The Happy Warrior: Political Memoirs

By Donald MacDonald

Originally published in 1988, this revised and expanded edition of Donald C. MacDonald’s acclaimed memoirs provides an inside look at provincial politics in Ontario through the eyes of a party leader. Dubbed "the Happy Warrior" by Tommy Douglas, MacDonald led the Ontario CCF/NDP for seventeen years, and continued to sit in the Legislature for twelve years after stepping down as party leader. During his political career, MacDonald played a significant role in the rise of the CCF/NDP, and provided a strong voice for the left wing in the Legislature. He also witnessed and criticized various scandals that plagued ruling parties.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dundurn
• Release date: Sep 1, 1998
• ISBN: 9781554883271

Donald MacDonald

The author was a Counter Terrorist Detective with the Royal Ulster Constabulary/PSNI, working in staunch protestant loyalist and catholic republican areas in Belfast, Northern Ireland. He received Her Majesty the Queens Commendation for Brave Conduct during his service in Belfast.

Book preview

1998

PART I

OVERVIEW

1

EARLY YEARS

From my high school years, I was never uncertain as to what I wanted to do, only how to go about doing it. I always intended to go into politics.

Why politics? I have been asked that question hundreds of times and I don’t know the precise answer. It must lie buried in ancestral genes, for neither of my parents came from immediate families with a tradition of public life. But from high school years it was my firm resolution to go into politics. I can recall vividly an occasion in grade ten, when each member of the class had to deliver a speech on what they intended to do upon graduation. Some were uncertain, but not me: school teaching was to be the stepping stone, while doing undergraduate work, to weekly journalism, in pursuit of the goal of politics.

My father, Charles Pirie MacDonald, was the grandson of a Scottish immigrant who came to Canada in 1840, and carved a farm out of the forest in southern Quebec. The original homestead was on the English River, a small tributary of the Chateauguay, famed for the battle in the War of 1812-14. In 1857 his family moved to the site of a farm on Tullochgorum Road, lying between the villages of Ormstown and Howick, some thirty-five miles south of Montreal, just a mile or two from the national monument commemorating the repulse by the British forces of the American invaders in the 1813 battle. The family home was built three years after Confederation, and my father was born there in 1887, the second of a family of eight.

In his ninety-fifth year Dad completed the MacDonald family history. With the incredible recall of some older people for times, places and persons of years gone by, he has recaptured the past, portions of which are worthy of inclusion in any anthology of pioneering days. It’s a story from which I extract a few highlights.¹

In 1907 the harvesting had finished on the Tullochgorum farm. Dad was now twenty and felt that a trip to the west would be a worthwhile experience. He purchased a ten-dollar ticket for the harvesters’ excursion and, with twelve dollars in his pocket, supplemented as he left, by his mother, with an additional ten dollars and a basket of roast chicken and home baking, he was off. His sister Grace drove him to the station in the milk wagon and, as they passed their father cutting weeds along the lane with a scythe, there were best wishes for a good journey. In stoical Scottish fashion, there was no emotional parting. In fact, Dad would not see home again for five years.

His three-day trip from Montreal to Winnipeg was a rollicking adventure with a train-load of farm boys from Eastern Canada. At Winnipeg the excursion ended, and each went his own way. Dad took a passenger train to Moose Jaw, met a lad from Melbourne, Quebec, and together they worked without any loss of time for about two months, at stooking and threshing grain on farms south of the town.

At the beginning of December they parted. Dad spent a couple of days in Moose Jaw where, after two months of harvesting, he luxuriated in a Turkish bath—I felt like a new man. He then headed for Calgary, where, it was rumoured, homestead land was available. But he found that you couldn’t buy a job. Every night homeless men crowded into a furnace room of the hotel, where they were allowed to sit or lie on the floor.

He moved on to High River, forty miles south of Calgary, spent his first Christmas away from home with three other guests at a hotel, and the next morning signed up for work at the Lineham Lumber Company’s camp. Within two weeks he was an experienced sawyer, who was teamed up with a young Scottish Highlander: We worked together all winter and turned out a daily count of two hundred logs. In camp he met Arthur Ashurst, who had filed the previous fall for a homestead in the Stettler area. He said there was an adjoining quarter section open, so on 17 March 1908 he paid ten dollars, and became the proud owner of one hundred and sixty acres of land. Throughout that summer he began the work of proving up his homestead.

