Veteran's tales of overseas Christmas
Hyack @ Sun Dec 21, 2008 3:08 pm
There was no Christmas truce during the Second World War.
Unlike Dec. 25, 1914, troops weren't given an opportunity to lay down their weapons to play soccer with the enemy - a brief reprieve from the brutal trench warfare that claimed millions of lives in the First World War.
Staggering death tolls were also amassed between 1939 and 1945 as six of the holidays passed. Of the soldiers who came back, experiences range from heart-warming to catastrophic.
Three veterans, volunteers of the Dominion Institute's Memory Project, share their stories of Christmas past.
George MacDonell, 86, Toronto
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On Christmas Day, 1941, George MacDonell was certain he was going to die.
He was desperately tired. For three weeks, he and the other members of the Royal Rifles of Canada had been fighting the well-equipped Japanese army in Hong Kong.
On Dec. 25, though food and munitions were running low, D-Company was ordered to attack a village that had just been captured by the Japanese.
It's with plain language he describes that decision today: "A terrible, terrible mistake... Futile."
Under a hot sun, the Canadians moved in, fighting - sometimes hand-to-hand - from the early afternoon until dusk.
"There was no thought of Christmas," said the Listowel, Ont., native.
"There was just a thought of surviving for a few more hours under continual attacks and counter-attacks from the Japanese. It was a dreadful sort of chaotic bloodbath, and nothing else.
"The only thoughts were of staying alive for yet another day."
Eventually, every Canadian soldier was either killed or captured. MacDonell was forced into slave labour, working in underground mines and shipyards until 1945.
Christmas during his years as a PoW was heart-wrenching.
"Our only emotions were about our families," he said.
For the first year or so, the Japanese refused to tell the Canadian government whether anyone had survived, he said.
"Each Christmas was a very painful time for us. There was absolutely nothing happy about the Canadian experience in the Pacific."
Now living in Toronto, were he became a prominent businessman and then a deputy minister in the Ontario government, MacDonell says he has no regrets.
"The story is not about how (we) were defeated by a superior enemy, but how (we) behaved under impossible circumstances," he said.
"While Canadians lost the battle of Hong Kong, they showed the world the mettle of which they were made.
"We can be proud of those young men. They never gave up and they never surrendered."
He was desperately tired. For three weeks, he and the other members of the Royal Rifles of Canada had been fighting the well-equipped Japanese army in Hong Kong.
On Dec. 25, though food and munitions were running low, D-Company was ordered to attack a village that had just been captured by the Japanese.
It's with plain language he describes that decision today: "A terrible, terrible mistake... Futile."
Under a hot sun, the Canadians moved in, fighting - sometimes hand-to-hand - from the early afternoon until dusk.
"There was no thought of Christmas," said the Listowel, Ont., native.
"There was just a thought of surviving for a few more hours under continual attacks and counter-attacks from the Japanese. It was a dreadful sort of chaotic bloodbath, and nothing else.
"The only thoughts were of staying alive for yet another day."
Eventually, every Canadian soldier was either killed or captured. MacDonell was forced into slave labour, working in underground mines and shipyards until 1945.
Christmas during his years as a PoW was heart-wrenching.
"Our only emotions were about our families," he said.
For the first year or so, the Japanese refused to tell the Canadian government whether anyone had survived, he said.
"Each Christmas was a very painful time for us. There was absolutely nothing happy about the Canadian experience in the Pacific."
Now living in Toronto, were he became a prominent businessman and then a deputy minister in the Ontario government, MacDonell says he has no regrets.
"The story is not about how (we) were defeated by a superior enemy, but how (we) behaved under impossible circumstances," he said.
"While Canadians lost the battle of Hong Kong, they showed the world the mettle of which they were made.
"We can be proud of those young men. They never gave up and they never surrendered."
Charles Goodman, 82, North Saanich, B.C.
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Despite omnipresent danger, tasteless bully beef and hardtack rations in the field, and nearly dying of pneumonia one year, Christmas in the army was the only place Charles Goodman wanted to be in his youth.
Having left home in Saint John any lying about his age so he could enlist in 1943, the 15-year-old found joy and escape from unhappy family life in military camaraderie.
Sent to B.C. to defend against a feared Japanese attack during his first military Christmas, Goodman recalls the town of New Westminster opening its doors to feed and fete every soldier on the festive day.
Later in his 34-year career with the forces, Goodman joined the tradition of serving turkey to the troops in 1951 as an officer at a Canadian reinforcement depot in Japan.
In 1959, he recalls being awed by the celebrity appearance of Swedish boxing champion Ingmar Johansson while peacekeeping in the Gaza Strip.
And he still laughs at the "sorriest Christmas tree I had ever seen," ordered from Norway in an attempt to cheer his family in the early 1960s, when they were living with him at a military academy in Ghana. His eight-year-old son took one look and burst into tears.
"I hate this tree, I hate this country, I want to go back to Canada where they have real Christmas trees," he recalls his son saying.
Perhaps the most memorable Christmas was when he nearly faced a court martial.
