Lovely War, What?

My father's promising career as a wire-bender at a factory in an Irish ghetto in Northern England came to an abrupt end when World War II broke out. He ended up staying in the army until he jumped out of one too many airplanes at very low altitudes and became disabled, in the 1950s. For his efforts in the Big War and beyond, he won a total of four medals. Three of those medals recognized his amazing ability to not get shot.

The fourth, the Burma Star, recognized his ability to survive, without getting shot, the British Plan to Rout the Bloody Japanese in the Sub-Continent, which pretty much consisted of a fellow with a double-barreled name who was manor raised in Little Humping on the Heath, in Surrey, saying:

"Yes, well, this is it, isn't it chaps? India, actually. Lovely. Grab your kit. Have you got your guns, and those things that go in them? Yes, bullets, actually. And, the pointy things. Yes, bayonets, actually. Lovely. Well, we'll be back in, shall we say 1945 or 1946? Yes? Lovely. Have a nice war. Don't forget to write. Lovely. Single file, and watch your step please, we don't want you getting hurt before you're off the boat, do we? Hah, hah, hah. No, we don't. Whizbang war, what? Lovely, actually."

I only tell you this so that you can properly understand the events of 1971. The United States was at war with, oh, all of Southeast Asia, not to mention their backers, the Godless Communists. Dear Old Dad, seeing that they couldn't even agree on the shape of the table to be used at the Paris Peace Talks, was pretty much convinced that, since the war was going so well for everyone, and they were enjoying it so much (the people running it-not the people fighting it), that it would probably go on for another 10 or 20 years or so, and that Canada would, inevitably, be dragged into it by some modern version of the chap from Little Humping on the Heath.

He was also fully aware that I was a total klutz, and that Basic Training would, basically, leave me totally unqualified to win even a single medal for my ability to not get shot. Hence I was shuffled off to serve HRH Elizabeth II, by the Grace of God Defender of the Faith, Queen of England, Canada, the Commonwealth and all the other bits of the world that she had invaded and had not yet lost back to the locals, in the capacity of Airman, in the Royal Canadian Air Force Cadets. My copies of Alice's Restaurant, Where Have All the Flowers Gone, and everything by Donovan were mothballed in favour of John Philip Sousa marches.

My efforts to serve Queen and Country, and learn how not to get shot, consisted of one night a week of marching in quadrangles while dressed in a woolen uniform that the Brits had donated from their supply of "Uniforms, Ridiculously Heavy" which were left over from the Napoleonic Wars, while carrying a Lee Enfield rifle (re-bored to a .22, so we wouldn't hurt ourselves too badly) that weighed about 27 pounds, or one third of my body weight at the time. Our commandant, who had only served for six months at the end of the war, and had never made it further east than Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, was convinced that a well-coordinated 30 man marching unit, executing crisp right-dress maneuvers was just the thing to strike fear into the hearts of millions of godless, pajama-clad heathens who would bow down before us as we approached through the jungle heat in our Napoleonic War winter woolies, and allow us to take Hanoi without firing a shot.

Our marches were led by an 18 year old Nazi who had the shiniest boots and brightest brass in all of Christendom, who thought that everyone should learn to play the bagpipes, and whose personality disorder precluded him from entering the real army. I believe that he is now a priest.

We marched for hours and hours in a sweltering gymnasium and, when we failed to meet the Nazi's expectations, we were made to stand at attention until at least one kid fainted. All of this was ably led, at the Nazi's direction, by Sergeant Major Alfred Major. I wouldn't kid you about having a Sergeant Major Major and, had I but read Catch 22 by that age, I would have seen the irony and realized where my military career would likely end up.

I can tell you that those of us who didn't go AWOL and flee to Sweden were turning into a mighty mean, steely-eyed group of 80 pound warriors.

The winter of 1971 was one of the worst in the history of the area. I grew up in a town about 90 miles south of the Alaska panhandle, and we had about 500 inches of snow that year. As you can well imagine, this was deemed to be the perfect setting for our training in survival camping-a true test of how well we would handle ourselves in the steamy jungles of Vietnam.

We were trucked to a remote valley (as if the town in which we lived was not remote enough) and deposited, clad in our "Uniforms, Ridiculously Heavy" (and bloody cold), clutching our ridiculously heavy and useless Lee Enfields and boxes marked "C Rations", which were filled with such culinary delights as "Crackers, Soda" and "Paste, Meat", and left to fend for ourselves.

I ditched the C Rations in short order, in favour of a lovely moose steak that I cadged from the dear Mrs. Potter, a farm lady who lived in the area. I was caught, of course, and nearly drummed out of the Brownies for failing to starve on the "C Rations" that they had provided, until dear Papa noted that "Survival Training", by its very nature, had no rules. As he was the only member of the command who had actually served in a war he was, after due consideration, deemed to be the person who was, most probably, a little bit more up on these things than the others, and they deferred to his judgment. I finished my moose steak while they debated it, and swore faithlessly not to cadge any more food from the farmhouse. He could not, or would not, save me from having to sleep in a hole in the snow, created by a huge fir tree.

Thankfully, in time, I developed a serious malady that precluded things like marching, and I was disabled out of HRH's service forever. I had already decided to forego camping for a few decades.

All of which brings me to this weekend. As you read this, I will, once more, be camping. In my new tent trailer. My new trailer is just slightly smaller than Rhode Island. It is the biggest damned tent trailer currently on the market, and is fitted with a washroom, fridge, stove, oven, microwave and sound system. It has roof mounted air conditioning, and electrically heated mattresses. It has a winch that raises and lowers the roof, so that I don't have to put my cocktail down and run the risk of misplacing it.

In short, it looks almost nothing like a hole in the snow under a fir tree. None of the food that I have stocked it with is left over from World War Two. My uniform looks remarkably like a Hawaiian shirt. I will not be armed.

I believe that my survival skills have served me well. I can pick out a trailer as well as anyone I know. To date, I have been completely successful in my efforts to not get shot.

But, I don't think I'll be getting a medal.