Not All of Us Were Brave

Stanley Scislowski

• Publisher: Dundurn Press
• Year: 1997
• eBook ISBN: 9781459713345
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: Military Biographies
• Index: History

This is the story of a young man's journey through World War II. It covers a wide cross section of the strengths and weaknesses of young men not attuned to killing, and not mentally prepared to face the horror of seeing their close friends die violent deaths in battle. The story is about the hopes, the prayers, the fears, the daily miseries and even the lighter moments that the aspiring heroes of the Perth Regiment experienced on the Italian front as part of 11th Infantry Brigade, 5th Canadian Armoured Division.

As the title suggests, from his first battle inoculation Private Stan Scislowski realizes he is not destined for the heroic role to which he once aspired. His fears affect him deeply: his burning dream of returning home a national hero becomes more and more improbable, and his attempts to come to terms with his un-heroic nature make the war as much a mental battle as a physical one. His story is much like that of the overwhelming number of Canadians who found themselves in the cauldron of war, serving their country with all the strength they could find, even when that strength was fading fast.

Not All of Us Were Brave focuses not on the heroes, but on the ordinary soldiers who endured the mud, the misery, the ever-present fear, the inspiration, and the degradation. The narrative holds nothing back: the dirty linen is aired along with the clean; the light is shown alongside the dark. It shows what war is all about.

CHAPTER 1

FROM THE HOLDING UNIT
TO THE PERTHS

My hometown is Windsor, Ontario, home base of the Essex Scottish Regiment. So then, the reader might ask, “How come you ended up with a Stratford based unit?” Well, here’s the story:

If you were a draftee like I was, arriving overseas in 1943 you’d more than likely spent a couple of months in a holding unit in Aldershot Military District, which takes in a fairly large chunk of Hampshire County, England. After more training—actually a repetition of what you had in an advanced infantry training camp in Canada—you’d then be assigned to an infantry battalion of your choice. But for various reasons things didn’t always work out that way—as I soon found out, much to my sorrow. You might just as well end up in any one of the other forty or so Canadian infantry battalions overseas. Chances were better, though, that you’d be assigned to a regiment from the military district in which you were sworn in. In my case, when draft day arrived I had a choice of either going to the Essex Scottish, the Highland Light Infantry of Canada, the Royal Canadian Regiment or the Perths. I’ll tell you the sad story, or at least I thought it was sad at the time, of how I ended up with the Perths, and it certainly wasn’t my first choice! In fact it wasn’t my choice at all.

More than five hundred men of No. 3 CIRU (Canadian Infantry Reinforcement Unit) formed up on the grey, overcast Wednesday morning of August 4, 1943, waiting to find out to which unit each of us would be assigned. It was a day we’d all been eagerly awaiting ever since we set foot in Aldershot. The two training companies quartered in Salamanca and Badajoz Barracks were made up mostly of men from Windsor and District and neighbouring Kent County, so it was only natural that they should want to end up in the ranks of the Windsor-based Essex Scottish Regiment, and I was one of those.

The major in charge of the drafting procedure, assisted by the RSM (regimental sergeant-major) instructed us to form up on the marker representing a certain regiment, when that regiment’s name was called out. Simple enough. So, when the RSM barked out, “Fall out on the Essex Scottish marker!” the stampede was underway. More than three quarters of the parade broke ranks and went thundering across the square. From my position in the company formation I couldn’t help but be well back, and though I could run faster than most of the fellows I couldn’t get through the solid wall of khaki barring my way. By the time I jostled and shouldered my way to where I was able to form up, I found myself well down from the marker. But I didn’t think it would matter—we’d all be going to the Essex. Not so.

Then the RSM and the major counted files. And what do you know but they stopped counting about twenty files from where I stood. All those to the right of where the count ended had to go back to our original formation, now depleted considerably. I was one of the unlucky ones. It would be no Essex Scottish Regiment for me. I was devastated. All my hopes and dreams came crashing down. What a letdown!

I wasn’t the only one deeply disappointed. There had to be at least a couple hundred other guys like myself with long, hangdog expressions on their faces, every one of us crying the blues, moaning over the fact that we’d end up in a regiment not of our choosing. “How could they do this to us?” was the general feeling throughout as we waited for the next regiment name to be called out.

Second choice for most of the remainder seemed to be the Highland Light Infantry. So when the next “Fall out!” came, this time for the HLI, it was another mad scramble. Again the sprint. Again no luck. The regiment from Galt didn’t need anywhere near as many replacements as the Essex. Once again the count stopped a few files down the line from where I hopefully stood. I got the chop.

Two regiments left to choose from. Which one would it be for me? Since the RCR (Royal Canadian Regiment) was one of Canada’s premier regiments, and since the name had that ring of glory to it, how could I not want to march and fight in its ranks? As for the Perths, the name meant nothing at all to me except the fact that I had done some shooting on the rifle range in the basement of their Armoury in Stratford.