It was stalemate in Nijmegen, Holland, in 1944. Having been "lippy" to a superior officer, he and another young soldier were left alone to guard a ration depot while the troops were treated to a yuletide lunch.
"Soldiers could get into mischief, and we did," he laughed.
Rounds of "good ol' army rum" and rare candy treats - pinched from the kitchen rations - was how they made merry.
It must have been a surge of Christmas spirit that spared them, Goodman said, because the "livid" sergeant major eventually withdrew the more serious punishment for a stern verbal lashing.
Having left home in Saint John any lying about his age so he could enlist in 1943, the 15-year-old found joy and escape from unhappy family life in military camaraderie.
Sent to B.C. to defend against a feared Japanese attack during his first military Christmas, Goodman recalls the town of New Westminster opening its doors to feed and fete every soldier on the festive day.
Later in his 34-year career with the forces, Goodman joined the tradition of serving turkey to the troops in 1951 as an officer at a Canadian reinforcement depot in Japan.
In 1959, he recalls being awed by the celebrity appearance of Swedish boxing champion Ingmar Johansson while peacekeeping in the Gaza Strip.
And he still laughs at the "sorriest Christmas tree I had ever seen," ordered from Norway in an attempt to cheer his family in the early 1960s, when they were living with him at a military academy in Ghana. His eight-year-old son took one look and burst into tears.
"I hate this tree, I hate this country, I want to go back to Canada where they have real Christmas trees," he recalls his son saying.
Perhaps the most memorable Christmas was when he nearly faced a court martial.
It was stalemate in Nijmegen, Holland, in 1944. Having been "lippy" to a superior officer, he and another young soldier were left alone to guard a ration depot while the troops were treated to a yuletide lunch.
"Soldiers could get into mischief, and we did," he laughed.
Rounds of "good ol' army rum" and rare candy treats - pinched from the kitchen rations - was how they made merry.
It must have been a surge of Christmas spirit that spared them, Goodman said, because the "livid" sergeant major eventually withdrew the more serious punishment for a stern verbal lashing.
Len Whiffen, 86, Halifax
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During their off hours, even when the Navy men had reprieve from duties, rest did not come easy.
Nestled in swaying hammocks as the Royal Army's minelaying ship listed side to side in the North Atlantic, visions of sugar plums danced far from their heads.
Knowing fire could come from any angle, the 300-strong crew feared they were sleeping on a time bomb.
Yet on that first Christmas away from home for Len Whiffen, a 17-year-old from Newfoundland who joined the forces in 1940, disaster never did arrive.
Instead came gloves and socks knit especially for soldiers on the seas by strangers back home. Even better was the spiced Christmas cake, stuffed with bits of candied fruit, sent by the mother of Whiffen's Australian mate.
"He shared that cake with about 20 people in the mess aboard the ship, he shared it with all his buddies. I always remember that," Whiffen said. "He shared ... with people he hardly knew."
It was during the following year, just before Whiffen's second wartime yuletide, the feared blast came. Cruising the waters just north of Scotland, a Focke-Wulf German bomber attacked.
"We scrambled, the ship rocked and rolled a few times back and forth," he said. "But the bomb went out the other end and never exploded in the ship."
It was a blessing in disguise, as there was no casualties but the boat itself. It had to be towed into Belfast. Unexpectedly, Whiffen found himself with a seven-day leave just in time for the holidays.
He and a buddy passed the holiday in England, singing carols around a piano in a home strung corner to corner with handmade tissue-paper bells.
Though the men were finally on solid ground, aerial bombardment continued through Christmas dinner.
"Every time a wave of planes went over to bomb, you had to duck underneath the table when you were eating, in case a bomb fell into the house."
Nestled in swaying hammocks as the Royal Army's minelaying ship listed side to side in the North Atlantic, visions of sugar plums danced far from their heads.
Knowing fire could come from any angle, the 300-strong crew feared they were sleeping on a time bomb.
Yet on that first Christmas away from home for Len Whiffen, a 17-year-old from Newfoundland who joined the forces in 1940, disaster never did arrive.
Instead came gloves and socks knit especially for soldiers on the seas by strangers back home. Even better was the spiced Christmas cake, stuffed with bits of candied fruit, sent by the mother of Whiffen's Australian mate.
"He shared that cake with about 20 people in the mess aboard the ship, he shared it with all his buddies. I always remember that," Whiffen said. "He shared ... with people he hardly knew."
It was during the following year, just before Whiffen's second wartime yuletide, the feared blast came. Cruising the waters just north of Scotland, a Focke-Wulf German bomber attacked.
"We scrambled, the ship rocked and rolled a few times back and forth," he said. "But the bomb went out the other end and never exploded in the ship."
It was a blessing in disguise, as there was no casualties but the boat itself. It had to be towed into Belfast. Unexpectedly, Whiffen found himself with a seven-day leave just in time for the holidays.
He and a buddy passed the holiday in England, singing carols around a piano in a home strung corner to corner with handmade tissue-paper bells.
Though the men were finally on solid ground, aerial bombardment continued through Christmas dinner.
"Every time a wave of planes went over to bomb, you had to duck underneath the table when you were eating, in case a bomb fell into the house."