In the early fall one of his neighbours was visited by a son, Arthur Smith, who was foreman of the CPR freight sheds in Fernie, British Columbia, the town which had been totally burned out in late August. Smith told Dad there was a job for him as quickly as he could get there, so he left the harvesting to Arthur Ashurst, with whom he had a working partnership, and spent the remainder of the fall and winter handling freight in the hectic rebuilding of Fernie. Shortly after his arrival, he received word that a prairie fire had swept from the south and burned Ashurst’s shack and barn, along with his building, wagon and stacks of grain.

For the next two years the summers were spent breaking new land and improving the homestead, with winters back in Fernie. At Christmas, 1910, however, he returned for a final winter on the homestead to fulfil the residential requirements for claiming title.

During these years, Dad’s interests slowly changed. On his first visit to British Columbia, he did not succumb to the awesome spectacle of the Rockies. The lure of the prairies remained strong: The snow peaks of the Rocky Mountains outlined against the blue sky and white clouds have a beauty and a fascination all their own, but it is the beauty of barren desolation and majesty, while the prairies give promise of food for untold millions…the rise and fall of its grassy slopes are like the sweep of a frozen sea, relieved at intervals by a thin wisp of smoke rising from some homesteader’s cabin. Many times I have sat on my hilltop watching the light fade from the sky. In the hush of the evening, with the first star burning in the cloudless sky, the mystery and solitude of the Great Plains wound around me like a spell. When the moon came up and the coyotes commenced their evening song, it was really something to remember….

Obviously the prairies had a strong fascination for this farm boy from the east, but his interests focused more and more on the Fernie area. When he got title to his quarter-section, on 17 March 1911, he immediately sold it to Arthur Ashurst and returned to British Columbia. The reason became clear when he travelled back at Christmas for that final winter on the homestead. As he passed through Calgary he bought a ring and mailed it back to Flo Jennings. As an engagement ring, it wasn’t much, he wrote, but on sixty-five dollars a month, you cannot go in for platinum and diamonds.

My mother’s family, from Staffordshire, England, had a traumatic introduction into life in Canada. Her father, James Jennings, emigrated in 1906 and worked for the coal company in Fernie. He was in charge of the fans which withdrew dangerous gases from the mines and blew fresh air into the shafts. Within a few months, the family joined him. Mother, the eldest daughter, was eleven years old. Grandpa Jennings was plagued with chronic rheumatism, which affected his heart, and was not helped by Fernie’s high altitude. He died suddenly in 1907, and the family doctor was so shocked by the turn of events that he gave Grandma Jennings two hundred dollars to cover the funeral expenses. She rented a large house, kept boarders, and took in washing to provide a family income. A diminutive woman, scarcely five feet tall, she was typical of the gritty Brit who sustained wartime bombing with equanimity.

More disaster was in the offing. In August 1908, a fire had been burning for weeks high up on the mountain. Many times Mother and Grandma Jennings had watched its harmless progress from their living room window. But one day, a gale force wind drove the fire down the mountain side. The tin roofs were torn off the homes and rolled down the streets. The mill yard, with millions of feet of lumber, and a hundred carloads of coal, which had been brought into town by the mine, created an inferno that left rail lines twisted like pretzels. The boilers at the mill exploded with a roar that shook the burning town. Both the railroad and the high bridges were cindered, cutting the town off from the outside world. The top side of logs, held by a boom in the river, were aflame. The sawdust roads burned the shoes off the fleeing townsfolk.

The whole of Fernie lay in ruins. All the Jennings family’s treasured pictures and mementoes were gone. The next morning, trains came in through the smoke from the west to the outskirts of the smouldering ruins. Women and children were ferried across the river and taken to Cranbrook, where they were fed and housed in the curling rink for several weeks.

But the spirit of these western pioneers was unbreakable. A new town quickly sprang up. The business section was rebuilt with more fire-resistant materials. A sewer and water system, which had not existed before, was installed. Lumber was made available for building new homes. Carpenters, plumbers, bricklayers and plasterers poured in from as far away as the Maritimes. It was into this feverish activity of rebuilding that Dad came on his first trip from the prairies.

Meanwhile, the Jennings family was living in a tent. All the neighbours were preoccupied with their own problems and Grandma Jennings, with her young family, was left to fend for herself. As winter closed in, a few men came to their rescue and threw up a two-roomed shack with no foundations. (In later years, when the sons, Bert and Jim, started to work, they moved the shack across the street to another lot and added two more rooms.) The difficulties were compounded by many unforeseen developments, including a typhoid epidemic, arising from the open cesspools. Uncle Bert came close to dying.

