The Nova Scotia Book of Fathers Read online

  As we left the Cougar Dome, I asked Lachlan if he had enjoyed playing tennis enough to want to go back to play together again. He just grinned that cheeky grin I know so well that it’s like looking in the mirror. Then he nodded. I grinned back. “Same time, same place tomorrow?”

  Let the bonding begin!

  Siol Na Fear Fearail

  (The Breed Of Manly Men)

  An excerpt from Going Over: A Nova Scotian Soldier in World War I

  David Mossman

  While my father, Titus Milton Mossman, lived, our family never really learned how he earned his medals during World War I. It was as a twelve-year-old stowaway on board a schooner in Lunenburg that I learned a bit about those particular actions. The vessel had just returned from an early spring fishing trip to the Grand Banks. I went down to the waterfront to see him, for even in those late days of the cod-fishing business it remained a hub of activity. The place was always of high interest to men and a magnet to young boys – especially this one – for whom a big feed of gingerbread aboard ship was always a bonus, as were any old comic books left behind in bunks by the sailors.

  The following dramatized retelling of a conversation I was privy to on that occasion provides some flavour of those times. That conversation was, of course, thickly accented because Titus and his friends were most comfortable lapsing into the “deutschy” South Shore dialect. After all, Titus, a sixth-generation Canadian, was among the last locals who could speak the old German dialect of Lunenburg County. Nevertheless, when the occasion demanded, he could manage quite proper English. Picture it then: four fishermen, two of them, Henry and Titus, former soldiers of World War I; Eli, also on the far side of middle age, was saved from army life by virtue of two irredeemably flat feet. The fourth, Freddy, is a thirty-five-year-old veteran of World War II. All relax in the forecastle of a vessel moored at a Lunenburg wharf. It is very late on a day in mid-April 1950.

  “Any coffee left, Cook?” asks Eli, a big fellow slouched at the head of the table nearest the peak. Titus, the cook, getting up slowly, makes to roll up his sleeves only to discover they already occupy a position high on his brawny forearms. With a grunt, he leisurely makes his way back to the galley stove. No need to hurry now, his cleaning all done. The trip is over, they are in port, and their catch of “green” salted cod – the result of a two-month-long “frozen baitin’” trip to the Banks – safely discharged ashore.

  “For good measure,” Titus mutters to himself as he throws an extra handful of ground coffee into the huge coffee pot. Usually he allows coffee grounds to accumulate in the pot for about twenty-four hours. Good puritan that he is, the very same procedure is followed for tea. “Waste not, want not,” his mother Letitia taught him. Arriving from the dories after setting or hauling at the tail-end of winter on the Banks, hungry men drank the cook’s brew scalding hot – likely more for heat than for the taste. In any case, contests of any sort with a ship’s cook on a Grand Banks schooner were generally not the healthiest pastime for the instigator. A schooner’s cook was the equivalent of a noncommissioned officer, and in this role Titus, an inveterate disciplinarian, but by nature a sort of tribal creature, was thoroughly at home.

  Heavy porcelain mugs are pushed forward. In one of the upper bunks a boy rests unnoticed, apparently content with his comic books and a full stomach.

  “Anyone for a little somet’ing in theirs? How about you, Cook?” Freddy asks, reaching toward his bunk, eyes squinted against the smoke of a roll-your-own. He, too, has learned that it never hurts to humour the ship’s cook a bit and grant him particular respect. From beneath the tick in the bunk beside him, Freddy produces, as if by magic, a bottle of Old Demerara. A twenty-sixer, no less, all note with undisguised approval. With a grunt, this time one of thanks, Titus takes it, unscrews the top, and sloshes a generous portion into his mug. In turn the others follow suit.

  Returning to the galley with the pot, Titus sets it on the stove, adding a shovelful of coal to the fire before returning to the table. The coal dust’s sudden burning crackle diminishes quickly. On the table the bottle remains, prominently masculine. The pervasive smell of tar and manila rope blends in with the antique scent of meals long since devoured.

  “Ah, not’ing like a hot toddy or two!” exclaims Freddy.

  “Or t’ree,” puts in Eli, adding, “This was one of the poorest trips I ever made. Under a hundert t’ousand pounds, what’s not even t’ousand quintel. Hardly can make a go of it at this rate – might be my last trip. I’m feeling pretty well used up.”

