Brazil Street Page 16

  My nieces and nephews also came home with the adults, and many of them we had not seen before. We knew a few of them, like Isabel Dicks and Cyril Barry, who had stayed with us in the early 1960s while attending summer school at Memorial University on Parade Street. It was the biggest crowd of relatives we had ever taken into our home at one time. The house was filled with music and lots of laughter.

  One evening, Uncle Mack told us about the time Dad got lost in New York City during the Second World War. I was sitting in our back garden with Uncle Mack, who was having a drink. As the story goes, Dad was docked in New York harbour during the war years, and he decided to go ashore with a few of his shipmates and have a few drinks. They ended up in a bar in downtown New York. His friends, assuming he remembered the port at which their ship was docked, left him at the bar after he fell asleep. When we woke up, he looked around and knew that he was totally lost. He went to a gentleman working at the bar and, with only the name of the ship, asked him if he knew where he was supposed to go.

  Now, the bartender was genuinely concerned for Dad, a military man who was in danger of missing his ship, so he had a few of his friends check around the docks to see if they could find the vessel. Dad waited at the bar until they came back and told him they had managed to locate it. The bartender asked one of them to lead Dad back to his crewmates. Dad shook his hand, thanked him profusely, and left the bar. After about ten minutes driving, they pulled up alongside his ship, which was scheduled to set sail within the hour. Upon leaving the car, Dad thanked the driver.

  “Thank you so much, sir, and please thank the owner of the bar for me. He looked familiar. What was his name?”

  Dad nearly fainted when the driver told him, “The gentleman you spoke to was the world champion fighter Rocky Marciano, sir. He owns the bar you were just in.”

  Dad had shaken hands with the greatest heavyweight fighter in the world! Marciano had won the title by knocking out James Braddock. He went on to defend the title a record twenty-five times over a twelve-year period. The man went undefeated, winning forty-nine fights with forty-three knockouts and six TKOs, and retired without a loss. And my dad had met him. I asked Dad if Uncle Mack was telling the truth, and he said yes.

  Dad’s relatives didn’t fare as well when it came to making it home. Dad’s parents, John and Elizabeth Hunt (Thompson), had passed away in 1962 and 1965, respectively. His brother Leo was living in Montreal and could not travel home that year. His other brothers, George and Reginald, were also away and couldn’t make it, either. His sisters, Kathleen, Lillian, and Elizabeth, who lived eight hours away in Harbour Breton, also couldn’t make it home. Transportation wasn’t as easy in those days. Most roads were not paved, and travelling a long distance by car was not an easy thing to do. Nor was it affordable for most people.

  The summer of 1966 was one where it didn’t matter that we were poor. Money flowed from our relatives—those who could afford it. Everyone knew that this reunion could very well be a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence, so the idea was to spend it while they still could. A trip downtown to Water Street turned into a shopping spree of clothes that, normally, we could never afford, and from there we went to restaurants and filled our bellies. Marty’s Fish and Chips on New Gower Street and Ches’s on Freshwater Road made a fortune during those two weeks. My cousins couldn’t get enough of their food.

  The weather was perfect for most of the two weeks. It was party time. The nights were filled with the sounds of the harmonica, the spoons, the accordion, and the guitar. Singing and dancing were the norm, lasting into the wee hours of the morning. Food and drink were plentiful, and in the household of the Hunt family, Joey’s dream of Come Home Year became a reality. Every night, someone proposed a toast to Joey for his initiative. Though Dad disliked Smallwood’s policies, he still raised a glass to him for bringing us all together. For those two weeks, Joey was king in our family, as he was in many other homes in Newfoundland and Labrador.

  Then, as quick as it had begun, the two weeks were over and our relatives had to head back home. I saw many of them pass a handful of money into Dad’s hand for allowing them to stay with us, and I heard him say to Mom later that it totalled nearly three hundred dollars. He’d never had that much free money in his hands in his life!

  It was around this time that my brother Hubert decided he wanted to quit school to broaden his horizons. He had spent several years in grade seven, and he just hated school. Mom and Dad had a fit. They wanted us all to receive a good education. So, after a week out of school—during which they had no idea he was avoiding classes—that last week of Come Home Year, they decided that he was to go back to the classroom.

  Hubert wouldn’t hear of it. He would take his books with him and pretend he was going to school, but instead he would go with a local guy in St. John’s tearing down old houses around the city, mostly the area around Sheehan’s Shute and other deteriorating areas around town. He was paid about seven dollars a day, which was good money then. Our parents found out that he was still skipping school and that he had no intentions of going back. They relented then and allowed him to quit. After all, Dad said, he had only finished grade five himself, when he was Hubert’s age, and he had found a good job on the Canadian National coastal boats before going on to work with the CN Railway. They reasoned he could also help out with the household bills with the job he had now.

  After a few months, Dad made arrangements for Hubert to go to Montreal to find work and live with Uncle Leo there. Hubert was the first of us to leave for the mainland, and he was gone for eighteen months. Uncle Leo got him a job at Bowe’s Transport plant in Verdun, Quebec, loading pallets for trailers and working in the warehouse. The owner paid him cash because, at fourteen, Hubert was not old enough to have a social security card. It was a sad time for my brothers and me. Hubert was always the life of the party, and we missed him.

  Aside from Hubert’s departure, that summer was one of the best we ever had. Our house was full of relatives, and some nights we had to sleep on the floor and give them our beds. That didn’t bother us. Others had to stay at boarding houses on Brazil Square and take turns staying at the house. Most of us kids slept together, four or five abreast, but no one cared. We were family, and we were all together. It was a wonderful time in our lives.

