R.P. Wollbaum's Blog, page 4

Oct 3

The leaves have all turned colour, most of the poplars and all of the ashes have lost their leaves, carpeting the lawn in gold. Today it is grey, windy and cold. There is the hint of snow in the air. I drove to the city today to have breakfast with family who I have been avoiding for a while. I get like that at times. The further south I drove, the worse the weather became, the road turned from dry to wet and as I hit the city limits, it began to snow. Not heavy, but enough to stay on the windshield of the trusty Chev 4X4.

Driving south on 14th street, the snow became harder for a moment and as I drove down the hill past the Winter Club, candidate signs for the upcoming election began to line the road side. Something tweaked the back of my mind as I drove past, but it was fleeting and the snow was heavier as was the traffic and concentration on the road was paramount. Soon I was at the restaurant and the feeling was long gone. We had a nice meal together and my mom got a new nick name. Your Majesty. You had to be there. At 11 we parted ways. It had stopped raining and snowing, but the wind was still blowing hard and cold from the north foretelling what is to come.

As I drove back north on 14th street, I came to a stop at the traffic lights on Northmount drive and once again saw the election signs and the memory at the back of my mind came back. Then, The Story In Your Eyes, by the Moody Blues, came on the radio and the memories flooded in.

In October of 1971, one of my high school friends dad was running for a local alderman. My friend asked some of us if we could help out. One of the things he was looking for, was to have some people standing on a corner waving signs. He said there would be four girls coming along, so I took a look at my buddy Frank, shrugged my shoulders and said why not. Being around girls was always a good thing. So the plan was made and at the end of the school day we headed over to the old ’48 4X4 Willies Jeep Wagon that was our combo transportation/party vehicle.

During the summer, we had used this wonderful vehicle to go camping and partying in the bush and had painted it with black and white zebra stripes. Rumour had it, that it had served as an ambulance in the Korean War, but we didn’t care. It had a lot of room in the back and we had installed a couple of wall mounted bottle openers we had stolen from somewhere in the back. There was no such thing as twist off caps back in those days and ‘church keys’ were always in short supply. I had sprained my ankle some weeks before, so I had the coveted seat in the back behind the driver’s seat perched on top of a couple blanket covered cases of beer. Did I forget to mention there were no seats in the back and only two front doors? My buddy Frank was in the back with me, as normal, and our other buddy Jeff had dibs on the shotgun seat. Frank and I were no dummies. Sitting shotgun meant you had to get out and move the seat forward so other people could get in and out. John of course was driving, it was his Jeep after all. He and Jeff were smoking some, ahem…and discussing which of the four girls they would claim, both of them seemed to know all of them. As if, give me a break. Girls are nice, but hey, no time for that stuff. I could hear the pool hall beckoning me and we had some serious bar time scheduled for that night.

Our school had a long parking lot and it was not uncommon for a bunch of us jocks to play parking lot football at lunch. The girls with cars usually parked in the middle of the lot and sat on the trunks or hoods playing hard at not paying attention to us guys. There was always a gaggle around the girl I had my eye on and her little red Falcon. My task for that day was to play DB and as chance would have it, the ball was thrown to a receiver just in front of this gaggle and I leaped up and intercepted it, forgetting I was not wearing sneakers, but my normal high heeled cowboy boots. Oops. Instead of being the big hero in front of the girls I was in a whole lot of hurt. I couldn’t even put any weight on it, let alone be the tough guy hero and shrug it off and walk away.

So, there Frank and I were in the back of the Jeep a few weeks later chuckling at the non-existent chances of the two lady killers in the front seat, when the four girls showed up. The afternoon had turned sunny and warm and the first three girls crawled into the back, their jackets and purses held in their hands and lover boy Jeff was chatting up the last one. Frank knew the first three, I didn’t, so he introduced Susan, a buxom blond, Vera, a thin long black haired beauty and Carla, another cute black haired wonder. Frank moved over by me to share the beer boxes, leaving the milk crates we had stolen for the girls, who sat across from us. Always the gentleman my buddy Frank. The girls having short skirts had absolutely nothing to do with it.

So, after a few choice words from John about having a time schedule to meet, lover boy, let the last girl get into the jeep and she came in a hurry. I didn’t have time to pull my injured right leg out of the way and she tripped over it and landed right in my lap.

“Hey Marg,” I said. “Long time no see. How was your summer?”

Holy shit, I says to self. She done all growed up over the summer. The little 16 yr old that had asked me dance the February before had blossomed. She was wearing short shorts, a tight yellow sweater and knee high socks. Her short blond hair was now shoulder length and she was about to give me shit for tripping her, when she saw the crutches propped in behind me. Then she jumped off my lap and sat down beside her buddies and that was kind of the end of it. That day.

We had a couple more placard waving sessions together and I thought, what the heck. There is a big dance coming up and it would be kind of nice to have a date for once, so I asked the cute little blond Marg if she would like to go. I also told her I had no wheels and would have to meet her there. Usually a date killer that comment. Not a problem, she said.

The night of the dance, I wandered in. My ankle had healed up enough for me to walk by then, but not wear my well-worn in cowboy boots and my mom absolutely refused to let me out of the house for my big date with sneakers, so had to put on the penny loafers everyone else wore, a turtle neck under an alpaca sweater. But no one talked me out of wearing my nice loose boot cut blue jeans. There she was looking for me at the entrance to the gym where the dance was to held with her gaggle of buddies and ah shit! The tall shapely brunette I had had my eye on since grade ten and sprained my ankle trying to show off for, was one of her buddies! Oh well. Marg and I went in, I paid the fee and we started to have fun. Marg had a twinkle in her eye that you couldn’t help but notice, her playful personality was infectious and at the first break, she dragged me over to hang out with her buddies. Most of them I had grown up with and really, due to the fact that they liked to pick on me all the time, I didn’t really want to be there. Ingrid, the girl I kind of had the hots for and her bestie were nowhere to be seen.

My bud Rob wandered by and started to chat and as the music started asked Vera to dance and by the next break, we were two couples. Rob had a wild ’64 Chevy Impala that we cruised in looking for races and girls and he volunteered to drive the girls home. Marg was staying at Vera’s that night, at least that’s what she said, and it was not all that far away, so we dropped them off and we headed down to the strip to cruise.

That Monday, I noticed Marg was in my biology class. Not only that, but she had a third period spare like I did. Soon after that, we were hanging out together all the time. The next semester we made sure we had as many classes together as we could and found some spare lockers that were empty and moved our stuff into them. We went to the senior prom together and the graduation dance. The next year we were married and two years later parents.

Amazing what one stop light, a song and some election signs can do.

Marg. Have I told you today how much I love you?

Sept 10, 2015

I was bored the other day and tuned into CNN to see what’s up.

There was a story that all the commentators were abuzz about. It seems a Hungarian photographer was tripping Syrian migrants trying to escape border control people. While I also think this was not exactly exemplary behaviour, I find it rather odd that the actions of the border guards were subtly condemned.

After all, there is even a realty TV program in the States about Border Patrol Agents rounding up Illegals. Isn’t this the same? Most of the people that are being rounded up are not actually Mexicans. They are from El Salvador, or Guatemala or Venezuela. They too are escaping draconian governments trying for a better life.

My country does something similar with migrants arriving on the west coast from Shrilanka and China in dilapidated freighters and fishing boats. Just a bit curious as to the double standard is all.

Next, I watched a docu drama called Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee. It really highlights the challenges First Nations People faced during the late 19th century in North America. It also briefly passes over the major differences in how the two countries sharing the 49th parallel handled this situation.

Canada has had a better record, but still it could have been handled better. Times change as do attitudes and methods.

I met a remarkable young lady last week. She is a Russian/Ukrainian and been here about a year. Her folks are still there. Right in the middle of all the nonsense that is going on over there right now. It got me to thinking.

There are over 6 million people of recognised Ukrainian heriatage in Canada. There are also about ten million people of my ancestral back ground that came to Canada from the same area at the turn of the 20th century. That’s not including all the people that lost their lives during Stalins regime.

As in Syria today. These were not people from the lower end of society. They were highly intelligent, educated and motivated people. I have to ask myself what Ukraine and Russia would be like today if they had all stayed and been allowed to operate to their full potential. I know that they achieved great things out of nothing in the flat lands of the USA and Canada.

So, you know what? Syria, Ukraine, Russia, El Salvador, Venezuela and China’s loss is our gain.

Don’t forget everyone, including First Nations People in North America, South America, Australia and New Zealand came from somewhere else. Look what we have accomplished together.

A Trip In Time

St. Peter’s Church
St. Peter’s Colony
Saskatchewan Canada

As a writer, I utilize my personal experiences to construct the worlds I create. That and a vivid imagination. I have spent most of my life living in the shadow of the Rocky Mountains, splitting the time between urban city living and as much time as I could in the foothills and high mountain parks. Even though I moved to a more prairie like setting, the mountains were still within view and only an hour and a half away instead of an hour. Much of my working life was spent in the flat lands and prairies to the east of me, but I never really felt any connection to it. In the woods, I can find my way, spot landmarks to remember, even in the deepest bush. While the flat lands are wide open and I can see forever, it is an unfamiliar environment for me. How do you find water where their is none, shelter where it is non existent. Yet my ancestors and many more did just that. They not only survived, but thrived and prospered.

The content editor of Eagles Claw, Kate O’Donnel, asked me to describe the sites, sounds and smells of the prairie. A couple of years ago all I would have had to do was walk out my back door and sit in the middle of my twenty acres for an afternoon and it would have come to me. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on your view point, I moved closer to the woods and this option was no longer available for me to exploit. The next option was to go back to where I was born, where all of my family before me was born and my original ancestors first settled. I have made this trip many, many times. It is an eight hour trip under optimal conditions. Eight hours of mind numbing nothingness. Yet people live out their lives there. This time I allowed myself to experience the trip. It helped that unlike other trips in the past, the land was green. It is normally brown and burnt this time of year. It was also cooler than normal. Normally it hovers around thirty or more in the day and not much cooler at night.

