3

Unlike most other huts in the camp, the Headquarters Company’s quarters was rarely empty. It contained ordinary cooks, orderlies, cleaners, and the myriad odds and sods necessary to keep the place functioning. Many worked shifts and slept through the day, and their duties were varied. There was no great sense of camaraderie, as everyone came from different units and felt beached. The orderly officer inspected the hut every day, of course, and each unoccupied bunk had to be properly made up with folded mattress and blankets, greatcoat boots, duffle bag, and haversacks in their proper place. There were no lockers, which made theft a major crime in the army. Everything was laid out in trust—every rifle had its number and everyone’s equipment its personal characteristics.

The orderly officers also visited the other ranks in their mess at every meal to ask, “Any complaints?” Complaints were rare. There wasn’t much point; one only got one’s name on his report, along with any infractions of the standing or daily orders posted all over the camp. For reasons relating to tedious official prose, reading these was a painful duty that many avoided, instead getting the news from their buddies. Some couldn’t read, of course, which left no alternative.

In nearly all things, the Canadian army followed British tradition in organization, uniform style, rank structure, and ultimate allegiance to the crown. Many ex-British officers and NCOs had mustered again to serve the empire, and without them the Canadians would have been in even more sorry shape. All of Nova Scotia and Prince Edward Island were Military District Number 6. The general of all of this sat in Halifax and was rarely seen in the hinterland. He had enough to do getting the rowdy, half-trained troops out of long-suffering Halifax and onto troopships. Besides, he had the coast to defend.

The camp at Aldershot and the battalion occupied the same ground but were distinct. The parade ground was the central focus of the battalion’s life. It was where all soldiers trained to fight—the anvil on which soldiers were formed. The moment-of-battle is the ultimate justification for the soldier’s life.

Patrick MacQueen learned the ins and outs of military life and culture by the process of osmosis. To him, it was part of a normal Canadian youth, and he had plenty of company, despite the still-full high schools across the nation, which were planning basketball games or graduation dances. Some historians have called that winter the “Phony War”, due to the fact that nothing monumental seemed to happen. Germany was allied to the Soviet Union; the French and British were snug behind the Maginot Line; Italy was neutral, as was the United States; Japan was forgotten in far-off Asia. Finland was doing most of the fighting, and she was all alone. Indeed, it was a “twilight”, of sorts, as Churchill would later come to call it. For young MacQueen at Aldershot, it was a period of urgent stagnancy.

The adjutant to whom MacQueen was occasionally a driver had the unlikely name of Captain Dribble. He was a distracted ex-ranker from the first war who had become an accountant in civilian life and stayed in the militia. He was the immediate superior of old Staff Sergeant Peebles, a chain-smoking Anglo-Scot who may have been in the Boer War—he had some odd ribbons on his chest. The adjutant’s old Chevrolet was the only official transport available, and it was untrustworthy. None of them knew anything about mechanics.

The colonel had the office looking out to the flagpole, past the dismal grey huts with their stained green trim and to the distant main gate. He wore tartan trews, nicely tailored, and a Glengarry hat with ribbons down his back. His tunic was cut away at front for a sporran, when necessary. He also wore a Sam Browne belt over one shoulder, and carried gloves and a swagger stick. Between the wars, he had run a prosperous car dealership. He had stayed in the militia until retiring, only to be recalled full-time due to the crisis.

Signalman MacQueen headed for the colonel’s office. In order to do so, he had to walk through the orderly room, which contained a long counter where a couple of clerks pecked at typewriters, answered queries, and generally tried to deflect any decision-making. He continued past the telephone switchboard, which was manned by several of MacQueen’s old comrades from Charlottetown. It kept six of them busy on a shift basis, pushing cords in and pulling them out, trying not to foul up the war.

Signalman MacQueen knew his way through all of this, but his heart was not really in the paperwork that mounted, shifted, duplicated, and swirled about them in increasing volume. To avoid work of any kind around a headquarters, all one need do is walk about bareheaded with a paper in one’s hand. MacQueen judged his timing and gave a tap on the colonel’s door. Usually one entered his office via a side office that held his personal staff. This door faced the corridor and was marked PRIVATE. MacQueen opened the door and the colonel looked up from his desk. He was alone.