  “T’ank God the weather held ’til we made it in,” replies Henry, lighting up. “Still for all, there was times I wasn’t too sure we’d make it in as it was.” Then, almost as an afterthought, “I give it another year or so an’ there won’t be no more salt fishin’ a-tall anymore.”

  “Look o’ here, you, you’re right. You just have to look around. Soon there won’t be no spars a-tall left in this ship, they’ll have ’em all sawed off.” Then, indicating the rum, Titus continues, “Time was when we could get as much of that as we wanted.”

  “You mean back during the Depression,” Henry offers, making do now with straight rum, and passing the bottle along to the Titus.

  “Yeh, there were some slow times for fish on the Banks ’round ’bout then. I went rumrunnin’ for a while, but never made no money … bein’ only the cook and all. Then we got hauled in back in about ’26. Coast Guard caught us makin’ a drop off o’ Boston. Spent some time for that in Sin’ Sin’ down in the States, in Ossinin’, close to New York, that was. That old jail was some fun, you. But I was only the cook, so they left me off after two, t’ree weeks. But they hung on to the wheelhouse boys a lot longer. They weren’t so lucky.”

  “I crewed on the Reo a couple o’ seasons,” says Henry, looking over at Titus. “Your brudder-in-law Spinney was a lucky one. He was captain. We never got caught. She was a fine boat for runnin’, wasn’t nothin’ on the water could come close to keepin’ up wit’ her. Made some good money there for a while. Spinney, he spent like crazy. Learnt enough French to get the girls in Saint Pierre. ‘Voulie-voo promenar avec moi?’ was all he used to say to ’em … and away they’d go! They was like bees around honey, couldn’t hardly shake ’em off.

  “Reo, she had twin diesels into her. I remember one trip out of Saint Pierre, Coast Guard gave chase off o’ Bar Harbor, but couldn’t catch up. We kept well ahead of ’em, runnin’ full out for ’bout ten minutes or so. Slung a pile of lead at us, though. We was only ’bout t’ree quarters of a mile ahead at one point. Bullets splashin’ alongside the transom, an’ Spinney, he just sits there laughin’ away like hell, an’ wavin’ at ’em, you! Good t’ing then, we found a nice t’ick fog bank and lost ’em altogether.”

  “Well, you wouldn’t want to go through that every day of the week,” says Freddy. “Spinney was just plain lucky, that’s all. Some experiences you don’t get to have twice. I saw that often enough in Sicily.”

  “Too bad he didn’t make it overseas. Guess he must o’ bin too young, hey, Cook?” replies Henry, looking over at Titus. “We could o’ used him over there.”

  “You mean the first one?” interrupts Freddy, spoiling for a good story to help make his stay on board with the older hands worthwhile.

  “There’s a good many I’d never want to live over, I can tell you,” says Titus, ignoring Freddy. A resounding rumble of agreement about the table is followed by the inevitable question, this time from Eli.

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, I’m t’inkin’. It was a long time ago now,” says Titus.

  “I was in the Sicily campaign in the last one – in signals, I was in signals,” interrupts Freddy.

  “The gas,” says Henry, ignoring Freddy.

  “The gas,” echoes Titus.

  “And mud.”

  “And mud.”

  “And holes in the ground for beds. An’ rats runnin’ around everywhere, over your face at night, keepin’ you company, and …”<
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  “And who was responsible for the whole mess in the first place?” says Freddy.

  “I heard that men in the ranks didn’t have much responsibility, ’cept to do as they’re told,” says Eli.

  “That’s responsibility, isn’t it?” growls Titus, with a fearsome scowl.

  “What outfit were you wit’, Henry?” Eli asks then.

  “Same as the cook. We was in the 85th Battalion, Nova Scotia Highlanders, the cook and me,” says Henry. “We got our start at Vimy, saw a lot of action, and ended up in Mons, in Belgium, on the last day. We joined up in the fall of 1915. Bein’ from around here, we both ended up in the same Company.”