“Fall in for the RCRs!” came the stentorian shout of the RSM. And once again I didn’t make it. Where else was there to go but the Perths? To say I was despondent was to put it in the mildest of terms. I was devastated. And so my name was recorded on the Perth Regiment draft sheet along with about a dozen and a half others who, by the looks on their faces, were about as unhappy as I was.

I might mention here one incident that happened to me as a trainee at No. 3 CIRU before I go on, in which I tried to look like a hero to the 150 other guys in the training company. This happened on the grenade range just outside Aldershot. After going flawlessly through the prescribed way of throwing the No. 36 segmented grenades, a popular and very effective weapon used in World War I, Sergeant-Major Randerson, in command of the range and a weapons expert of some note, gave us a brief instruction on the newest brainwave known as the No. 74 “sticky bomb,” a weapon designed to knock out tanks. When he was through he called for three volunteers to go with him and a sergeant to the beat-up old hull of a World War I tank about three hundred yards away. I promptly stepped forward along with two other glory-seekers, and the three of us, along with the Randerson and the sergeant, struck off across the barren field to see what this newfangled anti-tank weapon could do.

On reaching the blasted remains of the hull of what appeared to be a vintage-1918 tank, Randerson gave another brief demonstration on the handling and application of the bomb. One thing he stressed was to give it a good whack against the hull, not merely attach it. Then he pointed out two slit-trenches about ten yards away, telling us to take cover there. Both trenches were large enough to hold three men—one was for him and his assistant, the other for us “show-offs.”

“Okay, you got that straight then?” the unsmiling, no-nonsense company sergeant-major asked. “Who’ll be the first?” I wanted to be first, but lost out to one of the others.

The lad, a picture of confidence, let fly the hemispheres, then slammed the bomb against the hull with a solid crack. We were off like a shot out of hell for the trench. We’d also been warned to open our mouths wide and stick our fingers in our ears so that the blast wouldn’t rupture our eardrums. Then, BANG! What a hell of a blast! Unbelievable! It blew a sizeable hunk of metal off the hull, sending it flying through the air right over our trench in the most frightening, godawful scream. Right then and there I wanted no part of what I had volunteered to do. But there was no way I could back out of it now unless I wanted to make myself look like a big chicken in front of the entire company.

My turn came next, not by choice but simply because Randerson handed me a bomb and said, “Now, soldier, do your stuff.” I stood there for a moment almost mesmerized, staring at the bomb in my hand. When I returned to reality I nervously flicked off the protective hemispheres, revealing the softball-sized glass flask filled with nitroglycerine, covered with a stockinette material and coated with a thick layer of honey-coloured adhesive. As I was about to slam it against the hull, the sticky globe somehow got stuck to my right trouser leg. In rising panic I pulled it free and then applied it to the hull, but not with a smash as I was supposed to, but with what was more of a love-tap. Back in the trench, with my mouth open so wide it hurt, my fingers jammed tight in my ears I waited for the awesome blast. Five seconds went by—no explosion. Ten seconds—no explosion. Fifteen—still no explosion. What the hell went wrong, I wondered? Instead of one earth-shattering blast, there was another kind of explosion, that of Randerson running off at the mouth like no self-respecting senior NCO ought to behave. Man, was he ever mad! I peeked over the edge of the trench and saw a deep-flushed face, fulminating in fury as he strode up to the hull where I’d applied the bomb so weakly. I crawled out, a little slower than the other two, and nervously approached the hull, expecting all of us to get blown sky-high any second. Randerson lit into me with a verbal tirade that ripped me apart from asshole to breakfast. And all I could do was stand there and take it and feel myself getting smaller by the minute.

Why hadn’t the bomb gone off? The only thing I could think of that might have caused the misfire was that in the momentary panic of pulling the sticky bomb off my trousers and then getting ready to apply it to the hull, I must have relaxed my hold on the handle enough to allow the safety lever to lower the striker, so that it didn’t strike the fuze with enough force to set it off. Anyway, this brave individual who sought to impress his comrades in the art of battle had been rudely knocked off his imaginary pedestal. In fact, I was so ashamed of my lousy performance and humbled by Randerson’s heated oratory that I felt utterly worthless. My self-esteem took a dizzying plunge, and that night when I climbed into my wooden cot in Badajoz Barracks, I tossed and turned and wrestled with my conscience until well past midnight before I finally drifted off to sleep. But before I nodded off I swore to myself that never again would I try to prove I was something I was not.