Dad was bunking with Bill Ramsay, a Scottish engineer. Ramsay got to know the Jennings family well because Grandma Jennings was doing his washing. Both he and the family were in the Salvation Army. Ramsay invited Dad to the Army meetings where he first saw Mother, a tall young woman, singing in the choir. When he returned to the prairies, they began corresponding.

By the winter of 1909-10, the pace of freight-yard activity had died down. Work was no longer available there, and Dad got a job as clerk in the warehouse of the Western Canada Wholesale Company, which supplied south-eastern British Columbia with dry-goods and groceries. When he returned the next winter, he found that the manager was moving to Cranbrook to set up another wholesale business, Cranbrook Jobbers Limited. Dad asked for, and got, a job with him, as shipping and receiving clerk in the new warehouse.

In January of 1912, he made a short visit back to the family in Quebec, the first since he had left on the harvesters’ excursion five years earlier. When he returned to Cranbrook, Mother followed him from Fernie; they had been engaged at Christmas. She got employment with local merchants, Little and Atchison, who had opened up an ice-cream parlour which shifted to the skating rink, with the addition of hot drinks, in the winter. Dad contracted for the building of a bungalow—$1,050 for the carpentry work; beyond that was the plumbing, painting, sidewalking and fencing. Together they bought the furnishings for their new home, and on 12 July 1912, they were married.

I was born on a wintry night, 7 December 1913, when, as Dad was fond of needling me, the temperature was forty below and dropping even further with my arrival.

My first ten years were spent in the Cranbrook and Fernie areas, where five of my brothers and sisters were born. From clerking in the warehouse, Dad had gone out on the road as a salesman for the wholesaling company. There are many tales of his travelling by Model-T Ford, calling regularly on customers, in Creston to the west; Fernie, Natal and Michel to the east; north through Kimberley, and down the Columbia Valley to Golden. It was all to become familiar stomping ground for me when I ran federally in the 1953 election in this, my native constituency.

Memories of these boyhood days are vivid: fishing in the creek that ran back of town; being reported, with a number of buddies, for smoking in the quarry one Saturday, for which my teacher—in a gross violation of her jurisdiction—gave me a sound strapping on Monday morning; the weekly salvaging of stray bottles for delivery to the local soft drink works to finance my ticket to the Saturday movies; regular entry into pie-eating contests at the matinees, not so much to win, as to get the pie; to say nothing of a host of other boyhood escapades which are best left unrecorded.

After travelling for some years for Cranbrook Jobbers, Dad opened a grocery store in Cranbrook of which I have fond recollections. For a growing boy, there were many goodies, authorized by Dad, or slyly devoured when nobody was watching. My boundless energy was the source of endless mischief, and when I was at home, Mother wisely kept me busy at many tasks, including the ironing of all the flat washing—handkerchiefs, sheets and pillow-cases.

However, this interlude, including vague memories of the flu epidemic in 1918-19, came to an end in 1923. The store had not proven very prosperous, and Grandpa MacDonald was pleading with Dad to come east and take over the family farm. Mother was unenthusiastic about such a move, but eventually the decision was made, and the family moved back to Tullochgorum.

I became a farm boy at age ten. The next seven years were relatively uneventful. The family income was never more than $1,800 a year, chiefly from milk shipped to Montreal. My parents were burdened constantly with mortgage payments that fell behind. Another brother and sister arrived, and for me, the eldest of eight, it was a regular round of farm work—up at five o’clock all year round, milking cows and delivering cans of milk to Bryson Station, and in the summer, haying, harvesting and threshing.

Of course, school was my preoccupation, first in a little one-room country schoolhouse, and then high school in Ormstown, bicycling in the spring and fall, and driving with a horse and cutter in the winter. I enjoyed school, and winter storms were merely an added challenge. I didn’t miss a day during all the four years of high school.

My public awareness was slowly aroused during those years by a couple of developments in which Dad and Mother were involved. First was the move to church union, which brought Methodists, and most of the Presbyterians, into the United Church. Coincidentally, in 1926, the community was torn apart over the issue of school consolidation. Some, including Dad, were ardent proponents of forsaking the little red schoolhouse in favour of bussing children to a central school with greater facilities. Others were adamantly opposed, and it was interesting that the same families which opposed the location of Macdonald College in the Ormstown area in 1905 (because it was financed by tobacco money!) were those who opposed local school consolidation a generation later. Every community has its progressives and its conservatives; Dad and Mother were among the former, and played a role in the campaign leading up to a vote. Subsequently, they continued their commitment, with Dad winning the election to the new school board.