I met up with my Aunt Linda and her clan. She is about five years older than me and our kids about the same age. My uncle died about six years ago. We always had a close relationship and he was my dads youngest brother. I also spent some time with my Godmother, my dads oldest sister. She answered a few of my questions, but really, like my dad, nobody really knew about the old days. It had never been important to them to know. I think a lot of it had to do with the First and Second World Wars. None of them wanted to know about their heritage. It is sad if you think about it. My mother’s grandfather had written down a brief account of his life in the colonies of Russia, but my father’s people, for what ever reason had not. They would recount episodes from their own lives, but before the 1930’s, it is mostly a blank.

So, off I went, to where one of my ancestors had established himself. He had arrived in Canada in 1891. The twenty year old, oldest son, his brothers and sisters, along with his parents, an uncle and his family and an unmarried aunt. By 1896, he was married, had four children and was one of the founding members of what is now called St. Peters Colony. It had originally been called Rastadt or Colony 7. They were Catholics, Germans and Russians.

I had been there about twenty years earlier and much has changed, but much is still the same. People are still living there. There are six houses on the north and six on the south of a broad street, almost double the size of a normal city street. Now the trees are large. There are new barns and outbuildings. Houses have been upgraded or replaced. The original church and and school are still there at the end of the street, as is the large outdoor shrine to Our Lady of Lourdes, located on the south west side of the colony, dug into the side of a twenty foot embankment cut by glacier runoff. A small stream still runs through the bottom. The land is fertile, but this year, the weather was hot and dry during the spring and the crops are poor. Looking around, it was a good spot to locate. There was a close source of open water, they could tunnel into the creek hillside to provide early housing and the prevailing winds were to the rear of the hillside. Their homes are on what looks to be twenty acre parcels, but their farms were located all around. This would have allowed them to keep vegetable gardens, milk cows, pigs and chickens close to home and go out to the farms and till the land or tend to cattle. The twelve families would have been able to support each other in times of need, or to help each other during harvest times or butchering times. Pooling resources, would have allowed easier transport of grain and excess herd animals to market. The long hard winters would have been much more bearable to endure. Many times they would have been cutoff from civilization due to high snow, wind and cold. I know from hearing personal anecdotes, that many families died during those times. Some from starvation or fires, some from the inability to endure the loneliness and the days and weeks of isolation and howling winds.

Even in the summer, the wind is ever present. You can see the farms, a couple of miles away, but in the winter after a January blizzard, there would be no way to contact or get to them. In this way, I think, my Great Grandfather was not only fortunate, but insightful. Even during the hard times of the 1930’s, we survived.

I have often wondered why I was always so comfortable with Ukrainian people. Why listening to my father in laws friends sing the old folk songs struck a cord deep in my soul. All of my people are German. Yet on this trip, I really saw the little church and the larger than life crucifixes at the corner of the quarter section the colony sits on and in front of the church with new eyes. They are not the Orthodox crucifixes with the double cross bars, nor the German with the roof over them, they are the Roman crosses. The church is a normal small town Catholic Church with a tall peaked steeple. Except. At the top of the steeple, is a Russian dome with a cross on top. In fact, the census’s I have found, they called themselves Russians, not Germans. The spoke German and English and Russian. At the time I met my wife and ultimately until just now, I did not understand what a Ukrainian Catholic was. Now I do.

I was married in a Ukrainian Catholic Church in a ceremony conducted in Ukrainian. Now I understand why my family was comfortable with all of it.

So on a trip to reconnect with the prairie, I actually discovered who I am. Like my ancestors said they were Russian, I am a Canadian. I just happen to have a German last name.

As an additional whack upside of the head. I had a wonderful diner with my cousin and now new Copy Editor, Cheryl Turley. I was privileged to be allowed to meet her roomy. Annia, a twenty eight year old, stunning blond Ukrainian, here on a work permit to teach gymnastics. I listened to her speak and observed her mannerisms and said to my self. Oh, my goodness! She is my Elizabeth, she is my Tanya! I wrote the Elizabeth character three years ago and the Tanya character last year! In my mind, I have the accents, the looks and the mannerisms perfect. I showed Cheryl the early manuscript of Bears Maul and Eagles Claw and she couldn’t believe it. Tanya, is Annia.

Go figure.

Silly Season

What exactly is ‘Silly Season’?

In motor sports, especially Formula One, it is the time of year drivers and teams negotiate or terminate contracts. This year it has expanded to what teams are going to use what engine suppliers, is Lotus going to go bankrupt, is Renault going to buy out Lotus or Force India, what is going to happen about tires and my favorite, when will that dinosaur Bernie Ecelstone be ousted? He is definitely more concerned about money than the sport and is killing it as fans are abandoning F1 in droves.

More than a year out from the US elections and away we go. Nothing else is going on in the world anymore. Once again the Clintons are involved in another controversy. Here comes the spin. Jeb Bush is trying to distance himself from George.

You can say a lot about The Donald. As an outsider, I would say he is breaking the current paradigm. He tells it like it he sees it. He is in tune with what people want and is a very experienced large business owner. Personally, I am sick of all the spin, political double speak and political correctness prevalent in not only politics but news coverage in general.

We had a politician much like The Donald here. He ended up running things for three elections and did a great job, until the politically correct people in the party turfed him. Well that party shot itself in the foot and are gone now.

Here at home, we are ramping up for a federal election in October. The socialist parties feel they have it in the bag, because my ultra conservative province went socialist this year. What they seem to be missing is that two conservative parties split the vote and the socialists came up the middle. I have no doubt they will be turfed next time out.

So, we have a scandal, where one of our unelected senators ripped we, the tax payers off. He was not the only one, but the others were smart and paid back the money. This guy figured he was some kind of hot shot and basically tried to blackmail the PM and the party, even after they offered to pay back the money he stole. Now he is in court for fraud.

His lawyer is trying to deflect by going after the PM and his advisors. Well, you know what? If they are guilty, they should go to jail too you bozzo. Maybe the lawyer should go to jail too.

I have a number of new Canadians as friends and they are laughing. They tell me this is nothing compared to the corruption in their home countries.

Well, I hate to inform everyone, but politicians in North America are no different than most politicians in the rest of the world. They may start out with the best of intentions, but circumstances tend to change everything. The difference here is that most of them do not flaunt the power they have. It has a tendency to backfire on them.

While armed force is generally avoided, those with the real power have other ways to make life miserable. Tax audits, big budget smear campaigns, mistakes causing discomfort, like oops, you did so pay your power bill, sorry about that. Oh ya, we made a mistake and your house was not built over the property line. After front page stories were published about that. Or my personal favorite, publishing a photo taken at a public function or taking a portion of a comment out of context.

Sometimes a person like The Donald is necessary. I have seen the other politicians take note and try to emulate what he is doing.

Oh, and Donald?

How many of your exports do Mexico and Canada buy? Trade is a two way street. The Democrats find that out every time they get into power. Canada has no problem at all taking the USA to court when they pull some stupid stunt and we always win. Oh ya, do us a favour and don’t renew the NAFTA agreement. We can get better terms from other people and you better hope Iran and Iraq stay your buddies, because a lot of other people want our oil and our highly educated work force.

Just my opinion of course. Buying cars and products made in the USA is no different to me than buying them from Japan, Germany, Korea or China. They are all foreign to me. I purchase the best product I can for my hard earned cash and frankly, USA made products like my Chevy truck, are substandard to their competitors. Sorry and no, the model of truck I have was not made in Mexico or Canada.

Another Wednesday

Some time ago, I had mentioned that I would be posting excerpts from the third book in my Bears and Eagles saga every Wednesday. Unfortunately, sometimes life sends a curve ball that makes things difficult. Things that were important, get put on the back burner.

I had been for quite some time, spending a tremendous amount of time on one form of computer or another. Composing books, editing and reediting, finding and vetting a professional editor, re-editing once again, finding a cover artist, formatting the book for the various platforms, reviewing those platforms and modifying them to suit. Making a blog and web site. Coming up with some kind of marketing plan. As a self published author, one has to do all of those things ones self, on a limited budget. I forgot to mention, I had to learn how to do all of those things as well.

Last year at this time, I was putting the final touches on Bears and Eagles and Eagles Claw. At the same time, I was dealing with, not only the end of a forty year career due to a physical disability, but the realisation that I would be unable to do many of the things that I enjoy to do. At the same time, I was the primary care giver to my best friend and wife of over forty years. While she was still chipper and sparky for the most part, I knew and so did she, that our time together was coming to an end. She was the rock and foundation for her family, especially for her mother as she was the executrix of her mothers living will. I was the rock of our family, but even the strongest rocks crumble and crack under enough pressure.

Writing and editing became an outlet for me. A time to escape reality as I created another one. But after almost a full year of non stop writing, editing and marketing, I hit burnout. I had to get away. I am an avid reader, have been since I was a preteen and other than my own material or educational material, I had not read a book for a year. So, that’s what I have been doing for the last month. Recharging.

When I finally published, I was hoping for some half decent reviews. Yes, trusted family members said they loved it, but hey, they are family. I found some authors like myself, who were willing to trade reviews for copies of the book and reviews on their work and was surprised at the results. Honestly, I personally like the second book more than the first, but I am biased.

When I started the third book, I changed gears and instead of following the eldest son, I made the youngest the hero. This had started at the end of the second book. History teaches us, that, the third generation of successful families, are generally the ones that squander everything. Look at the Edison’s, the Ford’s and in my country, the Eaton’s. The successful families, like the Rockefeller’s, the Bushe’s, Clinton’s, Kennedy’s, and in my country, the Seagram’s, Martin’s, Irving’s and Truduea’s, had plans in place to ensure the success of the family fortunes. This was my thought as I composed the third book.