Shortly after breakfast the four drafts began departing Aldershot. It was tough having to say so long to friends I’d made in Basic Training at McLagan Barracks in Stratford, in Ipperwash, and now here at No. 3 CIRU. What lucky guys they were, those that landed in the ranks of the Essex Scottish, and even those that went to the HLI and the RCR. I felt like that little weasely fellow in the “Li’l Abner” comic strip, Joe Btfsplk—the hard-luck guy with the wide-brimmed hat pulled down over his eyes who went around with a perpetual black cloud over his head, lightning shooting out of it. Everything went wrong for him, as it was now going wrong with me.

The tiny Perth draft was the last to leave, climbing aboard the trucks about mid afternoon for the short ride to Farnborough Station, where we caught the Southern Railway train for Waterloo Station. There we transferred to a train that would deliver us to an out-of-the way station about ten miles from Hunstanton-on-the-Wash, where the Perths were located. On hand to receive us was a lowly corporal, an indifferent one at that. I thought we’d be accorded some kind of formal welcome into the regimental family, with the second in command or the RSM to greet us, but all we got in the way of a reception was one disinterested Corporal and three equally indifferent drivers.

The Windsor Hotel, taken over by the British Army long before for billeting purposes, was to have been our quarters, but as it turned out, beds for only ten men were available. So eight of us made the short trek down the street with our burdensome load of full kit and two kit-bags each to take over billets above a small radio repair shop. Quite a few Perths were walking about on the streets, and I couldn’t help but notice that not one of them so much as gave a glance towards the newcomers. “What a deadbeat outfit,” I mumbled to myself as I struggled with my two kit bags and packs up the narrow stairs. It really wasn’t all that bad of a place, just two small eight-by-eight rooms, with a toilet and a washbasin down the hall. We at least enjoyed a measure of privacy. Otherwise, sleeping accommodations weren’t any different than in Aldershot, since we still had to put up with steel-slatted, uncomfortable wooden bunk beds, with the guy on the bottom bunk just six inches off the floor. The unlucky one who got the bottom bunk had to be blessed with the agility and flexibility of a gymnast to climb into bed and to roll out of it in the morning. And he also found out that it was a lot chillier near the floor than it was in the upper bunk.

Our first meal in the regimental mess was definitely not something to write home about unless to describe how bloody awful it was. We arrived just as the companies had finished their evening meal and most of them had gone back to their quarters. The cooks, “God bless their unfriendly souls,” were nice enough, though somewhat disgruntled to have to serve the latecomers what was left of the slop. And slop it was. Even worse than what we’d been served on the troopship Andes. It was so bad I wouldn’t have fed it to a starving dog. The pork and beans were cold and tasted terrible. The bacon was almost all fat, and what little lean there was was stringy and indigestible. The broiled potatoes tasted like they’d been stored a little too long in a basement or root cellar. I actually gagged trying to eat the stuff, and finally had to give up. It was a wonder the men who sat down here before us hadn’t rioted. Famished though I was, I walked over to the swill cans by the exit door and dumped the works. Even the tea was lousy. All four of the garbage-can sized receptacles were full of the slop. The only redeeming feature of this inedible meal was that the Norfolk County pigs would be having a dandy feast next day. They wouldn’t be quite as fussy as I was. I looked around hoping to see the orderly officer of the day to let him know how bad the food was, but he was nowhere to be seen. Then I thought it mightn’t be a wise move on my part, being a newcomer, to start complaining the minute I joined the regimental family. It just might be asking for trouble later on down the line.

Before retiring for the night, I learned that the Perths were in the 11th Infantry Brigade of the 5th Armoured Division, and that The Irish Regiment of Canada and the Cape Breton Highlanders were the other two units in the Brigade, with the Westminster Regiment as the motorized component. It was the first time I’d ever heard of these regiments. Nor had I been aware there were such regiments as the Lord Strathcona Horse, the British Columbia Dragoons and the New Brunswick Hussars, which made up the 5th Armoured Brigade in the division. A whole new and exciting military world was opening up for me as my first day in the Perths came to a very subdued close.

Hunstanton is situated on the northeast shoulder of Norfolk County where the North Sea enters the bay or inlet known as The Wash. This was East Anglia, targeted by the Luftwaffe in their daily strafing and low-level bombing raids. These were known as “Tip and Run Raids,” the planes sweeping in at wavetop level, machine-gunning as they hit landfall and then climbing abruptly as they dropped their 250 pound bombs indiscriminately. There was no military purpose to these raids. The civilian population, homes, churches, and cinemas bore the brunt of these sneak attacks. In effect, they were nothing more than nuisance raids. So here we were, front-row centre, and I was fair “chafing at the bit” for one of the enemy planes to show up so I could get a few potshots at the bastards.