Notwithstanding the limitations imposed by farm work and a small family income, these were satisfying years. Despite our lack of money, I never felt deprived. There was good food in abundance—poultry, pork, beef and garden vegetables—and plenty of warm clothes. Presents on birthdays and Christmas were always basic needs—a sweater, or a new pair of shoes or gloves—never luxuries. Skates and a sleigh were the only things that came close to toys that I can recall from my childhood. Later, it was the prize luxury, a bicycle, which was really a necessity, providing my transportation for five miles into high school during most of the year; only in the depths of winter did it give way to a horse and cutter. At twelve or thirteen, I was doing a man’s job along with Dad in the haying and harvesting. Work close to the soil gave me a lifelong affinity for farm life and agricultural problems, and work habits developed in those early years have always remained.

At seventeen I finished high school, resisted Dad’s suggestion to get a job at the local bank, borrowed money from a second cousin who lived on a neighbouring farm, and went off to the School for Teachers at Macdonald College. Some of the neighbours thought this was a kind of sissy pursuit for a strapping farm boy, but I viewed it, not only as enjoyable in itself, but as the means of pursuing a university degree.

The year at teachers’ college was a mixed blessing. I enjoyed it, but for reasons that have always mystified me, I fell into disfavour with one of the college staff, one Dr. Brunt, who taught English. As a result of his influence, I received only a probationary diploma, subject to approval from inspectors’ reports. The first visit from the inspector that fall wiped out the restriction, so that it was an inconsequential setback. More important, however, another of the college staff, Dorothy J. Seiveright, who taught history and geography, vigorously championed my cause, and out of it grew a deep friendship which was to last until her death.

Dorothy Seiveright was one of those remarkable teachers who influenced profoundly the lives of the young people who came within her orbit. She never married. Her fiancé had been killed in the First World War, but with years of teaching school throughout Quebec, and then at the School for Teachers, she built up a family with whom she maintained close contact. She wrote geography books which were standard texts for years in Quebec and Ontario schools. Her own retirement was spent with her sister at Preston Spring Gardens, in what is now Cambridge, Ontario. During my years of teaching, and other activities, we maintained a lively correspondence in which I poured out my hopes and problems, always receiving her wise counsel.² She became a beloved Auntie Dorothy to our children.

With widespread unemployment, the bottom fell out of the teaching profession in my year (1931-32) at Macdonald College, so that most of my classmates were scrambling for a job after graduation. I spent the summer of 1932 working on a construction gang building a new school in Ormstown for a wage of thirty-five cents an hour, ultimately increased to forty cents. I recall one day wheel-barrowing two hundred and fifty-six loads of cement from the mixer, down a gang plank for the floor of the basement. The next morning, my legs were so stiff that I dropped to my knees when I got out of bed.

September neared, and I still had no teaching contract for the coming year. But luck was with me. From the daughter of a neighbour who was teaching in the Ottawa Valley, I learned of a vacancy at Bristol Ridge, back of Shawville, in Pontiac County. I rushed off an application, and in ten days it was accepted.

Still eighteen, I began a five-year teaching career. From a little country school house at Bristol Ridge, with the first seven grades, I went on to continuation schools in Shawville and Bedford, where lower-grade teaching was supplemented with history in the upper grades, and finally, to high school teaching in Sherbrooke. There were extracurricular activities, coaching hockey, football or basketball, and during these years I pursued my bachelor degree extramurally from Queen’s University: two courses each winter, and another two each summer, combined with three summer schools in Kingston, which were working holidays. Those five years netted an annual salary of $740, which didn’t allow for luxuries. Yet, while a dollar was hard to come by, it went a long way, and I have constantly marvelled in recalling that the total expenditure of my undergraduate work (1932-38) at Queen’s—books, examination fees, three summer schools, and my senior year in attendance to qualify for an honours degree—amounted to some $1,875!

As politics remained my ultimate goal, I seized upon every opportunity for public speaking during those teaching years—in churches, service clubs and other community organizations. In small towns, and even in a city like Sherbrooke, such occasions were plentiful, so I gained valuable experience.

