before them, the Germans had fled, leaving behind a population, reduced to squatting like rats in the rubble. My father Bede was with a field ambulance team in late 1944, when they approached a bombed-out town in northern Belgium. One of his jobs was to inspect the town and establish if any medical or other supplies had been left behind by the enemy. Snow had piled up beside the road leading into the town and two ragged bow-legged children were scrabbling in the rubbish, fighting over an apple core. Bede recoiled at the sight. The army trucks growled to a halt in the centre of town and Bede and a fellow officer jumped off. As they entered a side street, they caught a nasty whiff of stale urine, but the town seemed deserted. Half-way along, they found a boarded-up shop, displaying a sign that read: "niets in Winkel, alles in Kelder". The other officer looked at Bede. 'What does that say?' 'It means something like – "there's nothing in the shop, it's all in the cellar".' Bede pushed open the front door. 'Let's take a look.' Down a wooden ladder, they entered a basement where a frail old woman stood in the gloom. When she recognised them as Canadians, her face brightened. She pointed to a couple of dried-up potatoes on a shelf. Bede shook his head. 'Nee, danke.' The woman gestured, putting two fingers to her lips and blowing out. Bede rifled through his pockets, handed her a cigarette from his packet and bent over to light it for her. Their eyes connected and she gave him a wide grin, showing a row of nicotine-stained teeth. They nodded a farewell and started to back out towards the ladder. Outside, the two hollowed-out children they'd seen earlier were standing in wait. They must have had followed the convoy into town. Until the Army set up camp, they had nothing to give them. In the years to come, that time in Belgium and Holland would be referred to as the "hunger winter". My father never talked much about what he had witnessed there. Instead, he would berate us when we refused to eat our food and remind us of the starving children in war torn Europe.

The enemy bares his teeth

Northern Ontario near Monteith, frozen lakes and rivers. Photograph taken from the air, April 2016

The Enemy Bares his Teeth

Monteith is hardly the place you would choose to spend a winter. The town is located in the backwoods of northern Ontario, half way between Toronto and Hudson Bay. In the 1930s it recorded the province's coldest minimum ever, when the temperature dropped to 65 degrees Fahrenheit below zero. Yet, in November 1942, I was posted there to work as an Army dentist in a field hospital at the Monteith internment camp.

I farewelled my wife Marg in Toronto and, in the company of a few other officers, boarded a steam train for the 400 mile trip north. To keep us from freezing to death in the shaky wooden carriage, rudimentary heating was provided, but the wind still managed to penetrate the cracks beneath the doors. We hunkered down inside our great coats, played cards and smoked to relieve the monotony. It was a twelve hour journey through a snowy Christmas-card landscape pockmarked with frozen lakes, as white as the lunar surface.

Monteith had been chosen as the site of internment Camp 23, because of its remoteness and inaccessibility – there were no roads into the camp and no means for prisoners to escape. The camp was surrounded by forest and had a barbed wire perimeter fence and several watch towers. The place held around 1600 inmates, mostly German prisoners of war or enemy aliens. During the day some of the men were put to work cutting lumber, and hauling the logs to a nearby lumber mill, using horse-drawn carts.

On the first morning at Monteith I met my chair assistant, a bull-headed man, as strong as a Kodiak bear. His name was Fergus and he was one of the inmates.

'What's a chap called Fergus doing in a place like this?' I asked.

He replied in a broad Scottish accent, 'well Captain, it's a long story. The Allies picked me up on the Continent. When I couldn't establish my bona fides, they deemed me an enemy alien and I ended up here.'

'That's rotten luck. OK then Fergus, let's get started. Who's our first patient?'

'He's a wee lad Matrose Bochwoldt. Bochwoldt is one of the German POWs picked up from the Bismarck.'

The battleship Bismarck, the pride of the German fleet, had been hunted down and sunk in the Atlantic by the Royal Navy in May 1941. Only 115 German seamen were plucked from the icy waters – the remaining 2000 perished. Bochwoldt was one of the fortunate few to be rescued and sent to Canada.

Fergus spoke a few words of German and offered to act as my interpreter.

'Can you ask the patient about his symptoms?'

'Bochwoldt is complaining about soreness and swelling at the back of his lower jaw, on the left side.'

I looked into the patient's mouth and his fetid breath stung my nostrils. From this and the angry-red gum line, I could see that he had an impacted wisdom tooth, which had become infected.

'Fergus, can you tell the patient I will need to sedate him, cut into the gum and remove the impacted tooth.'

Bochwoldt's eyes darted and he looked somewhat alarmed at this news.

'Tell him that if he managed to survive the fiery inferno on the Bismarck, and the gale force winds and freezing waters of the North Atlantic, then this mere tooth extraction will be a breeze.'

Walking back to my hut at the end of the first day at Camp 23, I reflected on the strangeness of it all. Here I was, an Aussie, in the frozen wilds of Northern Canada, on the periphery of a war. I had chanced upon a bizarre mix of bedfellows – a Scottish enemy alien and a German seaman, a survivor of the most notorious naval battle of the war, thus far. Finally, I had come face to face with the enemy, and the enemy had barred his teeth, but the encounter was not quite what I had expected.

From the life of Bede James Smith. Based on an interview with Marg Smith in 1998. The names of the Scottish chair assistant and German prisoner-of-war are fictitious.

