After seven years of building seniority as a Sick Relief letter-carrier for Canada Post, it happened that I was successful in bidding on and winning my first route. Prior to that, I would report to Station O on Fraser St. and be dispatched from there to all corners of the Lower Mainland. Those were tough times but my overtime pay was sorely needed and gratefully accrued.
That venerable old station was a great place and the letter carriers there were mostly war vets from the several different military services. Back then, a person could smoke at their sortation case and nearly every desk drawer held a flask of rum. Those men and women had stories that would curl your toe nails.
I soon befriended a Dutchman. He was an ex-Navy gunner and he reminded me of some of the men I used to see when I was growing up, sitting around our kitchen table, playing cribbage and spinning yarns with my father. Dutch had a wonderful story about the crew of one of his vessel’s winning a competition which entailed dismantling a heavy cannon, rowing it ashore, dragging it overland, reassembling it, firing an accurate shot and then reversing the process.
In these present days, I still mostly relate body-ink to mariners. My father and my grandfather were both merchant mariners and were well illustrated as were many of their contemporaries. I remember sitting with the big boys asking for the stories behind each and every different tattoo. My grandfather had a nude on his forearm which had been covered in a succession of different bathing suits as the swimwear styles had changed through the decades after his marriage in the Twenties.
I have met mariners of many different races and taken as a whole, I can tell you that a person well-travelled is a very well educated person. They are aware of the global situation, a wide range of problems, local tensions and many of the causes for such things that impact the world at large. They are more knowledgeable of the customs, beliefs and habits of their fellow men than are many intelligent but untraveled scholars.
There is another common element that mariners share, which beggars description and I have never failed to detect it in those who toil on the sea. Imagine any person and subject them to the power, majesty and fury of the deep. Let the hail pelt them, let the salt waves scour them, let the sun bake them and let the fog of war slow their passage while unbridled winds test every weak point.
Let them bask in sunsets that induce tears and let them heal in the purest of breezes. Let them witness the best and worst of humanity in all regions of the globe. Let them find love beyond the barriers of language or the façade of race to ultimately possess no more than a lock of hair or a photograph. Let them forget themselves in responsibility for their shipmates.
An examination of what remains after enduring these trials will reveal that which is common to all mariners; be they Filipino, Swedish, German or Japanese. They are the steady ones. The wind has long ago torn away everything superfluous to personality, religion and philosophy. Their vision is clear and their actions are quick. They don't judge you by anything other than your ability, your loyalty and your mettle.
My own father was a Canadian Merchant Mariner. Way back in the days before childhoods. Like many young men of his day, when he went to sea, World War II became the backdrop to his nautical education. He sailed for the duration of the War and beyond. From Pantry Man, to Deck Hand, to Ordinary Seaman, to Able Bodied Seaman, to Boatswain and finally to Ships Carpenter, he quickly rose through the pay grades up to Third Mate.
During World War II, U-boats crewed by young German men of the Kriegsmarine reached out across the Atlantic and by 1942 several of them had penetrated the St. Lawrence Seaway and had begun hunting from Labrador to the Gulf of Mexico. In 1942, 1,321 ships were sunk by U-boats. 579 followed them to the bottom during the next year. 246 slipped under the year after that and in 1945, 98 more vessels joined them.
On October 10, 1942 the SS CAROLUS, in convoy NL 9 bound for Quebec City was torpedoed by Kptlt. Ulrich Gräf in U-106 at 48.47 N, 68.10 W in the St. Lawrence River. Out of a crew of thirty, nineteen survivors were rescued by HMCS ARROWHEAD and HMCS HEPATICA.
On October 11, 1942 the WATERTON, a Pulp Carrier en route from Cornerbrook, Nfld. to Sydney, Nova Scotia in convoy BS 31, was torpedoed by Kptlt. Herman Rasch in U-106 at 47.7 N, 59.54 W, in the Cabot Strait. All twenty-seven of the crew were rescued by HMCS VISON.
On October 14, 1942 the CARIBOU, a Railway Ferry running from Sydney, Nova Scotia to Port Aux Basques was torpedoed by Kptlt. Ulrich Gräf in U-69. The minesweeper GRANDMERE attempted to ram the surfaced U-boat and missed. She dropped eighteen depth charges and held Gräf under for sixteen hours. GRANDMERE plucked one hundred and one people out of the cold deep but one hundred and thirty-seven military personnel, women, children and civilians perished on that day.
On October 29, 1942 the BIC ISLAND, a straggler from Convoy HX 212, was torpedoed and sunk by Kptlt. Hans-Karl Kosbadt in U-224, Southwest of Rockall Bank at 55.05 N, 23.27 W. The ship was straggling after picking up 44 survivors from GURNEY E. NEWLIN, which had been sunk by Kptlt. Döhler in U-606 the previous day and 77 survivors from the SOURABAYA, which had been sunk on 27 October by Kptlt. Seibicke in U-436. All hands on the SOURABAYA were lost.
In that dangerous month of October, 1942, my father Murray Joseph Howes, was serving on the CANATCO. It was his second voyage on that particular vessel. He had joined the ship on July 20, 1942 as a Deck Hand and was discharged on October 3. His pay was recorded as being $50.92. On October 4, he engaged the ship again as an Ordinary Seaman. The CANATCO was made part of Convoy LN 11, which was running supplies to Goose Bay, Labrador for the building of an improved airstrip. The convoy ran between Newfoundland and Goose Bay and was designated NL or LN depending on whether it was North or Southbound.