My senior year at Queen’s brought an honours degree in history, politics and economics, but equally fruitful was a range of campus activities which, as events proved, were to open the door to future opportunities. I wrote a regular column, Current Comment, for the student paper. I was a member of the executive for the debating union and involved in intercollegiate debating. George Grant, the renowned philosopher-historian, was ill and had to drop out as Queen’s delegate to a conference of international relations clubs at St. Lawrence University, in Canton, New York. Replacing him, I was elected to the executive of the next year’s conference, scheduled for Swarthmore College, near Philadelphia. Over the Christmas holidays I was one of the Queen’s delegation to the founding convention of the Canadian Student Union in Winnipeg. The year concluded with a fellowship, which allowed me to go on to graduate work. Teaching had been satisfying, but I had no intention of making a career of it. With no other opportunities immediately at hand, I decided to complete a master’s degree.

That year, 1938, produced a real stroke of fortune. In November I was on the Queen’s team which debated with visiting Australians. They had swept the boards in their cross-Canada tour. We were opposing the resolution That the British Empire Must Disintegrate. My partner, D.W.H. Henry, and I, didn’t match the eloquence and light-hearted humour of our opponents, but we presented solid arguments which they failed to refute. The judges concluded that we had won—as might have been expected on that topic, at that time, in Kingston.

Unknown to me, in the audience for the debate was Arthur Newell, lecturer for the Associates for Anglo-American Understanding. This was an organization which had been set up by a Gloucester-born Englishman, who had had a successful business career in the United States. Upon visiting his homeland, he was appalled at the ignorance of the average Englishman concerning the United States. He organized a committee to exchange lecturers between the two countries, in a modest effort to create better understanding. The organization had grown to include a Canadian committee, chaired by V.C. Wansbrough, then principal of Lower Canada College, and involving such distinguished Canadians as Brooke Claxton, a Liberal cabinet minister from Montreal, and James Richardson, of the well-known Winnipeg business family.

It was widely believed in those days that Canada was the logical interpreter of Britain to the United States, and vice versa, so the Canadian committee of the Associates was looking for a Canadian lecturer to add to the team. Well-known Canadians had been sought, but since the salary offered was only $2,000 a year, not surprisingly, none had responded. Arthur Newell had come to Queen’s to inquire of Principal R.C. Wallace whether there was any suitable prospect on campus. Dr. Wallace told him of the debate with the visiting Australians, scheduled for that evening, and suggested he stay over.

At the reception held in Principal Wallace’s home after the debate, Newell sought me out. I was emotionally drained from the tensions of the evening and the euphoria of victory, so when he asked me whether I’d be interested in becoming a travelling lecturer in the United Kingdom and United States, I said yes, without realizing the significance of the situation.

As I walked that night to my boarding house, the reality slowly began to dawn.

Principal Wallace, and Dr. R.G. Trotter, head of the History Department, backed me in an urgent request that my departure be delayed so that I could finish my master’s thesis. I did that by the end of March, and was off on a cross-country trip to get an up-to-date picture of Canada. It involved interviews with leading public figures, including Premier Aberhart of Alberta. I stopped off at Kingston to write final exams, then at home to bid my parents farewell, and headed for Saint John to catch a boat for Britain. It was an exciting career opening.

I had vaguely contemplated doctoral work, if nothing else emerged, but all those plans were forsaken. The travelling lectureship was an experience more in line with my political aspirations. In speaking to audiences of many kinds, it gave me a wealth of experience in getting to know the English, Welsh and Scottish peoples, in communities from southern England and Wales to the Scottish Highlands. It was followed by a month’s visit to the continent—Holland, Germany and Danzig—from which I returned through France just two weeks before the war broke out. My most vivid recollection of Europe at that time was the expressions of surprise by Germans at what they perceived as war fever in Britain. They had been on a war footing for so long that it was normal, whereas Britain was feverishly preparing in the post-Munich awakening.

The outbreak of war wrecked plans for a scheduled tour in the United States, but the remainder of the first year’s commitment was filled with a Canadian Club tour which the Canadian Committee of the Associates for Anglo-American Understanding was able to arrange. For a person born in British Columbia, raised in Quebec and educated in Ontario, this was a rare experience, deepening contacts all across the country. Besides, the $2,000 salary for the year, with all expenses paid, wiped out my university debts.