The next is that I am encompassing a lot of history in one book. The two world wars did much to shape my country into what it is today and the Korean conflict brought home that even though we have a small nation, we contribute more by our size, than most nations much larger than we, do. We share the largest undefended border in the world with America. We are each others largest trading partners and the years following the Korean conflict, have seen my country’s subtle shift, from British to American influence. To the consternation of both the British and the Americans, we follow our own path. We are not British or American.

To that end, and the fact that the book was over one hundred and fifty thousand words, I have made the decision to split the book up. For sure I am splitting the first world war out and am in the process of doing that. I have the family doing a lot during world war two. This mirrors what the Canadian Forces were doing. We have limited man power and our troops were in big demand. So, what I elude to but not mention will be expanded. I knew that one of my uncles had served in Korea and Cyprus as a member of the UN forces, but I just recently discovered that he was in the Suez as well. This led to the discovery that Canada was instrumental in the formation of the UN Peacekeeping Force and our involvement in easing the tensions in the first of many Arab/Israeli conflicts.

Instead of one large book, I have determined to create two, or most likely three, more manageable books.

Currently, I am waiting on the final editorial review of Eagles Claw, the second book of the saga. Target date for release is mid October. Sorry folks, I am not rushing this one.

Oh, I have commissioned a new cover for Bears and Eagles which will be on display soon. Stay tuned.

Sunday Blues

I have a fountain that was given to us on our thirtieth wedding anniversary. I had spotted it in a local garden supply shop earlier in the year and as was typical of my wife, was told it was to big and to expensive, not to bother. But, low and behold, a week after our anniversary it showed up. My wife and mother in law had purchased it. It took some time to uncrate, assemble and figure out how to make it work. The result was great, even though it was to far away from the deck to really appreciate. It stands about a meter and a half tall, the base is a meter wide and holds twenty five litres of water. At the top is a depiction of a renaissance couple on either side of a pump. The young lad is on the left, the young lady on the right.

He is standing. His pant legs are rolled up to just below his knees, his shirt sleeves just below his shoulders. He is bare foot and holds a rose in his right hand, his left on the pump.

She is sitting on the right side, her skirt tucked under her, showing her bare feet, her blouse, shoulders and arms bare. She has her hands under the spout of the pump and the water cascades off her hands into a small basin which then overfills, filling another larger basin which then cascades half a meter down into the main reservoir. The water falling makes a pleasant soothing sound, that even at the distance from the house we had placed it, we could hear.

We moved to the new house to late in the year to put it together, but my wife had found a spot for it in one of the many flower beds we have at the rear of the new house. The next year, well, circumstances were such that the fountain became forgotten as other more pressing concerns became important. In the last few months, I had been wondering to myself whatever had become of this fountain. I missed the beauty of its sight and sound.

This week, I was rooting around in my garage moving things around to make life easier and deciding what stuff to toss out and the like. Many of the things we had moved from the old place were still stacked in bins in there and my two saddles were taking up a lot of room where we had left them. Shifting the saddles out of the way, I discovered a dust covered blue tarp that hid this magnificent fountain. Well, that was the end of reorganising the garage, as I gathered up the unassembled pieces and took them up to our raised deck and assembled them. I filled the main basin with water and plugged the pump in, fully expecting it not to work. It had been three years since it had operated after all. But to my astonishment, all was in order.

I then preceded to drag my deck furniture around so that I could take advantage of the sight of this piece of art and pulled my portable propane fire pit out of the motorhome and put it on the deck as well. The temperature drops to single digits here at night, so the heat it gives off is welcome. As soon as the sun went down, the light from the flames of the fire pit reflect off the water and the fountain and the view is spectacular. The flickering light from the flames reflecting off the fountain, sometimes makes the figures seem alive.

Earlier, just as the sun was going down, I was treated to the sight of a large murder of crows flying across my line of vision to the east. There were hundreds of them and it took a full five minutes before they stopped flying across my property.

Now the sun is down and the light is almost gone. It is calm and peaceful, not a flicker of a breeze and I can hear the music coming from one of my neighbors homes a long way away, just barely over the water trickle of the fountain and the sound of the flames in the fire pit. Thankfully it is a little chilly for the mosquitos, but the fire is keeping me warm along with a nice cozy sweater.

I cherish times like these. Earlier I had been about to go into ‘poor me’ mode. I was a little lonely and began to reflect on the past and ‘what ifs’ began to creep into my head.

Those of you that know me, know how challenging the last year has been and I am not talking about just the book publishing things. But the stillness of the night, the sounds of the fountain, the flickering shadows of the flames. The sight of the columnar aspens, dark in their towering glory, with the pale grey sky behind them. The stars, beginning to appear in the twilight and the smell of the roses.

These remind me of how fortunate I am. How blessed I am to live in a country and a place where I can enjoy these sights, sounds and smells. Where I don’t have to worry about where my next meal will come from, or if I will become the victim of some senseless crime.

And I thank God for the foresight of my ancestors to come to this wonderful land and for the ancestors of all my neighbors and countrymen, who also left lives of misery and hate. Together we have forged a land of freedom and peace and at times, we have had to have the courage to defend that freedom.

Let us never forget the courage of our ancestors and forefathers who left home, family and friends and sacrificed, so that we, their descendants, could enjoy our lives as they were intended to be.

Strong, prosperous and free.

Thoughts for the day

Having been basically house bound since mid May, I decided it was time to get away.

Getting away to me means really getting away. So I loaded the trusty Buss, the dogs and off I went. I ended up not far from Great Slave Lake, in northern Canada. The lake is the second largest in North America and the sixth largest in the world.

This is a very remote area of the world. There are few roads, fewer settlements and little if no wifi or cell phone coverage.

Perfect!

I stayed in a wonderful campground that amazingly had 30Amp electrical service and pull through camp spots. I was the only camper in this nine spot area and could hear the muted roar of the nearby Louise Falls. At this time of year, I was able to walk around without the aide of any kind of artificial lighting until almost midnight.

This location has two falls within two kilometres of each other, both with spectacular views of not only the falls but of the river gorge. A short, to me anyway, two hour drive, brought me to Wood Buffalo National Park. Three thousand free ranging Wood Bison live in this habitat. Again, at this time of year the scenery is fantastic, the weather wonderful, the bugs plentiful.

Another short drive, about forty-five minutes, from the campground brings you to the second largest settlement, Hay River, pop around 5,000. This is the end of the rail line on the edge of Great Slave Lake. Barges are used to transport goods across the lake to the smaller communities around the lake and to the capital, Yellowknife, in the summer. In the winter, roads are made across the ice for transport trucks to cross directly to Yellowknife saving a lot of time as the summer road skirts the edge of the lake and is very long.

While the campground as I said was very nice, those used to all of the amenities had best be warned. There is water available, but not to fill your tanks. I have been camping for many years, so this was no great hardship for me. I fill up a big pot, put it on the stove and use it to wash dishes etc. There is a clean and nice public shower and clean pit toilets for use. There is also a dump station for your grey and black water, but again, no water for flushing.

Planning for fuel is also a must. Settlements are far apart. I can go about 500km on a tank with the Buss, but I would not recommend going below half a tank if you can. For those with small tanks pulling trailers, a jerry can would be advisable to take along.

Now to my grumpy stage.

This is something I have noticed not only on the most recent trip, but my cross Canada trip last summer, my trip to Phoenix this spring and my trip to Austin a couple of years ago. I usually stop every couple of hours to get the kinks out, have a bite to eat or a snooze. When the dogs are with me, it is a must. On the major highways there are rest areas set up for this and most other highways have areas at regular intervals that a person can stop and walk around a bit. Each of these have at a minim a large trash receptacle. Why then are people so lazy that they have to toss their trash along the side instead of walking mere feet to the trash bin? I’ll give an example.

As you cross from Alberta into the North West Territories, there is a very nice information and interpretative center on the NWT side. It has clean washrooms, a large parking lot and plenty of trash bins. I observed two people get in their vehicle, which was parked right in front of a trash bin, drive past three other trash bins, then toss their empty coffee cups into the ditch as they entered the highway. I mean, give me a break! That is beyond being lazy, that is being ignorant! I wonder what they would think if I tossed my garbage on their front lawn?

The country is beautiful, the scenery fantastic. The roads for the most part are good and traffic the further north one goes, becomes less. For those looking for something a little different and off the beaten path, I highly recommend the trip. I’ll be going back. This time for a longer time. I barely scratched the surface of what there is to take in up there.

Bears Maul Preview Part 4

Copyright 2015 R. P. Wollbaum

This is a work of fiction. Any connection with places, events or people is coincidental

Part 4

 

The regiment pulled into their camp, a collection of Nissan huts, warehouses vehicle parks and maintenance shops, all surrounded by a double row of ten foot high barbed wire fencing. Inner security was provided by the regiment, while the outer perimeter was patrolled by British Tommies from the Territorial Force. They were also manning the antiaircraft defenses, even this far north, the occasional raid was conducted by the Germans, usually at great loss. Nicolas was supervising the deployment of the troopers to their barracks, but saw the joyful reunion of the three female cousins. His sister had not seen Christine since she had left for North Africa in ’39. Then Christine’s husband Tom, came out of the headquarters and greeted the two women before coming over to where Nicolas was finishing up, signing some forms. Nicolas came to attention and saluted Tom.

“Airborne battalion, all present and accounted for sir,” Nicolas said.

“Welcome to jolly England Naj,” his cousin’s husband said returning his salute. The two men had not seen each other since Nicolas had gone to North Africa to work on the pipelines in ’38.

“It good to be all back together again sir,” Nicolas was still not comfortable calling the general by his first name.

“We will be serving tea at fifteen hundred Naj, we can bring you up to speed at that time ok?”

“Yes sir,” Nicolas said. “That will give me time to get a little better squared away.”

“Naj, where are your fancy little wings?” Christine asked, kissing him on the cheek and hugging him. “I thought everyone who jumped out of airplanes wore those.”

“Only on our blues Chris,” Nicolas replied. “We took a vote.”

“Oh, won’t get in trouble for being out of uniform?” Tom asked.