  “And somehow we survived to today,” says Titus, warming to the subject, a haze of smoke by now fairly filling the forecastle. “But the t’ing I can never understand is why I never got it … you got yours, Henry, worth a trip acrost to Blighty [England] … once, or twice I t’ink it was, wasn’t it?”

  “Twice,” answers Henry, indicating in turn his left shoulder and left leg. “The corners we got into! But you was some lucky. Not a scratch on you, an’ that after two years at the front. An’ a feller didn’t get a whole lot o’ time off either.”

  “What was the closest call you ever had, Cook?” asks Freddy.

  “You remember about the D-Q Line. Tell ’em about when we broke through the D-Q Line, Cook,” urges Henry. “Cook won a bunch of medals in the war. He was a Company Sergeant Major.”

  “The closest? Well, it’s kind o’ hard to say, because there were more than a few times I could o’ bought it.” Titus takes his time lighting up a Players tailor-made. “Scarpe was a tough go. We lost a lot o’ good men, an’ I really figgered my time had come. We was up against the Hindenburg Line, an’ t’ings got pretty bad. Anyways, we had a rough time o’ it. Worst t’ing was we had used up all our Stokes mortars early on and that allowed Fritz to work his guns more freely.” Titus pauses, collecting his thoughts.

  “Machine guns?” asks Freddy.

  “Yes, there was a bunch of Fritzies workin’ a couple o’ machine guns from a dugout in a sap. That’s to say, a for’ard-runnin’ trench, on the south side of Dury. An’ they was doin’ some awful dirty work. They had to be taken out, somehow. So me an’ another feller volunteered, sort o’ quick an’ not really t’inkin’. Didn’t know no better, you, young, and more than half-crazy, I guess. Stupid really, more like. Talk about the t’ings we did!

  “Anyways, I took some Mills bombs … an’ a feller we called Charlie, from up in the Valley – him an’ me, we set out, while what was left of the platoon kept up the pressure. We figgered, if we could get close enough to the nest, we might get the job done. Well, before I knew it I was all alone. Charlie was down an’ – but I had somehow made it right up to the dugout. No Mills bombs left, so wit’out hardly t’inkin’, you, to hell wit’ it, I charged right in there wit’ ’em, jumped inside. Only had my rifle. They was busy fittin’ fresh belts of ammo on their guns. So I shout at ’em: ‘Händen auf! Up wit’ your hands!’ an’ at the same time I’m wavin’ behind me for others to come in and back me up … even though nobody was behind me a-tall! Anyways, it fooled ’em.

  “‘Nicht schiessen! Nicht schiessen! Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!’ they hollered, throwin’ their hands in the air. I didn’t waste no time gettin’ ’em outside an’ back to our line, I can tell you. It was only while marchin’ ’em back that I saw that I was carryin’ an empty rifle.” Titus shakes his head slowly in disbelief, the experience still fresh in his mind after more than thirty years. “Not a shell left in the t’ing! The clip was right empty … an’ there was none up the spout either! I felt pretty small there for a while marchin’ back, I can tell you. Good t’ing their backs was turned, you. Talk about luck!”

  “How many of them were there?” asks Freddy.

  “Five or six … I t’ink it was,” Titus slowly replies, lost for the moment in a distant memory of a forgotten war.

  During that forgotten war, 60,661 or 9.28 percent of those Canadians enlisted were killed. The odds of being killed were one for every eleven who signed up. During World War II the odds were only one for every twenty-six, and Canadian fatal casualties totalled 41,992 or 3.86 percent. In the 85th Canadian Infantry Battalion, Nova Scotia Highlanders, out of 1,115 men, the so-called “wastage” totalled 611 fatalities (listed by name in the regiment’s War Diary), a figure which appreciably exceeded the Canadian average. That wastage left shattered souls of many survivors in a state of no return. A physically unscathed survivor, Titus too paid a steep price for his acclaimed status as a “war hero.”

  Post-war, within the small conservative community of Rose Bay, Titus was known as a hard worker, a disciplinarian, and thoroughly set in his ways. Although always ready to lend a hand to someone in need, he was not one to be pushed about. It was generally acknowledged that he had a “short time fuse.” But he was ever ready to stand up on principle for the underdog. He was also regarded as a solid family man of the times, being a reliable breadwinner and in some respects a community leader. But life long, he was haunted by his experiences on the Western Front.