The one-year travelling lectureship contract was fulfilled. The war in Europe was stalled. Where now? My university studies, and all my activities, had been involved with national and particularly international affairs. I was approached to consider becoming secretary of the Canadian Institute of International Affairs which, in one sense, would have been a logical step. However, I had long been attracted to combining a career of journalism and politics, in the British tradition, so I got a job with the Montreal Gazette. It was the most influential newspaper of the day in Canadian politics, read assiduously every morning by members of parliament in Ottawa. I started on the proofreading desk, a useful spot for an overview of the whole paper, and then, for nearly two years, I was assigned to the education and consular beats.

Education was a lively issue at the time, because the Quebec government under Adelard Godbout was contemplating the belated introduction of compulsory education. I became involved in the public build-up for this development through a series of twenty articles, exploring every aspect of the question. It was said that they played a part in developing public support for the government move, in the face of long-standing Catholic Church opposition. I would like to believe that to be true.

The consular beat in Montreal was replete with exiled governments and shipping agencies, which had been driven from their homelands by the Nazi sweep over Europe. With information gleaned from them, I compiled a regular weekly column, entitled Under Gestapo Rule. Otto Strasser, originally an aide to Hitler before breaking away in 1933, had taken refuge in Montreal. He had detailed personal knowledge of all the leading personalities in the Nazi party from the early years, so he was able to comment significantly on many events. I helped him write a regular series of articles for the Gazette—my first and only effort at ghost writing.

It was all very engaging, but the sitzkrieg phase of the war had ended and Europe was aflame. In February of 1942, 1 decided to join the navy. Chief Carpenter, managing editor, expressed his regrets at my decision, informing me that my salary was about to be raised, from $28 dollars a week to $35. It didn’t dissuade me.

I was turned down by the officer’s selection board, for reasons that I never learned, so I enlisted as an ordinary seaman, in the wireless branch, the only opening available because I wore glasses. In the month of February 1942, I left the Gazette, joined the navy, and on a weekend pass, married Simone Bourcheix. Together, we had a hundred dollars in the bank at the time.

Simone was the daughter of an old-country French family which had emigrated to Montreal, lived for some time in the United States, and returned to Canada. We had met as delegates to the student conference in Winnipeg in 1938, but she had gone off for postgraduate work at Columbia University, in New York City, and my wanderings had covered two continents. By a quirk of fate, I was assigned by the Gazette editorial desk one evening to cover Sir Wilfred Bovey’s speech to the Montreal Translators’ Society. Simone had been persuaded by a friend to come and hear Dr. Bovey and we were seated at adjoining tables—a wholly fortuitous set of circumstances. My working hours prevented our getting together again for six weeks or more, but get together we did. Six months later we were engaged. Simone accepted, with tears, my decision to join the navy, and with the imminent prospect of my going to sea, we decided on a weekend wedding and a two-day honeymoon out to the family farm, all in a blinding snowstorm. That’s the precipitous way such milestone events in life were handled during the war.

After eight weeks of basic training in Montreal, I was off to Ste. Hyacinthe for a wireless course. For me, this introduction to service life was something of a holiday routine. I had been accustomed to the long hours on a morning newspaper, beginning with a luncheon meeting and running until after midnight, when the last edition was put to bed. To be subjected to a nine-to-five routine, with regular meals, and all evenings free, was a little difficult to take. I had been reviewing books while with the Gazette, and I cleared it with the station authorities to continue, so that the free hours were filled with one or two books a week. Also, of course, I was absorbing the technical details of wireless telegraphy, becoming efficient in Morse code, and involved in the inevitable lower-deck drill. Meanwhile, Simone was teaching in Montreal. She came out to Ste. Hyacinthe every second weekend and we got together in my off-duty hours.

Once again, fate intervened. During a coffee break at one of the morning classes, I noticed a copy of the Queen’s Review on the window sill, and discovered that the instructor was a fellow alumnus.

When were you at Queen’s? he asked.

Oh, I got My BA in ’38 and my MA in ’39, I replied.

Well, what the hell are you doing here? he exclaimed. Most of the men in the class had not finished high school.

I smiled, saying it was all a mystery of the personnel branch: My application for a commission had been turned down, but my decision to join the navy wasn’t an idle one, so here I am.

In any case, my class instructor happened to lunch at the captain’s table that day, and he recounted this exchange. That afternoon, by remarkable coincidence, the captain received a signal from headquarters in Ottawa asking if he could recommend anybody aboard ship who might be qualified to become secretary of an interservice intelligence committee. The qualifications required at least a general knowledge of wireless (which, of course, I had just acquired), so as to be able to understand the language of the activity, along with an educational background and experience for a full-time administrator for the committee work.