Convoy LN 11 was escorted by a couple of naval vessels. One of those was the Flower Class Corvette, HMCS ARROWHEAD. On October 24 there was an explosion on board the CANATCO. The vessel became unstable as a result, ran aground of the Gannet Rocks and sank the next day at 53.56 N, 56.25 W. All hands were rescued by the HMCS ARROWHEAD and brought to Goose Bay before being flown to Montreal. My father’s pay was recorded as being $41.75, for that ill-fated voyage.
During his time at sea, my father earned four medals. I only once heard him tell part of the story of the medals when I was a little boy in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. I had come home from school one day talking about a wonderful show and tell exhibit that a schoolmate had brought to school. That boy's father was an engineer who had collected samples of water from all the world's great rivers. Glass vials with labels bearing exotic names were affixed to a white-board. The display was the stuff of dreams to a seven year old boy's imagination. I talked at length about the wondrous thing.
Later that night, my father came to my room with a small cedar box. He took out three of the medals and a yellowed newspaper clipping. He told me that the three decorations were mine to keep. The medals were awarded for Maritime Service in various theatres of the Battle of the North Atlantic. There was also a Purple Heart, which he left in the box and did not comment on.
The Toronto newspaper article had a picture of him after being rescued from his torpedoed ship off the coast of Labrador. He had just been flown from Goose Bay into Montreal where he was reunited with his two sisters, who were both serving in the CWACS. The boy in the picture (my father) was about sixteen years old. I nearly burst asunder with pride and admiration. I pinned the medals on my school jacket immediately. I slept in the jacket that night. Ready, aye, ready to “drop my cock and grab my socks” should my dream ship become imperilled.
The next day at school, after mess and during my first watch, I showed the medals off all over the schoolyard. When I went to my locker at day's end, it was bare. I found my jacket in a mud-puddle on the school baseball diamond and all that betrayed the existence of my father’s hard won decorations were the three pin holes in the sodden dirty fabric. I cannot adequately describe my feelings of anger and guilt, but I can assure you that they sloshed around my bilge from that day on. Knowing that I was likely rubbing elbows with the thief on a daily basis hurt the worst.
Nearly a quarter of a century later, I was busily delivering mail on my postal route and I spied a blue and white budgerigar pecking like a chicken at maple seeds on the asphalt roadway ahead. I took off my postal issue canvas hat and approached the critter slowly from behind. Once in range, with one throw of my hat, I had it! I then heard a loud burst of applause from a house behind me.
There on the porch of the house was an old man clapping. His wife who was watching through her open kitchen window had also joined in. A little girl came running from another house nearby to see the wonder. When I got the bird free of the hat, I carried it up to the old man's porch and we all had a good look at it.
It was a young, healthy, beautiful bird. I had two young sons at home and they needed a pet. I told the people that I was going to take it home and keep it as a member of my family. The old man said that there had recently been a Buddhist festival across the river in Richmond, during which birds were prayed over and released for good luck. The little girl brought me a shoe-box from her house and the old man rigged up a string harness so I could make a carrying cage fast to my waist.
I finished my route and on my transit train ride home, I stopped at a mall and bought the necessary cage and accoutrements. My wife and young sons were thrilled. My wife named the bird, Freddy, after my favourite singer/song writer from the Philippines. Freddy flew freely in our house between two ficus trees that my wife had grown from tiny sprigs into ceiling scrapers.
Freddy lived a long happy life and had only one slight flaw. He would not tolerate being touched, petted or stroked. He snapped like an anxious crocodile but sang like an entire choir. The old man on my route laughed when I told him each day of Freddy's latest exploits and we became friends. His name was Ivor and he was a mariner and had a rating of Captain.
We spoke of nautical things frequently and of the Merchant Navy in particular. I told him about my father and the lost medals. The Capt. gave me a back issue of a Merchant Marine newsletter that he subscribed to. He had circled in pen, an article about the Canadian Government. It told that Volunteer Service Medals for seamen who had sailed in Harm’s Way during World War II were finally being issued. By that time, the average age of such men was well over seventy and most of them had already painted their last sunsets.
On behalf of my deceased father, Capt. Ivor encouraged me to apply for one of those medals. I did so and was initially rejected due to lack of supporting documentation. A phone call to my aunt in California soon fixed the documentation problem. I submitted the items she sent and after a few months wait, the award was approved. Several months later, I received, on my father's behalf, the sought after medal. It hangs on my wall where I write and the day it arrived, I felt like the barnacles had been scraped off my spiritual hull and that I was cutting a cleaner line through the water.
Capt. Ivor had exclusive use of a Motor Vessel which was owned by the Vancouver Maritime Museum named, the LITTLE BLACK DUCK. One Saturday morn, he took my two young sons and I on a cruise around Burrard Inlet. It was a day I know that we three shall never forget. When we were having our breakfast that morning, I told my boys that on board a ship, the Captain is God. It was something my father had told me when I was young.
The following Monday, Capt. Ivor remarked that in all his years of taking museum goers and tourists for cruises onboard the LITTLE BLACK DUCK, he had never seen more polite, studious or well-behaved young boys. He winked and said that he knew that their grandfather would have been proud. Aye, it was true.
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