“Wings are not required decoration for the regiment sir,” Nicolas responded. “The troopers elected not to display them, nor the fruit salad on the breasts, sir. Due to the type of operations we will be engaging in the field, there will be no rank or any other kind of badges, other than Canada and the EBB badge worn by anyone.”

“That may prove a bit of a problem dealing with local authorities,” Tom said.

“Around here and in town, no problem sir,” Nicolas said. “We are just members of a mechanized Canadian cavalry unit. Just like the thousands of other Canadian troopers over here. We start flaunting our qualification badges and special headgear, we draw attention to ourselves. The eagles and bears are bad enough.”

“Right I see your point,” Tom agreed. “Those that need to know, know already and you don’t have to impress them.”

Tom then went on to outline the schedule for the week and that Nicolas and his staff would be attending a briefing in the morning on what was expected of them. The rest of ‘tea time’, was spent catching up on family business, including the fact that Christine was now the proud mother of a bouncing baby boy.

‘Kat,

Well we have arrived at our new home and to alleviate your fears, we have been sent to Northern England and not Italy. The powers that be decided that reuniting the regiment was necessary. I suppose they are still fearing an invasion by Uncle Adolf and they want us here just in case. It will become boring soon I am afraid, training and waiting. Going to meetings, training and waiting again. But still, it is better than being frozen in the field, Jerry popping at you all hours of the day and night.

My cousin Christine has added to the tribe with a bouncing baby boy. Lucky bugger, her husband runs the refinery division of a company in peace time, is the second son of an English Lord and is my general here. Hopefully he can get me a job after all this is over. I’d rather work at a refinery in Canada than build a pipeline in some God forsaken part of the world and be away from you and George.

At a meeting yesterday I ran into an old friend I met in North Africa, his is in the RAF and he asked me if I could help him train some people in how to survive in the open alone. Giving them pointers on how to move without being detected and things like that. So tomorrow some of us are heading his way to do that for a while, so I will not be able to write for a few days. Just letting you know and not to be worried.

I am glad that mother has gotten in contact with you. She must have gotten your address from the letters you send me, they go through the regiment first, then to me. She has a good job in a brewery and father works for a pipeline company, plus is pulling down a few dollars from the regiment for his administration duties. Not to worry, they could afford to send George some good clothing and a Christmas present. You should be receiving some checks form them soon, as I have arranged to have half of my pay sent to you, to help run the beer hall and your house. I might need a job and a place to sleep after all this is done and sucking up to my prospective employer and landlady is always a good thing. Joking.

I dream every night of you and George. Of taking George fishing and camping, teaching him how to play ball. I miss your sparkling green eyes, the smell of your hair and the sound of your voice and laughter. I never knew love could be so lonely.

Naj

“Good morning gentlemen,” the SAS commander said to the assembled American paratroop officers. “These people behind me will be commanding the attacking force you will be tasked to defend against. It is their job, as it will be Jerries, to infiltrate your lines and destroy your formations. They will have information on the terrain and the surroundings that you will not. Just like Adolf’s boys over there. Hopefully, you will perform as well or better than expected and these people will have egg all over their faces. You will have twenty four hours lead time to prepare whatever defenses you deem necessary. The attacking force is based here at this point and you can expect any time after the twenty four hours to be hit by them. Good day and good luck.”

Nicolas, Sandy and Andrea, had been standing against the wall in the shadow created by the large map, in full, but slightly obscured view of the Americans. All they saw was three figures in American field uniform, one taller than the other two, standing with arms crossed leaning against the wall. They had not moved, or spoken a word, the whole time.

The American airborne colonel and his staff approached the SAS Wing Commander, hoping for some kind of enlightenment on who they were, but no introductions were given or offered.

“That’s my best company, Wing Commander,” the colonel said. “You people are going to have their work cut out for them.”

“That’s why it’s called a training exercise colonel,” the SAS man said. “Both sides get to learn from their mistakes.”

“It’ll take some doing for a leg company to defeat my highly trained and motivated airborne troops Wing Commander.”

“Hoo Rah, Airborne,” came from the taller of the three in the shadows. Then silence again.

The colonel could just make out the three were wearing American uniforms. One colonel and two majors, no parachute wings and dismissed them as infantry just trying to rile him up. We’ll show those legs what an airborne trooper can do he thought.

The American captain had set up his defenses to make an ambush along the road and open pasture in the direction any land based infantry would have to attack from. He had listening posts out in front of both positions and his heavy weapons platoon split between both approaches. They had been told it was an infantry only assault, no tanks or armored vehicles, so he had not instructed his men to dig fox holes. Using the cover provided by the woods would be good enough. Just after the twenty four hour period had elapsed, four DC 3,s had flown over head, but that was normal. Transport aircraft used this area for training all the time. It was out of range for German fighter aircraft and the transport crews were safe to practice. It had taken his well trained and in shape paratroop company the better part of a day to reach this position, so he knew that the earliest they could expect and attack would be the next morning. As the sun went down he rolled up in his sleeping bag secure in the knowledge that nothing would happen until morning.

“Hey what the heck have you got on the back of your helmet,” a corporal asked one of the troopers who had manned the listening posts who was coming back in after being relieved.

“It’s a sticker saying you’re dead,” the corporal said peeling it off the helmet and showing it to the sentry. The sticker had an eagle above a maple leaf with the words, ‘You’re dead dummy,’ hand written underneath it.

Each of the troopers who had been in the listening posts had them, as did every one of the heavy weapons crews.

“Whose idea of a joke was this?” demanded the Captain. “This is an important training mission and not time to play around.”

“No joke Captain,” a voice broke the silence. “Your listening posts and heavy weapons crews are dead. You did not listen to your second in command or your sergeants and guard your rear. Your troopers were smoking cigarettes all night and by the smell and the glow of them we pinpointed your location and that of your listening posts. Your second in command rotated through your positions all night at your orders and we were able to pin point the location of your heavy weapons crews and the rest of your fire teams. You neglected to dig in, leaving yourself vulnerable to mortar attack. Look in the center of your camp captain, right beside your sleeping bag.”

The fins of a mortar round were sticking up, buried right beside where the captain had been sleeping.

“Private Morrow, Canadian whiskey is better than any bourbon you will ever find,” came another voice at one side of the ambush site.

“Sergeant Willows, I’ll have you know it’s not as big as you say it is,” came a female voice from the other side. “Of course it was cold and the male member does shrink when it’s cold so I could be wrong.”

Then, faces blackened and branches and netting strewn all over themselves, the one hundred troopers of the regiment silently slid out of the bush surrounding the airborne troopers, Bren guns and rifles pointed at them.

“Bang, you’re dead,” said Andrea.

Right on schedule, as Nicolas had ordered at midnight ten of the regiments Canadian pattern trucks, their Chevrolet motors thrumming as they came down the road, pulled up in front of the ambush site and sat idling.

“Five miles up, five miles down, high how silver,” Nicolas said walking toward the trucks.

“In our defense sir,” the captain said at the debriefing, he and his lieutenants in hurriedly put on class a uniforms. “Had we known we would be up against an elite paratroop force, we would have prepared better.”

“Just what exactly are you playing at Wing Commander?” the American colonel demanded. “This was supposed to be a training exercise to see how well my people could defend themselves if attacked. Not by an elite paratroop force, but regular infantry.”

“Remember the fun we had that day we launched that attack on what we thought were Italians and they turned out to be the Herman Gering Division,” Nicolas said. “Do you think colonel that the enemy said, oh sorry, you can go away and we will wait for one of your elite companies to attack us?”

“While your people were running up and down hills in all weathers and learning how to properly shine their boots and blouse their trousers, we were fighting and killing elite German troops and being successful at it. Your man was not even in the right position, he was off the training area by three miles. He was repeatedly advised by his junior officers and non coms to alter his defense position but refused to consider or even hear it. Believe me colonel, even a leg company of the German army would have had no problem finding and destroying your company. Being able to run ten miles and shouting airborne will not cut it out here. If this is your best company you are in big trouble colonel.”

“You are lucky you faced these nice Canadian fellows,” the Wing Commander said. “My lads would have broken some skulls to make their point. Now get those people out of my office.”

Once the door had closed behind the company commander and his officers, the American Colonel sat down in a chair with a dejected thump.

“I knew I had a problem with him for a long time,” the colonel said. “But he has connections in high places. His sergeants went above his head and came to me before this exercise voicing their concerns and he has continually degraded and blamed his junior officers for his short comings. One of the good things about all this is that I will be able to get rid of a bad apple. His men and under officers are very good. The rest of the battalion will hear how you humiliated them and will pull up their socks. That should save a lot of lives gentlemen.”

Nicolas had accompanied his supply people to handle any problems with requisitions to the American base to obtain some more parachutes to replace ones that had failed inspection. He was sitting on the fender of the truck he had come in on, his beret cocked to the rear in the regiments historic way of wearing head gear, his tie missing and the top button undone on his shirt, jacket open to the waist. He was taking the rare moment of quiet to write Kat. Things were becoming hectic as training was being accelerated and he wanted to get a last letter off before the complete lock down that was coming was imposed.

“Good morning colonel,” a soft spoken voice broke his concentration and he looked up and saw three American paratroopers standing in front of him starting a salute now that they had his attention. Sighing, he put away the pen and letter in his inside breast pocket and returned the salute.

“Morning Mr. Winters, what can I do for E company today?” he said. “I hope your training exercises with the SAS are going better.”

“They are still beating us, but we are making them work for it sir,” Winters said. “I wonder if you could take a moment to address the boys sir. They would appreciate it.”

“Long as you’re buying lunch after, no problem Mr. Winters,” Nicolas said sliding off the fender. “Sammy, if you need me I’ll be with these nice airborne fellows here. They are buying me lunch.”

“High how Silver, Naj,” the driver of the truck said. “Hoo Raw, Airborne!” then laughed.

“Oach that hurt,” one of the lieutenants said.

“Suck it up airborne, if ya couldn’t take a joke ya shouldn’t have joined,” said the driver.