The captain called me in to ask if I was interested. My overwhelming desire in joining the navy was to get to sea, a yearning which had always been with me. The prospect of being posted to headquarters as a sailor on Dow’s Lake in Ottawa, was not exactly what I had in mind. But, I replied, if it were felt that I could contribute on this job, then, yes, I’d be interested. So, instead of completing my wireless training and going to sea, I packed my bags for Ottawa. Once again I went before an officer selection board, and in view of my new posting, it was a foregone conclusion: I became a sublieutenant.

For the next eighteen months I was secretary of the so-called Y committee, another experience for which one would be willing to pay good money. The committee brought together the directors of signals for the army, navy and air force, along with representatives from the departments of Transport and External Affairs. Its work was top secret, because it coordinated a vast network of signal receptions from enemy submarines in the Atlantic and the Gulf of St. Lawrence, and transmitted them to centres where the location of the sub was plotted, so that information could be transmitted to the air force—all in a matter of minutes, enabling planes to be dispatched for bombing the sub.

The committee worked with its counterparts in both the United States and the United Kingdom. It was an interesting challenge, setting up a new organization and establishing its procedures. It provided an inside picture of both service and civilian departments of government at work in wartime.

However, after eighteen months, the Y committee work had become a routine and another opening came my way. The Information to the Armed Forces Section of the Wartime Information Board was headed by Dr. Gregory Vlastos, an air force officer, whom I had known as a professor at Queen’s. He invited me to seek a seconding from the navy to help with an expansion of their activities. The directors of intelligence in the three armed services were my boss, and they did not object, so I moved on.

For some time the Information to the Armed Forces Section had been producing a pamphlet, entitled Current Affairs, dealing with a range of topics which would help the service personnel prepare themselves for a return to civilian life. The authorities were mindful of serious disturbances which arose among men and women waiting for months to get home, after the end of the First World War, and the difficulties they had in fitting back into civilian life after years overseas. It was felt that Current Affairs, a group discussion pamphlet, might lessen the dangers of these difficulties being repeated when hostilities ended.

A companion proposal was also under consideration. By late 1943, some Canadians had been overseas for four years. They were now more familiar with life in Britain, and increasingly out of touch with events and developments back home.

It was proposed that a Readers Digest-styled monthly publication should be published, including a range of topics which had appeared in Canada. Thus Canada Digest emerged and I became its first editor. It was a joy to plan, edit and publish a new magazine. There was no difficulty in getting reprinting rights from Canadian sources, and within a month or two, Canada Digest began circulating among personnel overseas, supplementing the group discussion pamphlet, Current Affairs.

After a year with Canada Digest, its production had become a routine, and another project was under consideration. During the 1940s an outstanding feature of adult education in Canada was the CBC’S Citizen Forum, Farm Forum and Labour Forum. They had become social and educational means for bringing friends and neighbours together to discuss current topics. Why not a servicemen’s forum, to open up discussion among service personnel on the topics for which Current Affairs provided background reading? The three armed forces approved the project, but the CBC reacted to the proposal with caution, if not trepidation. It was one thing to bring responsible experts together on a broadcast panel, but quite another thing to bring together ordinary Joes and Janes, who might sound off in an irresponsible manner, to the embarrassment of all concerned. However, the CBC agreed to experiment with the project. Thus emerged Servicemen’s Forum, to which I was seconded as chairman, with Robert G. Allen as producer. Together we turned up each week at an army, navy, or air force base, first in Canada, then in Britain after VE-Day, and later in Europe, at sites ranging from Paris to Copenhagen. The procedure was straightforward. With the assistance of the educational officer on base we brought together a group of twenty-five to thirty for a freewheeling discussion. From them, a panel of three to five was chosen. They discussed a topic—such as jobs after the war, completing an interrupted education, or housing—and Bob Allen and I scripted their views. The actual panel discussion was then held, usually before an audience of service personnel, and transmitted directly to the CBC for broadcast in Canada, or recorded and airmailed back from points in Britain and Europe. The overseas programs were also broadcast over the Armed Forces Network in the United Kingdom and on the continent.

Far from amateurs having a problem, experience proved that, since they had no reputation to maintain, they were less inhibited than professionals. Consequently, they often created a livelier broadcast, which admirably served the purpose of opening up group discussion.