  Smouldering after-effects on surviving soldiers and by extension their families must figure into any realistic cost-benefit analysis. The psychological cost of Titus’s learning to kill exacted a toll and that not only in his dark recurring nightmares. His wartime memories shaped his response to everyday household events. Battlefield instincts, which served him so well in the past, burst through the veneer of everyday life from time to time. At home, common accidents such as burning toast or the sudden noisy smashing of a dish, or dishes, would trigger an eruption of verbal and physical fury. One may imagine that these events are firmly imprinted upon the memories of a subsequent generation, in a form of inheritable posttraumatic stress disorder. Like shell shock, there were lasting physiological impacts. It was extremely unsettling for all involved, especially for children, walled in by such crises and unpredictability.

  Mother’s efforts to chide Titus for his rage were invariably counterproductive. Good Christian soldier that she was, I must suppose she didn’t quite appreciate where he had been and what he had gone through. Her counterattacks led to viciously sustained and high-volume verbal jousts between the two of them.

  On the worst such occasions, Titus followed up the argument by vehemently uttering threats to do himself in. Some pretty realistic scenarios were proposed. One was to drown himself in our cesspool (as a septic tank was known in those days). Such was the intensity of Titus’s fits and the depths of his doubts and despondencies that on one occasion in the late 1950s, when he failed to appear for our precise five o’clock suppertime, I was delegated in the dark of early evening to check the cesspool to see whether he had jumped in. He never did. But he had done most of the pick and shovel work to create the thing. He knew that it was over six feet deep. And he was no swimmer.

  In hindsight one can speculate whether, despairing of his future, Titus was reminded of the bloody bogs of No Man’s Land which he had somehow survived, and for what? Of course, it never occurred to me as a child to think of this, and of possible connections to my father’s wartime experiences, particularly as that past was largely hidden.

  Titus rarely spoke of the horrors of trench warfare, but they were never far from the fathomless reservoir of his memory. One typical flashback occurred in the Harbour-view Cemetery in Upper Rose Bay, where he would later be buried. In Rose Bay, family members regularly walked down to the shore where we kept a small boat. My brother George recalls once when, accompanied by Titus, he was warned in no uncertain terms not to pick berries in the cemetery.

  “No berries! No! No! You can’t eat any of those berries. It’s not right. Not from the cemetery! You shouldn’t do that,” Titus tried to explain to his young son, remembering the grim realities of the killing fields of France and Flanders. His moral witness was not that of an innocent civilian. His eyes saw other things than a simple berry patch on a burial ground. As
an ordinary soldier he had endured week after week in the bowels of cemeteries, in fetid trenches surrounded by cadavers in various stages of decay. Time and again he had seen comrades killed, had helped in their burials at night, only to find them unearthed during some later bombardment. The dismembered and thoroughly mixed mortal remains of those unfortunate souls were in due course committed to mass graves, with belated blessings, like those at Essex Farm in Flanders Fields. For the sake of appearances, however, those grisly harvests are now properly marked by carefully spaced individual tombstones.

  He well remembered his best friend Billy. It was at Horse Shoe Trench in late June 1917 that Billy was lost, an event that probably took some of the shine off any pride of promotion Titus may have experienced up to that point. He never talked a great deal about the war, but he told this story willingly enough, though hesitatingly.

  “Billy was one o’ my very best friends. It was at the Horse Shoe, right by the Souchez River. We was piped over the top, just like usual. We had gone over t’ree times in two days, you. You got to hand it to the boys. Back and forth acrost No Man’s Land, attack, retreat, an’ then counterattack. It was kill or be killed. We was like wild animals then. Only later when it was over could we loaf about in the rear, an’ play the fool.

  “But all hell had broken loose. It was late afternoon an’ we was pushin’ on under cover of our artillery. I remember Billy runnin’ along just ahead a bit an’ off to one side when, just like that, I seen the top of his head peel off right above his eyes. Funny, but it was just like in slow motion, you. Billy, he just kept right on runnin’ for a couple of steps, his blood an’ brains flyin’ all over. There was no stoppin’ to help. But it was a hard t’ing to see him like that. What could a man do? It was shrapnel that did it. There was no shortage of that. Come out of nowhere.”