“All non coms are the same all over,” the lieutenant said laughing.

“They say the same about officers,” Nicolas said. “I should know, I used to be a sergeant.”

They walked to where the company was just finishing up inspecting their weapons for the upcoming training exercise and Winters called them to formation. Some of the men recognizing Nicolas from the botched one earlier and groaned.

“The colonel has been good enough to talk to us today,” Winters said. “Listen to him, you might learn something.”

“All right boys relax smoke em if you got em,” Nicolas said.

“It took us a little longer than expected to find you that night because you were so far off where you were supposed to be,” Nicolas said. “Some of the locals told us your general location and your camp fires and cigarettes told us the rest. My people have been hunting big game for most of their lives and are expert woodsman and trackers. Cigarette smoke goes a long way and we could smell you long before we saw you. You were all taking so much, it was easy to creep up and establish position on you. The focus to the front let us penetrate you from the rear when you went to sleep and bury the dummy round and plant our stickers. Frankly, boy scouts could have done what we did.”

“My troops had the dubious pleasure of joining you five miles up and five miles down,” he continued, allowing the laughs. “That’s one of the very few things your previous commander got almost right. You are just now finding out what it is like carrying combat loads and trying to function. My troops carried eighty pound packs when we hit the beach in Sicily and then went in land twenty miles to carry out operations. We were cut off for a week and had to fight our way back all the way. I know you are being told it will only be couple of days and you will be fighting old men and wounded recovering vets. This is the Army boys, they lie to us every day. Those recovering wounded just finished fighting the Russians on the Eastern Front and are very, very experienced. You will have to be at the top of your game. Questions?”

“Was that really a woman that day?” said a sergeant.

“Yes sergeant that was a woman and she told me you almost pissed all over her,” Nicolas said and the whole troop broke out in laughter. ”And lieutenant, bluffing on a pair of deuces is never a good idea but you got away with it. I was close enough to see you had a deuce of clubs and a deuce of diamonds.

“Holy shit,” a private said.

“We have limited manpower resources, so everyone has to have minimum skills or they can’t join, even mechanics, cooks clerks and nurses. That woman you talking about is a trained and very skillful nurse. She also qualified expert on the rifle, pistol and Bren gun. Her unarmed fighting skills are among the best of my people and she chose to be a combat trooper, so here she is.” Nicolas said. “If they can fight and keep up, we take anyone.”

“What’s it like, combat sir,” a sergeant asked the question everyone wanted to hear.

“It is the most terrifying thing you will experience in your life,” Nicolas answered. “I refuse to lie about this. You will shit and piss yourself, want to crawl into a big hole in the ground and pull it in behind you. Remember the man in front of you in the other uniform is also shitting and pissing himself too. Your body knows what to do, let it do it. Your buddies are counting on you to do your job, so do it. One day, one hour, one minute or one step at a time. There will be a lot of noise, shut it off. You won’t hear the round that kills you and we all have to die sometime. I choose to die like a man not a mouse. You boys have the best training the best weapons and your officers are good. My people and I, we just do our jobs the best way we can. If we all do that, this will all be over and we can go back home. Winters a word?”

“You are a good commander and want the best for your people, that’s a good thing,” Nicolas said as they moved out of ear shot. “When the shit hits the fan, you have to keep your head, you are going to see men you have known for years get blown away or wounded. Worry about them later, keep them moving keep yourself moving. Time will slow down for you, make good decisions. You can’t stop to help a man no matter how badly you want to, you will only kill more of them if you do. No matter how scared you are, never let them see it, make some kind of decision, they are looking to you for answers.”

Winters was looking down at his feet nodding as he listened. Nicolas clapped him on the shoulder.

“You’ll do fine, you figured out where your drop zone is going to be yet?” Nicolas asked.

“Workin’ on it,” Winters said.

“Keeps your mind busy anyway. You might want to get any last minute letters home out today though,” Nicolas said. “Just a suggestion. I’ll probably see you before this is all over. Take it easy.” And he stuck his hand out and both men shook, Winters wondering how such a young man became a colonel.

‘Kat,

I had to deliver a speech to some of your country men today. It is hard to keep men motivated to do their training properly and the higher ups thought that me being a veteran may help them somehow. They looked well fed and fit and other than the constant training and waiting we are all experiencing they are holding up well. My troopers and I have a different attitude on all this and what will come, will come. Training is necessary and we get to jump out of airplanes and fire our weapons and have some fun, instead of sitting around base all day doing make work projects.

We will be going on an extended field training exercise for a couple of weeks so I will not be able to send any letters for a while. The weather is still a little damp but it is warming up and being out in field for a while will be fun.

I ran into my father the other day, he has been here for about a month now, something to do with transportation of some goods. He said he would rather be running around in the boonies with us than putting up with all the politics and infighting.

George will be wanting to go to grandpas soon to look at the new calves and colts and the mountains will be greening up there in Billings, the meadows filling with wild flowers. I bet you look stunning in your spring frocks, no longer having to layer up to keep from freezing. Still miss you so much it hurts.

Naj

What an Author does for us

When I was in school, Call of the Wild, by Farley Mowet was required reading and fifty some years later, my son reintroduced me to this author with White Fang. Both of these stories take the reader into the high Canadian Arctic. A land seldom traveled by the majority of the world’s population.

In the same vein, but in the Non-fiction world, is Pierre Burton’s, Caesars of the Wilderness, which explorers the life of the true pioneers of Canada. The Voyagers and the Factors and fur traders of the Hudson’s Bay Company.

Both of these authors transport us into the wilderness of Canada and the world of extraordinary men and women, who make Canadians who and what we are.

In the same vein, Wilber Smith’s, The Burning Shore, takes us on a journey of South Africa as experienced by a shipwrecked, pampered French woman.

Rudyard Kipling takes us on a journey to India, where we experience the lives, sights and sounds not only from a British point of view, but that of the local people.

An author takes us on a journey. A journey back in time, or into the future. An author paints a picture in our minds eye, allowing us to escape, even for just a moment, the drudgery of our own lives. To go to places and experience things we never may have the opportunity to experience.

We feel the oppressive heat and humidity of India. The smells of the markets. The laughter and the color of the people. We tremble at the sound of the lion and the hyena in the dark of the night. The awesome power of the elephant and Rhino in Africa. We smell the wood smoke from an open fire and battle the black flys and mosquitos in the Canadian wilds. The terror and the exuberance, the roar of the river as we shoot the rapids of the river in full flood. We swallow hard in our shield wall trying to hold back our fear as we and our comrades face overwhelming odds with our eagles at our backs. In our X fighters in the dark of deep space, we battle alone to repel invaders while desperately trying to stay alive. With our mates by our sides, we battle the wind and high seas. Our ship smashing threw the waves, our bare feet scrabbling for purchase on rain slick rigging as we desperately furl topsails to save the ship and our selves.

The soft rustling of clothing and our breath is taken away by the vision of beauty before us. The touch of her soft hand, the smell of her hair, the sparkle in her eyes, the sound of her voice.

The clear clean smell after a summer rain. the sound and fury of a prairie hail storm, the roar of the wind and the sight of the shingles and the barn being blown off during a tornado.

The Southern Cross on a clear moonless night. The constellations clear to the naked eye. The Northern Lights so close you can almost reach up and touch them. Coming over a small ridge expecting to see a hot spring, but realising the steam we were seeing was coming from a heard of Wapiti bedded down out of the frigid wind. How the sharp eyed scout whistled her warning and in seconds the herd exploded in thunder and were off into the nearby woods, the bulls laying their massive six foot long antlers on their backs so they will not become entangled in the brush. In minutes the clearing is once again silent. An all encompassing silence that we can never imagine in our crowded urban environments.

The sight of the matched black horses, the red serge and iconic Stetson hats of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police musical ride. The thump of the hooves and the jangle of horse tack as they make their movements. The moment of fear as they line up in line abreast, lower their lances and charge, each lance seemingly pointed at your heart.

Seeing a wolverine in all his majesty, standing on a hillside, master of all. A white tail deer stomps her foot and whistles to warn her fawn of approaching danger. The whistles of the Wapiti calling each other and the bugles of the males, the crash of Big Horn Rams slamming repeatedly into each other.

The terror, our horse and our selves feel at the sound of the timber wolf howling his dominance of his territory and the answering howls of his pack. The crack of the ice as we gingerly step across a frozen lake.

The joy we feel hearing and singing a folk song or dance. The sorrow we feel when a loved one is lost.

And then, the story is over. Our brief interlude into another world or life is over, for life, as boring as it can be at times must go on.

For a chance to win one of three Kindle copies of Bears and Eagles up for giveaway, leave a comment in the comments section. A random selection will be made of all entries collected from 9AM EST July 14, 2015 until Midnight EST July 18, 2015. Odds of winning are dependant on the number of entries collected. No purchase is required.

My thanks to Debdatta Dasgupta Sahay for organising and putting on this blog hop.

 

Bears Maul Part 3

Copyright 2015 R. P. Wollbaum

This is a work of fiction. Any connection with places, events or people is coincidental

 

 

For lack of a better term, today was graduation day. They had lost one hundred and fifty candidates through failure, or injury, or just not willing to put up with it any more. This afternoon they would have a small ceremony and after, Nicolas had arranged for a party, catered by the young lady who ran the little beer hall. Local farmers and ranchers had been invited and a number of town’s people were also coming. Many of whom were already here to watch the proceedings.

Nicolas had refused to present the honors to the candidates. It was the American colonels dream and idea, it was only right he be the one. So it was, that he and Sandy marched in at the head of the regiment, lining up with the rest of the brigade and saluting the American Colonel. American and Canadian national colors were behind him as he gave his speech, then ordered each company commander to come forward and take boxes to his company. In the boxes were a beret and a patch and each soldier received one and put them on. When they were dismissed, all the troops whooped and hollered, the regiment included and in small groups headed for the large mess hall for the party.

None of them noticing that the ten Native Americans and all of the regiment were missing.