Bob Allen and I were provided with transportation and a driver, and given a letter of introduction from London headquarters to the commanding officers at navy, army and air force bases requesting full cooperation in our work. This was, without exception, obligingly provided: lodging, meals and gasoline were readily available. Moreover, the week’s broadcast was usually recorded on Thursday, not later than Friday, so that we had the weekend, in Europe’s short distances, to get to the next base. That provided opportunities for viewing conditions in war-torn cities. Two such occasions stand out: one weekend when we went to Berlin, and inspected both sections of the occupied city, and the rubble heap of the former Reich Chancellery; and another when we visited Celle, in central Germany, for a first-hand view of the trial of the infamous Irma Grese, the concentration camp official reputed to have made lampshades out of human scalps, and the exhuming from mass graves which had been found in the forests on the outskirts of the city.

These were experiences whose memory will never fade. They were at once impressive, depressing and chilling. Visual reminders of the holocaust, and of the awesome destruction of bombing, had to be seen to be fully believed. I don’t normally keep a diary, but every day or so I recorded impressions from our travels in a letter back home to Simone. For anyone patient enough to decipher my writing, they provide fleeting snapshots of postwar Europe.³

All this was another rewarding experience of inestimable benefit for my chosen pursuit of journalism and public life. But with the end of 1945, Bob Allen and I were on our way home, along with the thousands of service personnel, to go through the procedure of demobilization and a return to civvy street.

2

FINDING MY POLITICAL HOME

The political thinking and possible party association of my youth underwent an evolution which, in retrospect, seemed a very natural development. I have already indicated that, from high school years, I had always intended to go into politics. That was my constant goal, but how, and where, and with what party, were open questions.

To follow the evolutionary process, it is necessary to understand the surroundings in which I grew up and first became politically aware. My home constituency was Chateauguay-Huntingdon. Its politics were highly traditional, having escaped most of the social and economic farm revolt during and after the First World War. It had returned Liberals in every election since Confederation with (in my youth) just two exceptions—early in the century, and again with the Conservative sweep under R.B. Bennett in 1930. In all the years of the CCF (1933-61), there was not even a token candidate.

My initial reaction, as a teenager, was that such a one-party monopoly was not healthy, and something should be done to break the Liberal stranglehold. Therefore, in the federal election of 1930, the first in which I felt personally involved, I was a supporter of the Conservative party—at least in all the political arguments. In the years since, there have been periodic allegations in newspaper articles and cross-fire in the Legislature that I was originally a Conservative. At best that’s a half-truth, more accurately, a quarter-truth.

As I delivered the cans of milk to Bryson Station each morning, for shipment to Montreal, it is true that I used to get into arguments with farmers of Liberal persuasion. They must have considered me—not without some justification—as a brash young whipper-snapper. The Bennett victory emboldened my political stance in a way which might be expected for a sixteen-year-old. Because of these vigorous political arguments, it’s possible that our neighbours were persuaded that I had had associations with the Conservative party from birth. Not so. My parents were never members of any party. My interest in the Conservative party was not as much for what it was as for what it might become as a vehicle for the changes which the depression obviously required.

In 1935, the first federal election in which I was entitled to vote, I was effectively disenfranchised. I had just moved to a new teaching position at Sherbrooke High School, but arrived in the city too late to be enumerated. I found it particularly galling because, as I learned later, I was on the voters’ list at Bedford, where I had taught the year before, and at home, near Ormstown, where my parents had had me enumerated. It is not every election when one has two votes, hundreds of miles away, and none where one is actually residing.

I was at Queen’s summer school in 1935 and remember the kickoff for the Liberal campaign, when Mackenzie King was the leading speaker at a rally in the local armoury for a new candidate, Norman McLeod Rogers, who became minister of labour, and later defence, until his death in a plane crash early in the war.

At the time of the 1937 provincial campaign I had my first introduction to Ontario provincial politics. I was at home in Quebec, just across the river from Ontario radio stations, completing two reading courses, plus a voluntary enrolment in German A for exposure to a foreign language. I remember following the Ontario campaign, as radio background to my reading, because Earl Rowe, the new Tory leader, was challenging Mitch Hepburn’s Liberals, and George Drew was breaking ranks with his party because Rowe was critical of Hepburn’s brutal tactics against the CIO’s organization of the autoworkers in Oshawa.

With the defeat of the federal Conservatives in 1935 and the return of Chateauguay-Huntingdon to the Liberal fold, I became even more interested in how an effective alternative to the Liberal party might be built. These were the days when the Roosevelt New Deal dominated political thinking. One of the old parties in the United States had been modernized from within. Was it