The only uniform I have ever worn was the classy red and blue serge outfit designed by Eaton's of Canada for the Eatonia town band. The Second World War began in 1939. When, at the age of 15, I made my first contribution to the war effort, I wore civilian clothing topped by a Brylcreemed ducktail. Pinned to my heavy jacket was the shining brass crest of the Royal Canadian Artillery, given to me by a brother who was with an anti-tank regiment somewhere in Italy. Serving the guns was his first steady job.
It was an uncertain time, the first time leaving home for a temporary stay somewhere else. The government had spoken and school boards were co-operating. High school students would be released from their classes to help with the harvest.
I went to a prosperous farm to drive a tractor. The ancient machine was a behemoth, a ponderous Hart-Parr, an unresponsive monster which gulped fuel and lubricating oil by the hogshead. Within days it was replaced by an orange LA Case, on rubber. It was easier to drive. The farmer on the combine was overjoyed at being able to buy it. The government had made that possible. It was part of the war effort.
The truck driver was an older man without wife or family, who had weathered the dirty thirties by finding farms where he could work for slim wages or room and board only. He had stories to tell. There was always an aching loneliness in them. In him, I saw what life might have been like for my brother had he been 10 years older. But at least the truck driver was alive. From minute to minute, I wondered about my brother.
The memories are very strong. I can visualize the farmhouse kitchen, smell the hearty food, feel the heat from the kitchen range. I can see colour creeping into a grey sky as the outfit was prepared for another long day in the field. I can recall the peculiar whine from the transmission of the orange Case. It triggered tunes in my head, over and over again, of the assembly line songs created as part of the war effort, to bolster civilian morale. Propaganda. I think this was my first inkling of how easily whole populations can be manipulated.
The most powerful recollections are those of the star-studded prairie sky turning into a void of uncertainty and of the soft voice of the truck driver competing with the guttering of the small sheet metal stove in the granary which we shared. Then I thought about girls. If the war continued for four more years, would I be alive to know the love of a woman? Would there be a marriage and children in my future or just another cross in a military cemetery? I began to see then all the fears and misfortunes of the common herd - of the truck-driver, my brother and ultimately my own -- as the result of leaders who could take their countries into bloody wars but could never find the road to permanent peace.