On the parade square the ten were marched out, dressed in new dark blue regiment dress uniforms, complete with knee high cavalry boots. They were met by all four hundred regiment members in their dress uniforms lined up by company, with the regimental colors in front. Once the men were in line facing the regiment, Nicolas called the regiment to attention and had them salute the ten. Then he Sandy and eight other officers approached the ten, removing shiny brass eagles from boxes and affixing the eagle to their right collars. Nicolas pinned his on the corporal who had spoken to him that first day.

“When you go home tomorrow,” Nicolas said. “You give your grandfather’s back to him. You have your own now.”

“Now don’t be frightened brothers, what is going to happen now is we are going to welcome you to our band as full members,” Nicolas said as the regiment formed a circle around the ten and began to sing the traditional welcoming song to them.

In the mess hall an old woman put her hand on her husbands arm. “Am I hearing things?” She said.

The husband cocked his head and smiled. “I have not heard that for so many years,” he said to her in Russian and stood holding her chair for her.

“Come,” she said to her two married children in Russian, “come now and bring the young ones.”

All over the room people were rising, young and old, and headed for the exit. The old woman started humming the song and her husband joined her as they listened to the perfect acapello of music from their home land. They stood about a hundred strong watching the circle, forty women of the four hundred in their dress uniforms, boots to their bare knees, hair braided behind and around their heads, wildflowers woven in the braids, added their voices to the male harmony, in the vocals only Russian voices could make.

The song was finished and before Nicolas could break the circle and shake hands with the men inside, a single female voice outside the circle began to sing a joyful song of welcoming, of old friends come again. She was joined by other female voices and the regiment broke the circle and formed four lines to watch, as the women of the town approached them, arms linked, dancing the traditional dance as they came, their men behind them singing as well.

Nicolas waited until they stopped five yards in front of him and stopped singing, then he nodded and his forty women linked arms and approached the town group singing the response words, followed by forty troopers, the rest of the regiment started to sing as well, slapping their hands to the beat and raising the tempo to that of a fast walking horse. Then they slowly started to raise the tempo and finally some of the troopers could hold themselves back no longer and started to dance the bouncing arm flinging and knee dropping dance the Cossack was famous for. The song went faster and faster reaching that of a galloping horse, the regiments dancers whirling in a blur, the towns people clapping time, some of the older ones, feet moving to remembered moves. The song came to a sudden stop and townspeople and regiment troopers laughed and hugged and cheered each other.

Nicolas walked back to the now confused ten.

“It is seldom we run into other Cossack people,” he said. “When we do, it is cause for great celebration. You have just been adopted by our people and made members of our band. That was what this ceremony was about. It is a great honor and the whole band must agree. Those four hundred wanted it and we sent word back home of your courage, your skill and your humility. The eagles, we can give to any who deserve. The blue uniform is something else and seldom done. In recognition of what your people did for us on our trip here so many years ago and for what you men have accomplished here, our people voted to have you made members of our band.”

The corporal then began to sing in his own language and the others joined in forming a circle around Nicolas and performing one of their own ritual dances at the end, each man came up to Nicolas and took him by the shoulders saying words in their own language, then lined up before him.

“By that song and dance and by those words, we accept you as our war leader and pledge to fight bravely for you and to die for you,” the corporal said, all the ten saluted.

Nicolas took off his hat and placed it under his left arm and stood tall.

“I Nicolas, son of John, son of Andreas, pledge before God and man, what is done to you and yours is done to me and mine, so say I.”

“So say all of us,” came four hundred voices behind him. Then the party really began.

Nicolas watched his blue uniformed men, mingling with the green and khaki of the rest of the brigade, singing songs and joking, some dancing with local girls, some talking with the towns folk. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the young blond who ran the beer hall directing her staff, which now had a number of the local women helping to serve and clear away dishes and empties. She was tall and lithe, her simple functional dress, covered with an apron hid her figure, but she moved with grace and seamlessly effort. Her long blond hair was pulled back from her face and pulled into a pony tail that reached to just above her hips and the dress modestly down to just below her calf, hinting at the long legs above them.

No time for that, thought Nicolas and he grabbed two beer and stole out the door of the mess hall. He walked until he came to the parade ground and found a barracks step to sit on, looking out across the empty square. Well almost empty. The three lonely flags, two national colors and his regiments colors had been joined by the American colonel who was standing in front of them, drinking a bottle of beer.

“Mind if I join you?” the young woman from the beer hall said. “I needed some fresh air, it’s getting hot in there.” Nicolas stood and made to hand her the spare beer he had brought with him, but she held up one she had brought with her. “Thanks anyway,” she said.

“Can we go look at your flag?” she asked as she saw the Colonel pull out each one of the yellow streamers attached to the standard, one by one and read them.

As they came up, the colonel was extending the flag to have a better look at it.

“The blue yellow and red, represent the band of people we come from,” Nicolas said. “The eagle represents our German heritage and the bear our Russian roots. That first streamer is to commemorate an action the regiment participated in in Afghanistan. In order to seal some pact with the British, the Tsar sent the regiment there to help hold the area for the British until a large infantry contingent could come up from India and put an end to a large religious uprising. My grandfather defeated the extremists in a large battle. My aunt and two others of the regiment were killed there. The Prince of Wales himself, tied the ribbon there and made my grandfather an offer to come to Canada.”

“We added the beaver when we came to Canada, it is their national animal and it depicts our commitment to the country. The second ribbon is from South Africa. My grandfather was in overall command of a district and my uncle in command of the Regiment. We were sent to contain a large group of Boers who were holed up in a fortified canyon and when they tried to break out we defeated them. We lost twenty that day, my uncle was wounded badly and my father took over command. We added the maple leaf after that action signifying that we are Canadians. Two months before he became King, His Majesty gave us that ribbon.”

“In Palestine and Syria in the last war, my father commanded the Regiment and conducted two assaults on German and Turkish positions in one day. The first was over in minutes and the second against much better defended and manned positions cost us twenty dead, that is the third ribbon, and the last, is for an action on the second last day of the war in Cologne Germany where we attacked a division of German fanatics who had pledged to hold the city to the last man. We crossed the river downstream and attacked from the rear causing a lot of mayhem and the Australians attacked from the front, finishing them off. King George tied both those ribbons on. We lost a hundred that day and my father was wounded badly when the surrendering German General shot him with his pistol. My mother killed the German.”

“I read about those actions in the last war,” the colonel said. “I had no idea it was you people. The only mention is of British forces, with the help of a few Australians.”

“Actually, there were few Brits, a few more Aussies and a lot of Canadians,” Nicolas said. “As a country, we are modest people. My people in particular. We don’t glory in war colonel. It is our duty and we do it. Then when we are not needed, we go back to our farms and homes and jobs, train for the next war, but hope it never comes.”

“Why there is even no mention of your regiment that I know of,” the colonel said. “Your father and mothers citations say only members of the second Canadian army.”

“We just call ourselves the regiment colonel,” Nicolas said. “We are a throwback to medieval times. Everyone, male and female serves mandatory terms. We are self-equipped and armed. When our government needs us we go, they replace and furnish any supplies we require.”

“How many are you?” he asked.

“We have a battalion in Britain and my Battalion is someplace in Sicily right now. Another battalion is on standby at home for replacements etc,” Nicolas answered. “If called upon, we have ten thousand trained and armed troopers of military age that we could deploy in an emergency.”

The colonel let go of the flag, saluted it and Nicolas with his beer and went back to the mess hall to join his men shaking his head as he walked away.

“Those are nice uniforms,” the girl said.

“As a reward for a job my grandfather did for the Tsar when he was about my age,” Nicolas said. “He was made a member of the Imperial Life Guards, at that time an elite cavalry unit and ordered to field a battalion of troopers, to begin operations the next year. These are their uniforms.”

“That explains the Russian songs,” she said. “But I hear you speaking German to each other all the time.”

“That is another story for another time,” Nicolas said in German.

“There will be another time?” she asked in English accented German.

“Ah a lady of secrets,” Nicolas said smiling. “Always the best kind of lady. Enough of my background, what of yours, shiny green eyes.”

She blinked and lowered her reddening face, to hide her surprise that he had noticed the color of her eyes.

“There is not much to tell, Nicolas,” she said. “I live in Billings, run a modest but good beer hall and don’t have much time for myself.”

“Living the American dream,” Nicolas laughed. “All work and no play. So let’s hear some more, like your name for one. Calling you miss all the time is not very personal. It is miss right?”

Again she blushed, but this time with a hint of defiance underneath.

“Katherine, Miss Katherine Engelmann, I am twenty one and single. You have a problem with that?” she said, sitting tall looking him in the eyes and daring him to have one.

“In deed not, Miss Engelmann. I am Nicolas Bekenbaum, glad to meet you.” Nicolas said. “I am twenty two, single and the only job I know outside of this army stuff, is to dig trenches and fix pipelines. Do you have a problem with that?”

Oh my God she thought shaking her head. I better be careful or I will lose myself in those deep blue eyes.

Nicolas, Sandy and Calvin, were the only members of the brigade left in camp. The others had left on their mandatory two week leave. They told themselves and everyone else that they were going to supervise the shutting down of the camp, by the regular US Army personnel and the loading of their equipment. But Sandy knew Nicolas had stayed because of Katherine and she stayed to keep an eye on him. Nicolas knew she was staying because Calvin was staying. Calvin being the only one who had been ordered to stay.

They spent their days in camp, handling paper and questions by the Army and their evenings in Billings at the Beer hall run by Katherine. Usually sitting as couples and acting as any young couples their age do. Nicolas and Katherine had an easy way about them, never acting inappropriately and usually acting as chaperones to the other couple.

The night before the Canadians were going to ship out, Sandy went back into the kitchen, took Katherine by the arm and dragged her outside.

“If you want him, you better do something about it tonight,” Sandy said. “He’s to Goddamn shy.”

“Oh I don’t know,” Katherine said. “I’m not sure he likes me.”