In the two weeks we spent at Hunstanton, on only a couple of nights did an enemy plane fly over, but it was so high up that chances of getting a bead on it were nil. In fact I never was able to pinpoint one up in that starlit sky. It was the first time I heard that peculiar unsynchronized beat of German engines. After that, there was never any mistaking whose plane it was. One night on sentry duty at Battalion Headquarters (BHQ), I heard the approach of an enemy plane from the east droning high in the sky above the town. Back and forth it went in that vrum-vrum, vrum-vrum, vrum-vrum beat that became so familiar to everyone. After circling in the inky darkness for about ten minutes it flew off towards Boston on the other side of The Wash, where a trio of searchlight beams fingered the sky trying to locate the intruder. Then the sound of its engines died away as the plane turned eastward back to the continent. Fortunately for us and the town’s citizens it had only been a reconnaissance plane.

The Wash is famous for its tides. From the earliest times the irresistible sea has waged a constant eroding attack against the coast, undermining the chalk cliffs and washing away huge sections of arable land. But the hardy farmers of coastal Norfolk were not to be denied their right to farm the land, and in their determination, they fought the sea with everything in their power. Their concerted efforts eventually slowed down the erosion of their priceless land, but throughout the centuries the battle has been a neverending one, and though lessened in intensity, the fight still goes on.

Standing on the wet sand of The Wash when the tide is out, you can see at once what centuries of sea action have done to the cliffs. The everlasting pounding of the waves at high tide has crumbled the face of layered chalk into great mounds of rubble. We transients knew nothing of this serious problem confronting the good people of Norfolk, as they strove to save their land and livelihood from the sea’s relentless pounding. Unaware of the geophysical history of Norfolk County, all we were concerned about was what the Daily Syllabus and Part II Orders had in store for us, and what pleasures and comforts might come our way in the evenings or on the weekend. Very few, if any, took the time to look into the town’s or the region’s history.

Hunstanton had been a popular seaside resort in peacetime when throngs of people came from all over England for a weekend or a summer’s vacation. The hotels, restaurants and stores did a land-office business. Then the war came, followed by Dunkirk, and suddenly the town was empty except for its own citizens. Only when army units began to be stationed here did the town slowly come alive again, but it wasn’t a merry-making crowd that walked about on the streets, or promenaded along the seafront, or lolled about on the great spread of greensward sloping gently down to the promenade. The khaki-clad newcomers, although they could be boisterous and fun-loving at times, were a far cry from the colourful and happy crowds that had populated the town before the war. With the pleasure seekers long since gone, successive waves of army units came, stayed for a time, and went on to other destinations. And now, with the fortunes of war turning slowly in our favour, it was 11th Brigade enjoying the scene and the little amenities the town offered. Like other units, they would leave their mark, insignificant as it might be, in the collective memory of the friendly citizens of Hunstanton.

What wonderful times they were, to go idly strolling about, without a care in the world, along the waterfront, lolling about on the greensward, or watching with interest as townsfolk plucked periwinkles out of the sand and ate them. They dug them out of the shell by inserting a pin, extracted them and popped them into their mouths. How they could do it was beyond me.

And then there were the pleasant hours spent sitting on the greensward ogling all the pretty girls strolling along the waterfront, and watching the tides come in at night. Like everyone else, I was forever on the lookout for some pretty and accommodating young lady to spend the evenings with. But this was easier said than done. Competition was simply too stiff, what with something like five thousand like-minded specimens of virile young Canadian manhood stationed in and around the town. Any attractive young lady worth being seen with had already been latched onto, leaving the overwhelming rest of us unfulfilled and having to find some other less exciting and pleasurable means to fill out our free time.

My first night in Hunstanton was of the shorter variety. Reveille came at 0400 hours instead of the usual 0600. Someone came busting into our cozy little rooms over the radio repair shop hollering “Wakey! Wakey! Wakey! Everybody up! Hey, hey, hey! Let’s get cracking! Nip, nip, nip!” It took a minute or two of rubbing the sleep out of our eyes to wonder what the hell was going on. “Who’s that yappy sonofabitch waking us up at this ungodly hour? Keerist! it’s only four o’clock! Bugger off you bastard!” From every bunk the comments rang out. Someone had to be playing a game on us. But it was only too true. A corporal entered our domicile in a more civilized manner and explained to us in a quieter, more measu...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Half title
• Title
• Copyright
• Contents
• Foreword
• Introduction
• Maps
• Chapter 1 From the Holding Unit to the Perths
• Chapter 2 From Timberwolf to our Battle Baptism
• Chapter 3 The Winter Front
• Chapter 4 In the Mountains at Cassino
• Chapter 5 The Liri Valley Push
• Chapter 6 Spearhead in the Gothic Line
• Chapter 7 Into the Po Plains
• Chapter 8 Assault Across the Lamone River
• Chapter 9 The Battle of the Fosso Munio
• Chapter 10 The Push to the Bonifica Canal