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On 11 May 1942, two ships were torpedoed just off the coast of Gaspé; the war had come to Canada. These were the days of happy hunting for the U-boats, and they ranged down the eastern seaboard to Brazil, across the Atlantic to Sierra Leone, and up to the Bay of Biscay and the North Sea. The German navy had become a vast establishment, stretching from northern Norway to the Pyrenees, and they could read charts and detect choke points as well as anyone else. The Battle of the Gulf of St. Lawrence was hardly the most important battle of the war, but to the participants it was vivid, and to the survivors it was important enough.

The main problem for Canada was the defence of such a large area with very limited resources; the odds were in favour of the attacker. To increase their own odds, a weather station was established in Labrador. During this time, over thirty ships were sunk, including the Port aux Basques ferry that Patrick MacQueen had given permission to sail at midnight. The first scarlet blood of the war was seen in Canada as groups of the burned and blasted casualties were fished out of the waters or washed up on the rocks. The politicians in Ottawa were trying to cope with the disaster of Hong Kong, the Conscription crisis was looming, and now the war was on their doorstep. The US Navy was pulling its ships out of northern waters, and the Royal Canadian Navy was strained to the breaking point.

That summer in Cape Breton was sunny and warm, and the echoes of war seemed remote in the forests. Patrick MacQueen boarded with a retired railwayman and his wife on the outskirts of Sydney. Nearby, an old castle was being restored by someone named MacDonald—it was rumoured to have been shipped from Scotland stone by stone. One of Patrick’s classmates had an English sports car, which irritated Patrick rather irrationally; otherwise he was happy and carefree and refused to think of his past and the implications that it involved.

He had found someone to look after his horse—and Caesar arrived, as predicted, in a splintered railcar. Patrick had riding boots that his aunt had sent him from New York, and a pair of whipcord breeches. His grandfather had neglected to send a saddle, but his new groom located a western-style rig that was very comfortable. His hours at the dockyard were twelve on and twenty-four off, which left plenty of time to indulge his tastes. He discovered a young Irish nymph exercising her pony in the glades, and they became good friends.

Caesar developed a taste for Coca-Cola, which Patrick would pour down his throat through the side of his mouth, past the curb chain and bit. Caesar would snort and froth and dance around on the road like a friendly black demon, which pleased his master mightily. He took off his shirt as soon as they were out of town. His suntan returned.

After riding he would shower, dress in his uniform, and walk to the dockyard to assume his duties. He would walk past the Isle Royale Hotel, along a tree-lined street, down a small gravelled hill, and past the saluting sentry at the gate. This led along an asphalt area, to long sheds facing the harbour, where Fairmiles or minesweepers would be berthed. There was a tall crane and the inevitable soaring seagulls. He also passed the administration building of HMCS Protector, the name of the naval base in Sydney. The White Ensign stirred on the flagpole, and within the building, an ex-Royal Navy four-ring captain reigned supreme. Patrick’s immediate boss was a two-ring RCNVR lieutenant who should have been a schoolmaster. There were stenographers, and secretaries, and pay officers, and engineers dedicated to keeping warships at sea and convoys moving.

The city of Sydney itself was dominated by the steel mills. These were an essential industry in wartime and they operated twenty-four hours under billows of smoke in the day and with flashing fires at night. The raw ore was shipped from Belle Isle in Newfoundland, and recently two ore carriers had been sunk in one day. It was said that the SS Baccaleugh was still tied to the jetty when the torpedo struck her.

There were always two officers manning the bank of telephones and updating the logbooks. It was very active when convoys were assembled and sailing, or when survivors were brought in. The forts had searchlights; with radio silence, they were often the first to detect anything unusual at the harbour’s mouth. There was some patrolling by air, but Sydney never recaptured the strategic importance of the old fortress of Louisburg, which had protected the empire of Louis XIV. Halifax and St. John’s, Newfoundland, were the major players in the game now—and Newfoundland was another country. The small French islands of St. Pierre and Miquelon had been captured by the Free French during the previous winter; the forces had been accompanied by the submarine Surcouf, which had then vanished forever.

Time passed almost casually. The officer’s wardroom would be filled with merchant navy captains and commodores of convoys, then it would suddenly be empty except for the local staff. Small naval ships would berth alongside for quick repairs or a minor refit, and the sailors would drink beer in town while this was taking place. Then they would slip back to sea, their signal lights blinking from the bridge and their sirens whooping forlornly. Members of the Royal Canadian Coast Artillery stood constant guard beside their long howitzers in concrete emplacements, and they scanned the horizon with binoculars. The city itself had an oddly defiant spirit that always seemed to scorn frills and to forecast a rainy day tomorrow.

The blast furnaces of the steel mills were a constant backdrop to everything, and the whole world operated on eight-hour shifts. Patrick rode Caesar through the Indian reserve and threw coins to the children, which displeased the chief; he was ordered to stop or take his horse elsewhere. In retribution, the children removed a plank from the bridge, and Patrick was tossed into the water.

His Irish riding companion always met him in the forest. She was just beginning to blossom, and she rode an energetic fat pony. They would play hide-and-seek among the trees or canter across the meadows together. She was always flushed and as unpredictable as a sparrow, and Patrick had to keep reminding himself of her youth. She was careless about that and wore tight jeans, so his service in Cape Breton ended just in time. She drove a grocery delivery cart to get the money to feed her pony, and she had built the lean-to stable herself.

The groom was interested in harness racing and he worked at the steel mill. One afternoon Patrick arrived unexpectedly, and this man had dressed Caesar in harness and was schooling him with a long whip on a lead line. Caesar did not seem to mind, but Patrick felt vaguely insulted for them both. The groom was ecstatic about Caesar’s possibilities as a racehorse, but Patrick flatly forbade any further training along those lines. Racing Caesar for money was something that he refused to even discuss.

In the autumn, sub-lieutenant MacQueen was appointed to something called the Naval Control Service Office in Halifax. Caesar entered a wooden freight car once again and was safely tethered, and Patrick left Cape Breton for the far less agreeable and crowded city of Halifax.

The Battle of the Atlantic was entering its most severe trial yet, and the war had come home to Halifax long ago.