“Likes you? For God’s sake woman, he can hardly keep his eyes off you,” Sandy said. “Back in camp, its Katherine said this or Katherine said that. Did you see how nice Katherine looked last night? He’s got it bad for you girl. And I know you’ve got it for him too. I can see how you look at him when he’s not looking.”

“I can’t. I’m scared he will reject me,” Katherine said and she started to cry.

“Naj you better do something tonight if you want her or she won’t be here when you get back,” Calvin said.

“Ah come on,” Nicolas said. “She’s just being nice to me is all. Good looking girl like that, probably has all the boys in town chasing her. What have I got to offer? Chances are I’ll get killed or worse. Even if I come back, what have I to offer? Life as a nomad, going from oil field to oil field?”

“You think it’s any different for me?” Calvin asked. “I’m just a glorified farm hand on my father’s farm. Sandy doesn’t mind.”

Then they changed the subject as the two women walked back into the room.

“I am going home early,” Katherine said. “Mindy will close up for me. Would you mind walking me home Nicolas?”

She was strangely quiet as they walked and Nicolas let her have her silence, just enjoying being with her one last time. He had never been to her home and as they turned down a long street, she reached out her left hand and took his right, sending shivers up his arm and down his spine.

She turned up the walk to a modest but well kept house and stopped in front of the door, letting his hand go, already he felt a loss. She stood looking at the door, then turned and looked into his eyes.

“Would you come in for a minute, I have someone I’d like you to meet,” she said.

She opened the door and walked in, Nicolas removing his beret, followed her. She motioned him to stay in the foyer and walked into the kitchen, where a young child’s voice greeted her. In a few seconds she was back, a happy toddler of about four on her hip.

“This is my son George,” she said looking him defiantly in the eyes.

Nicolas rolled up his beret and stuck it under an epilate.

“Well hello George,” he said, advancing on the two holding his hand out for George to shake. “Your mother never told me how handsome you were. You know I have a nephew your age.”

“Does he like to ride ponies?” George said. “I do. I go to grandpas all the time and have my own pony.”

“Why yes he does,” said Nicolas. “He lives on a farm and has his own pony too.”

“And a dog?” George said. “I bet he has a dog. Mommy won’t let me have a dog, but I get to play with grandpas when I am there.”

“Well the house is a little small for a dog and a big boy like you,” Nicolas said.

Katherine put George down. “You run off and finish your supper, mommy has to say goodbye to Nicolas now.”

“Bye Nicolas,” George said running back into the kitchen.

Katherine escorted Nicolas out the door closing it behind her. She opened her mouth to talk, but Nicolas put a finger to her lips.

“The past is the past,” he said. “You can tell me later if you must.”

He handed her a piece of paper with an address on it.

“If I write to you, will you write me back?” he asked looking down at his boots.

She lifted his head with her hand.

“Yes,” she said and kissed him on the lips.

“You better write me often,” she said when they came up for air.

“Yes mam,” he said quietly.

She kissed him again, then went into the house, stopping in the doorway and blowing him one last kiss before flipping her right hip as she flipped her hair around her head and walking in, closed it behind her.

Damn, Nicolas thought. She’s bloody beautiful.

Katherine’s mother, who had been looking after George came to the living room and put her arm around her daughter as they looked out the front window. Nicolas stood on the sidewalk looking up at the stars then put his beret squarely and firmly on his head, punched his right arm into the air and yelled, “Yah alright!” then almost ran back to the beer hall to collect his companions.

“God please let him come back to me,” Katherine prayed and her mother squeezed her tight.

“Oh you’ve got him alright,” she said in German. “You’ve got him good.”

The special train came from the north, the locomotive stopping at the station and allowed the troops off for a breather while it changed crews and refueled, then added another passenger coach, before backing up to the flat cars and box cars holding the brigades equipment and vehicles. Officers and men saluted the three officers standing on the platform, some calling out in recognition or good natured insults. Nicolas was kept busy signing last minute forms and Sandy spotting Katherine standing alone with George on her hip at the end of the platform, moved down to greet her.

“Is this George then?” Sandy asked. “He’s gorgeous, like his mother.”

Katherine was dressed in a dark blue dress that emphasized her figure and the two women were drawing the eyes of all the young soldiers. All but one.

“I’m still not sure about this,” Katherine said.

Sandy was about to say more when she saw a familiar figure in new khaki, the new shinny eagle on her right collar contrasting with the duller bear on the left.

“Andrea,” Sandy yelled out. “Andrea, over here.”

The two cousins embraced, not having seen each other for some time and then only briefly during the short three day layover when they had returned from North Africa to begin the training at the American base.

“Andrea, this is Naj’s girl Katherine and her gorgeous son George, Katherine, this is Nicolas’s sister Andrea,” Sandy made the introductions.

“Oh, I’m not so sure I’m his girl,” Katherine said, both women taking stock of each other after shaking hands. “He just met George last night.”

“Nice to meet you Mr. George,” Andrea said, shaking the now delighted youngsters hand.

“Why would you say that Katherine,” Andrea said. “He wrote mother and said he wasn’t coming home because he wanted to be with his girl.”

“Oh shit,” said Sandy. “I bet Tatiana had a fit.”

“Mother was less than pleased,” Andrea agreed. “Let’s just say this train better leave pretty soon, because momma is going to twist his ear off when she sees him next. So you see Katherine, you’re his girl whether you like it or not.”

“But that was before he knew about George,” Katherine said. “I’m not so sure now. Before, it was only me that got hurt, but now..”

“Are you kidding me?” Andrea said. “He loves kids. Not even an issue.”

“But your parents? Your mother will hardly approve.”

The cousins looked at each other and laughed.

“Tatiana all but tied John down,” said Sandy. “She chased him all the way from Russia. No way she is going to disapprove.”

“You have two problems with mother,” Andrea said. “You’re not Russian and like any mother does, you’re not good enough for her son. Oh ya and you’re good looking too. No daughter in law should be good looking to a mother’s son.”

The three girls were laughing when George mimicked the soldiers around him and stiffened in his mother’s arms and saluted.

“At ease trooper George,” Nicolas said. “What’s so funny you three?”

“Your big floppy ears brother,” Andrea said, giving her brother a hug. “George, would you like to see the locomotive?”

“Oh yes, can I please mommy?” George pleaded.

Katherine nodded and put him down on the ground.

“Now you hold tight to Aunty Andrea’s hand, so you don’t get lost,” Andrea said. “Come on Sandy, let’s give the boys a show shall we?”

Both young women in their tight uniform skirts, exaggerated the swing of their hips as they walked down the platform to the locomotive, George between them.

Nicolas watched the sparkle in Katherine’s eyes as she laughed at the cousins antics, then suddenly cloud over as she looked at Nicolas looking at her.

“My God, but you are beautiful,” Nicolas said. He took in her face and green eyes with long natural eyelashes, her hair unbound, framing her face and streaming down her back.

“Much to beautiful for this skinny wretch,” he continued. Her eyes lit up again at the reference, when they had first met.

“Wow what a dress!” he exclaimed.

“What, this old thing,” Katherine said. “It was just something I had hanging in the closet and threw on.” Liar liar, she said to herself. You and mother were up all night sewing this thing and doing your hair.

“Well it and you look fabulous,” Nicolas said then looked down at his feet.

“Yo Naj,” one of his non coms yelled. “The train is gonna leave with outcha.”

Sure enough, the locomotive bell began to ring. signaling time to leave.

Nicolas looked up at her fear, in his eyes and dug something out of his pocket.

“Would you wear this to remember me by?” he asked, holding it out to her.

Hung suspended on a gold chain, was a golden eagle. An exact replica of the one he had on his collar.

“Oh yes, yes” she said taking it from his hand.

“Help me put it on?” she asked unclasping it and turning around holding the chain up and her hair back so he could fasten it at her neck.

Nicolas hooked it up and drank in the smell of her hair and the fine curve of her neck as he did so.

Fussing with the eagle so it hung just so, she turned around showing how it looked hanging just above and emphasizing her breasts. She gave him just enough time to get a good view and then grabbed him close and they kissed, long and deep.

“Eh comeon Naj,” the same noncom yelled. “We aint got no time for you to get a room. Conductor says we gotta go and they can’t go till you tell them to go.”

He held her at arm’s length to get a last long look, then kissed her again and turned to leave.

“Didn’t you forget something Nicolas?” Katherine said.

Nicolas turned back fumbling at his pockets and uniform. Katherine was holding a sealed envelope in her out thrust hand.

“It’s a little hard to write someone a letter when you don’t know her address silly,” she said. “Now go, your holding up the war effort.”

Stopping only to salute George as the girls were bringing him back to Katherine, Nicolas hurried to the lead car and conferred with the conductor. Andrea and Sandy climbed into the car, then the conductor blew his whistle and the train blew its warning whistle.

Nicolas looked back at Katherine as he rose the last step, holding onto the railing with one hand he kissed the letter in his other hand and waved it. Katherine now holding George, lifted the eagle and kissed it so he could see, then he was in the train, gone from view.

“Mommy I got to sit in the locomotive,” George said looking up at his mother. “Mommy, why are you crying?”

“Woo hoo naj, what a looker,” was the nicest of the comments he received from his troopers as he made his way to the compartment in the front reserved for the staff.

“That’s what you guys get for going home for leave,” Nicolas said. “I get the best looking girl all to myself.”

He shut the door to the compartment behind him, shutting off the laughs and grabbed his seat oblivious to everything around him and opened the letter.

‘My dear Nicolas,’ it began, she wrote in clear flowing letters. ‘I have found myself having feelings with you I have never felt before. Even the time before George came along it was not like this. If you want, I will wait for you. If not I will understand. Kat.’

He fell asleep holding the letter over his heart and it fell to the floor when his hand relaxed. Andrea picked it up and read it, then folded it up neatly and put it in his breast pocket. He woke with a start and grabbed her hand, then noticed who it was and let her go. She sat down across from him knowing from his look that he was troubled.

