Chapter
Eight
And now the Great War was upon us. How or when we received the news, I am not sure. We had a weekly newspaper, “The Winnipeg Free Press Prairie Farmer”. I remember my father, who studied world politics very closely, had been talking for some time about the war-clouds gathering over Europe; he felt that it was inevitable. Even so, it must have been a dreadful shock to him, and to Mother. They would realise, as I did not, that their sons would be drawn into it, and that their world would never again be the same. I here make a confession – I was young and foolish, with romantic ideas of the glory of war, and when we heard of the atrocities perpetuated on the Belgians and other innocent people, I became so worked up emotionally, I said to my mother, “I wish I were a boy. I would join the army, and go and fight them.” This silly boast was bad enough, but Mother was even more at fault for she repeated it to my brother Eustace! I heard her one night when I was in bed (in that little house, one could hear everything), and even then I knew she should not have said it. It was like daring him to go. No doubt, he would have enlisted anyway, but ever since I have had that burden on my heart – that he might have lived if it had not been for my braggadocio.
I have often wondered if Mother remembered that, and blamed herself. It was never mentioned, and I have not spoken of it till now. That Eustace would surely have gone in any case was proven by the fact that, while in Camp Sewell (footnote 1), [35] Manitoba, he accidentally broke a leg, and was laid aside for quite a time. As one leg was shorter than the other, and he limped, he would have been discharged. But, so determined was he to go that he had a lift put on one boot; the limp was not noticed, and he was sent overseas, and eventually to France. On his first time on duty in the trenches, a German shell struck and buried him, and some of his comrades. Eustace was taken out without a mark on him – killed by concussion. He was buried at Hill 60, near lake Zillebeke. That was a dreadful blow for my parents. He was a fine young man, a devout Christian, a deep thinker, and clever with electronics and music, far and away the best of all their children.
In the meantime, Cyril, thinking that Eustace would be discharged because of his broken leg, had also enlisted though only seventeen years old. With him went George Murray, Arthur Dean, Fred Atkins, Roland Tonkins, Gladstone Ferrie, and Charles Lockhart; all were in the same platoon of the 107th Battalion, training in Winnipeg. Those seven boys were able to stay together throughout the war years, and all came home again. It was a miracle really, but others from our district were not so fortunate.
Carrie Lockhart had married one of the young homesteaders, Peter Campbell Paterson, from Stone Point Scotland. He was one of a large family of boys (I believe ten) all of whom enlisted; Peter and Archibald Laughlin in the Canadian army, the rest with Scottish units. All but one were killed! Peter was blown to pieces, no remains were found. Carrie was left with three small children. She kept house for her brother, Charles, for a year or two after the war ended, then returned to Ontario to be near other relatives, and to give her children a better chance for an education.
In the meantime, my sister Nora had come back from Saskatoon, and had married one of the most eligible bachelors in the district, George Churchill. On January 3rd, 1916, they were united in marriage by Rev Niel Morrison in my parent’s home, with just the family present. How well I remember riding on horseback to their place in August of the same year to carry [36] the news of the death of our brother. Nora was then expecting her first child. When he was born the following February, she named him Eustace George, after his lost uncle and his father.
So now, in the midst of wartime, the two sons who knew anything about farming were gone. Leonard was in Winnipeg, a first-class chef in the big C N R hotel; he was at the top of his profession, but felt he was needed on the farm, so came home. As a farmer, he was a failure, but we muddled through somehow. By this time, we had a small herd of cows which was added to one by one; George Woods, who enlisted and asked us to take his four cows to look after, expecting to be back before long. He did not return, and his widow, who had returned to Ontario to wait for him, did not come west again. One of these cows was a very old pure-bred Jersey, the first cow of any particular breed to be on our farm. She was too old to calve again, but continued to give milk for a very long time, and it was VERY rich, yellow in the pail. There was no lack of pasture-land. Eric Freeland’s quarter section adjoined ours, and he was also in France; we ran the cattle on his land. Most of my time was spent in the saddle, taking them to pasture after the morning milking, and bringing them back at night. The cream was churned and the butter, in pound prints, shipped to Saskatoon for twenty cents a pound. Later on, we started to ship the cream in five gallon cans to Burn’s Creamery at Dauphin. This went by train each evening, and was our principal means of support, there being very little grain, and much of what there was had to be used as feed for cattle and horses. How we could have lived those first ten years on the homestead, I do not know, had it not been for money coming regularly from my maternal grandfather (footnote 2) in England, as well as clothing and other gifts from various aunts and uncles. I had four unmarried aunts, Father’s sisters (footnote 3), and they were very good to us in the matter of games, books and even pocket money so that, as a family, we were much better off than many of our neighbours who had to rely utterly on their own efforts (footnote 4). But many of them were farming folk from Ontario who knew better how to grow things, and how to care for livestock.
[37] Prices for produce were a little better in wartime, but goods we bought were also high, of course. Farmers were asked, and expected, to donate bags of grain to help European refugees, and we were glad to help, naturally. But it was pointed out, later on, that it should have been bought, and donated by the government so that ALL taxpayers would have contributed, not just farmers, but also those who were earning high wages at war industries. It has ever been so that farmers bear the brunt of troubles, get the least, work the hardest, and give the most. They cannot put their own price on their produce as other people do, but have to take whatever is offered – their goods are perishable, and cannot be held back for a better offer. And NEVER can they go on strike to draw attention to their plight.
Transcriber’s footnotes:
1. Presumably a training camp.
2. John Birch; he had helped T W Moores in business while in England – see T W Moores autobiography.
3. Maria, Emily, Annie and Louie Moores. It seems strange that none of the sisters had married.
4. I remember vividly how grateful my parents were for food parcels from Canada during the Second World War and the after years, so the Canadian family had followed a good example.
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