The Supreme Sacrifice

The following piece of my writing originally appeared in the Katharine Susannah Prichard (KSP) Past Tense Anthology in June 2016

The Supreme Sacrifice

Sgt Herbert Gerald (Bud) Baggs 1922–1943

My grandfather, Herbert Baggs, came through the Great Depression with his job intact. He was blessed. By 1939, his daughter (my mother) Marg had joined the workforce and her younger brother Gerald was in high school. At the end of the decade Grandpa and Nana Mollie settled into a grand new house in Toronto and life was rosy. But, with the war clouds drifting across Canada, his greatest crisis was on the horizon.

Herbert's only son Gerald was born in 1922, ten years into their marriage, when Mollie was 39. He was the longed-for son, who was always affectionately known as Bud. There was a gap of seven years between Bud and my mother. Marg doted on her adorable little brother. Bud grew into a tall lean lad, with brown wavy hair and hazel eyes. He was a superb swimmer and won several medals for the school swimming team.

Bud enlisted with the Royal Canadian Air Force (RCAF) in 1941, at the tender age of 19. He had no previous flying experience but, like many others, was keen to contribute his youth and energy to the cause. At his recruitment, the interviewing officer singled him out as potential officer material. He was streamed into the pressure-cooker pilot training program and worked his way through the system, serving 15 months at six different training locations in Canada. On 4 February 1943, Herbert and Mollie were proud to see their son's name printed in the daily newspaper – he had graduated as a RCAF pilot. No sooner did he have his wings, when he was assigned to train other recruits.

On 21 February 1943 Gerald wrote to his sister Marg:

Dear Marg,

Well here I am, still trying to be an instructor. What a job! All we do is fly around in light little biplanes which always feel like the motor is about to drop out. After flying twin engines at Brantford it is quite a letdown. But I am beginning to get used to them.

I got both your letters and your telegram. You will have to excuse me for not answering them sooner but they keep us pretty busy on this station. I always seem to be rushing somewhere ...

Has the weather been any better in Toronto lately? It has been pretty nice here for the last few days and today the sun is really warm. I sure hope it stays like this. Last week it was down to about 40 below and I just about froze to death.

Well, I have to start flying right now so I'll see you next weekend if the air force doesn't change its mind again.

Love,

Bud

P.S. how do you like my snappy personal stationery.

The Air Force posted Bud to the number Ten Elementary Flying Training School at Pendleton, Ontario in March 1943.

On the afternoon of 20 April 1943 Herbert and Mollie were at home listening to the radio, when there was a knock at the front door and Herbert went to open it. A solemn young military man was standing on the porch, with a telegram in his hand. With a sense of panic and dread an ashen-faced Herbert accepted the telegram and by the time he did so, Mollie had rushed up to his side. He closed the door behind the messenger, and somehow managed to steer Mollie into the lounge room.

The telegram confirmed their worst fears – Bud had been killed in a flying accident. There were no details, just the bare facts. His Tiger Moth plane had crashed on a training flight at 10.25am on the previous day in Curran, Ontario.

Herbert stared mutely at the telegram; his eyes scanned back and forth across the printed words, trying to take it in.

Mollie wailed, 'oh no, this can't be. My sweet boy.'

Herbert turned the telegram over in his hands. Such a small piece of paper.

'It doesn't make sense. He's only been up there three weeks.'

They sat in silence in the lounge room, until the light outside faded and the room grew dim. Herbert got up and went over to the front window and peered out. The ghostly blue spruce stood sentinel on their front lawn and beyond that their neighbour's granite wall glowed under the street light. He heard the low growl of an automobile engine starting up. Headlights shone and a car pulled out of the driveway opposite. Life in the neighbourhood continued on regardless. Herbert knew if he was to support Mollie through this, he would need to mine a deep reserve of inner strength.

Several days later, on 24 April 1943 the name of 21-year-old Sgt Herbert Gerald Baggs was printed in the Toronto Globe and Mail among the list of air casualties. He and four other Canadian airmen had made the supreme sacrifice on that day.

In May 1943 a Court of Inquiry investigated the flying accident. The enquiry provided no solace at all to Herbert and Mollie. It found that Bud was the pilot at the controls in the front seat of the Tiger Moth at the time of the accident. His student was in the back seat. The report laid it out bluntly:

On a practiced forced landing approach, the aircraft was put into a steep side slip and it stalled at a low altitude, and struck the ground before control could be regained. The pilot was killed and student seriously injured.

The cause of the accident, according to one witness, was – 'pilot error on part of instructor in allowing the aircraft to stall at a low altitude.'

We tend to hear about war deaths that result from combat; however a staggering number occurred as a result of accidents. My uncle was one of 856 persons to be killed or seriously injured during their air training in Canada. Wartime exigencies meant that everything about the air training program was conducted in haste. It seems incredible that two months after receiving his wings in February 1943, Bud was a trainer himself. But that was an indication of the pressure of training during war time.

Bud never married or had children and there are few around to tell his story. As one of his remaining family members, I am left with a deep sense of sorrow at so much unfulfilled promise in a life cut short. His young face is frozen for me in time – the bud that never flowered.

My grandfather never recovered from the catastrophe of losing his only son and a pall hung over the household. His health went into a decline and on 31 March 1946 Herbert died of a stroke. He was only 60. If he drew any comfort in his last years it must have come from knowing that his son had played his part in delivering supremacy to the Allies in the air war, which ultimately gave them victory. Sgt Herbert Gerald Baggs' gravestone carries the familiar inscription – 'at the going down of the sun and in the morning we will remember him'.