“I have no right,” he said. “She is young and can find someone else. Someone who is not going to get killed.”

“Do you think she cares about that Naj?” Andrea said. “Did grandmother care? Or mother? It is harder for her, she has to stay back home alone, fearing every telephone call or telegram or letter, will be news that you will never be coming back. Mother and grandmother were with their men, she will not be. If you love her, tell her.”

He pulled out a sheet of paper from his files and began to write.

‘Dearest Kat, I am still coming to grips with the fact that a beautiful woman like you would even consider an over grown kid like me, let alone love me. When I am with you, time stands still and I tingle all over my body, sometimes I find it hard to breath. Today I smelled your hair and was lost in the fragrance and I thought God had taken me to heaven when you kissed me. I can tell you are a good mother, George is such a good and polite boy, I look forward to getting to know him better. Please tell him I miss him.

I cannot promise I will return to you, just like you cannot promise you will be there when I return. That is in God’s hands. What I can promise is that after all this is over, if you will still have me. I will come for you.

I love you Kat, with all my heart and all my soul.

Naj’

He folded the letter and searching through his papers found an envelope and stuck the letter in it, forgetting to seal it and leaning back into his seat fell asleep again. His sister picked up the letter and read it and then smiling put it back in and sealed it, writing down the address on the envelope in her note book.

‘Dearest momma,’ she wrote when she reached her seat. ‘As we suspected Naj is deeply in love with this girl. She is very attractive, striking even and does not seem to be aware of it. She is tall and blond and has just enough curves in just the right places. Sandy adores her and you know how catty Sandy can be. Sandy tells me that Katherine wants to love Naj and in fact does, but she is afraid. Afraid that she will be hurt, just as she was hurt before and this time she is really in love. She also has a four year old son that she adores and does not want to have his hopes of a real daddy dashed. She could handle Naj being killed or maimed, but if he left her, she would most likely die.

I only met her briefly momma, at the train stopover, but I was very, very impressed.

Keep us in your hearts and your prayers as I will keep you in mine.

Andy

The next morning the train stopped at an isolated platform, really just a water and fuel station. Outside lining the platform were hundreds of Native Americans, most in ceremonial garb, ten in American Army uniform formed up in in line at attention, their duffle bags beside them. Just off to the side of their formation, an old man in full headdress stood proudly erect, holding an eagle feather.

“Fall the troops out Sandy,” Nicolas said standing and making his uniform as presentable as possible. “You too Andy. Stay by my right side.”

Noncoms took up Sandy’s yell of fall out fall out and troopers, EBB’s and Highlanders fell out lining up in parade formation beside the platform.

Nicolas flanked by Andrea on his right and Sandy on his left came up to the ten and returned their smart salutes.

“Corporal Snarling Bear and party of nine reporting for duty sir!” the corporal barked out.

“At ease corporal,” Nicolas replied.

“Sir, I would like to present my grandfather, Red Cloud, leader of my band.” The corporal said indicating the old man.

Nicolas, along with Sandy and Andrea marched up to the old chief and all three saluted. The chief waved his eagles wing at them and smiled.

“It has been long since the eagle of the Bekenbaum has been in this land,” he said.

“My grandfather and grandmother spoke often of Red Cloud and his people and how much they owed to him for helping them across this land,” Nicolas said.

“More like how he stole all my horses from me after I stole two of his,” Red Cloud said laughing.

“Please sir,” Nicolas said. “Would you inspect my troops? They are all descendants of those who trekked across your land so long ago.”

“It is a great honor grandfather,” the corporal said when he looked over at him.

The old chief drew himself up to his impressive six foot six, then flanked by Nicolas and trailed by Sandy and Andrea, walked to where the regiment was formed up.

“Regiment prepare for inspection!” the RSM of the regiment barked. “REGIMENT ATTENTION!”

The old chief looked behind him and handed the eagle wing to Andrea, then he pulled his brass eagle from under his shirt hanging from its chain. Holding it in his right hand he looked each trooper in the eye and touched the eagle on their collar. Noting that the Highlanders had no eagles, he let his dangle and retrieved his eagle wing, touching each Highlander on the shoulder with it.

When he was done the inspection, Nicolas escorted him back to the platform and the at ease formation of his grandson and his detachment.

“Tenhut,” Nicolas said to the ten soldiers. “About face.” The ten men performed the maneuver flawlessly.

“RSM, the regiment is to pass in review,” Nicolas said walking to the front of the small native line, placing the old chief in the center out in front, then took three steps back, leaving no doubt who was going to do the review.

“Regiment, columns of eight to pass in review!” the RSM barked out. “Regiment by the left, MARCH!”

Lead by the Highlanders, the regiment expertly passed in review of the chief, all in perfect step, each head snapping to the right as their line crossed his path. When the regiment had reformed in their lines, the chief turned to Nicolas.

“Their grandfathers and grandmothers did that for me on horseback many years ago,” he said. “Like them, you honor me and my people. As great warriors have always done to one another.”

The locomotive bell gave a quick ring signaling they were ready to go.

“Your grandson and his band will make you proud,” Nicolas said waving his hand in a circle over his head. As the RSM started loading the troops back into the train the old chief laughed.

“The last time a Bekenbaum made that gesture, he stole all my horses. Now you are just stealing my grandsons,” he said. “Much better, good horses are hard to come by.”

He walked up to the ten men and began to chant in his language. All ten of the men stood to attention and soon the ground beside the platform was full of chanting and dancing Natives. The old chief touched each soldier on the forehead and the heart with his eagle wing. When he had finished the last man, his grandson, he hugged him close.

“Go now,” he said. “Go before you see an old man cry.”

Nicolas joined the ten as they entered the last coach and the train began to leave.

“Thank you sir,” said the corporal. “You did a great honor for Red Cloud. Our people were chanting for you, not for us. To honor you for all you have done for us.”

Nicolas made sure each staff sergeant and the RSM heard that as he passed down the line of coaches headed for his own and told them to pass it on to the men. The great honor, the great man and his people had done for them.

Two more passenger coaches were added as the train went further east, picking up more brigade personnel as they went.

“Right, you can tell the boys now, we are going for parachute training,” Nicolas told his officers.

“Ah just what we needed, more shit to have to sew on our uniforms,” Nicolas overheard one of the troopers say referring to the parachute wings they would receive when they finished parachute school.

None of the regiment had been given permission to sew on the red arrow head of the special services brigade. They were all entitled to wear them, but did not question or wonder at the reason why. All that mattered to them was the Canada patch, the EBB patch and the eagles on their collars. Only Nicolas knew the reason why and he would tell them when the time was right.

‘Kat my love,’ Nicolas wrote. ‘We have finally finished learning how to hurl ourselves out of perfectly functioning airplanes. The first few seconds are horrifying, until the parachute opens and then it is a peaceful decent. Well it would have been peaceful but for Sandy and Andrea whooping their war cries, that got the rest of our troop whooping as well. Me included.

My days are so full of reports and meetings, I barley have time to think. My nights are lonely and I think of you until I fall asleep.

Tomorrow the regiment boards ship for Europe, scuttlebutt is we are headed for Italy as that is where all the action is and we are needed urgently. If it is one thing I have learned about the army, is that it is always, hurry up and wait and that things are never what you expect them to be.

It would be just our luck to be sent back to Montana to train some more recruits, by way of Suez and Seattle. That would be alright with me, because I could hook up with a cute girl I met in Billings the last time I was there. That’s not going to happen though, they need us over there and badly.

I love you more and more each day.

Naj’

Nicolas knocked on the barracks room door, his head uncovered and top button undone on his shirt, receiving the muted instruction to come in, he opened the door and walked in. The commander of the first special services brigade was just standing to greet him. He looked a little haggard, as all the staff officers were, planning for a move that they knew they were doing but not where. Nicolas held up two bottles of vodka, plunking one on the small desk in the room and spinning the top off the other one. The Lieutenant Colonel produced two glasses and Nicolas poured a generous portion in each, they saluted each other with a toast, then refilled the glasses and sat down.

“So, all squared away, ready to go?” the American asked.

“Yes,” Nicolas answered. “The vehicles and equipment have been loaded and the troopers will begin loading at first light. I believe I am the first to congratulate you?”

“For what?” the American asked. “Surviving the last three months in this hell hole?”

“You will be promoted to full bird colonel tomorrow,” Nicolas said. “Long past due if I may say so. You have done well organizing this thing.”

“You always amaze me with your ability to ferret out information,” the colonel said. “Anything else you have found out?”

“The Brigade will be sent to Italy, as we assumed,” Nicolas replied. “It has indeed been an honor and a privilege for me to serve with you sir. As you know, I came up through the ranks and being allowed to observe and learn from you has been an exceptional experience for me.”

“You learn from me?” the colonel said. “That’s a new one. Without you and your ability to get things done and your vast knowledge on the type of tactics we will be employing, we’d still be in Montana shoveling snow or disbanded by now.”

“Even so sir,” Nicolas said. “I knew nothing on how to run a battalion and you have been very helpful. I will miss harassing you. It was a lot of fun you know. You take things so seriously all the time.”

“Oh I’m sure you’ll make up for it once we get in the field in Italy,” the colonel said with a smile.

“I am sure we will link up again sometime in the future,” Nicolas said. “The powers to be however have other plans for the regiment I am afraid.”

“What, they can’t take the Canadians away from us, that’s more than half of the force.”

“The Highlanders will still be with you, sir it’s only the regiment that is being reassigned and we are only four hundred,” Nicolas said.

“Now I see why you have not put your patches on,” the colonel said. “How long have you known?”

“Officially, this afternoon and the troopers still don’t know,” Nicolas said. “Unofficially, graduation day.”

“How do you get all this information all of the time?”

“I could tell you colonel, but then I’d have to kill you,” Nicolas said with a laugh.

The next day, the ships containing the special services brigade turned right to go to the Mediterranean and the regiments turned left to join a convoy in Halifax. The regiment was going to Britain.