  It was one of the best years of my young life. Everything seemed to be going right for me that year. I was working, I had money coming in, and I was independent. I had met this pretty young lady named Rita Powell (Oates), who became my first real steady girlfriend, and my friend Dickie had met a young lady named Sheila Forristall. Both were good friends to me, and they lived on McKay Street, just a few doors apart and only several doors down from where I was born.

  Rita was a beautiful sight. She was easygoing, pretty as a picture, and she had a vibrant personality to match. We dated for a long time, and those were among the best days of my life. I believed I was well on my way to finding my own Orphan Lake.

  Come Home Year 1966 was touted as a success, not only by the Newfoundland Government, but by all the Newfoundlanders who participated in it. The best part of it was that Mom got to spend time with her brothers and sisters. Somehow she knew that 1966 would be her last year on this on earth.

  Tommy Ricketts and Healy’s Drugstore

  Newfoundland had many war heroes who fought on foreign soil. My father was one of them. John Croak, like many of these brave men who went to fight overseas, did not return. However, some did return, like Tommy Ricketts. These two men were decorated for their heroism and bravery; both won the Victoria Cross for facing danger in World War I. They were the only two men from Newfoundland who had the distinction of being awarded the VC for bravery. More than forty of these medals were awarded to Canadians in World War I and II. To date, only 1,351 Victorian Crosses have been awarded worldwide.

  John Croak was born in Little Bay, Newfoundland, on May 18, 1892. He was four years old wh
en his family moved to New Aberdeen, Nova Scotia, which is now called Glace Bay. He enlisted in August 1915 with the 55th Battalion in Saint John, New Brunswick, and went to the front lines in France in April 1916. On August 8, 1918, he was killed by machine-gun fire after bravely rushing, twice, into enemy positions while his comrades were pinned down by enemy fire. Charlie Hughes, one of his fellow soldiers, paid tribute to Croak’s selflessness and courage.

  “It was a saying in our Company that if you went on a working patrol with Johnny Croak you’d always come back.”

  The Victoria Cross is awarded for the “most conspicuous bravery, or some daring pro-eminent of valour or self-sacrifice, or extreme devotion to duty in the presence of the enemy.” The dark-brown medal contains a crown with a lion on top—guarding it—and the words “For Valour” on the bottom. The medal is one of the hardest to obtain during wartime.

  John Croak’s citation reads that his Victoria Cross was awarded for conspicuous bravery in attack when having become separated from his group of men. He encountered a machine-gun nest, which he bombed, and he took the gun and crew hostage. Shortly afterwards, he was severely wounded but refused to stop his attack. After rejoining his platoon, he engaged in another enemy attack. Seeing his opportunity, Private Croak dashed forward alone and was almost immediately followed by the remainder of the platoon in a brilliant charge.

  He was the first to arrive at the trench line into which he led his men, capturing machine guns and bayoneting or capturing the entire garrison. The perseverance of this soldier was tremendous. He later died of his wounds. He became an inspiration to all his fellow soldiers.

  Another hero was Tommy Ricketts, born on April 15, 1901, in Middle Arm, White Bay. He was working as a fisherman when he got the call to join the Newfoundland Regiment. He lied about his age so they would let him in. In January 1917, he sailed overseas to train in Scotland with the Regiment’s 1st Battalion. In November of the same year, he was wounded in the leg in a battle at Cambrai, Belgium. He was sent to a hospital in London, England, where he spent the next six months before rejoining the Regiment in April 1918.

  In Ledgehem, Belgium, on October 14, 1918, heavy fire from an enemy machine gun held up an advancing column of soldiers that included Tommy Ricketts. His platoon suffered heavy casualties as gunfire rained down upon them. Private Ricketts volunteered to go with his commander, Corporal Matthew Brazil, to try and outflank the enemy, and with him he took a Lewis automatic machine gun. They advanced at a snail’s pace while trying to draw fire away from their comrades.

  Ricketts and his commander ran out of ammunition when they were only about 100 metres from the enemy. The Germans, thinking that they might capture Ricketts and his Lewis field gun, brought up their gun teams and began to advance on them. Ricketts at once realized what was happening and doubled back, under fire, to get more ammunition. He then dashed back to his commander to reload the Lewis gun. With accurate fire, he drove the enemy and their gun teams into a farm. Meanwhile, his platoon advanced with no further casualties and proceeded to capture eight Germans, four field guns, and four machine guns. Ricketts then helped his men rush another field gun and seize it.

  With no regard for his personal safety, Private Ricketts secured more ammunition from the enemy. Three times enemy bullets rang out around him, and each time he kept moving ahead. To his men he was a real hero, a brave man indeed. Along with the Victoria Cross, he was promoted to sergeant a short while later. King George V personally awarded the Victoria Cross to Tommy Ricketts on January 20, 1919. He complimented Ricketts on being the youngest VC in the army.

  When the First World War ended, Mr. Ricketts came back to live in St. John’s. Years later, Tom Ricketts and my father became good friends while Dad was working with Canadian National Railway. Mr. Ricketts was a pharmacist who had set up his practice across the street from the railway station where Dad worked. His establishment was just around the corner from Harry Summers Body Shop on Job Street. A commemorative plaque honouring Ricketts now stands in the spot where his drugstore once stood.

  My father was torpedoed in World War II while delivering supplies overseas for the war effort. He was on the SS Kitty’s Brook, owned by Bowater’s Newfoundland Pulp & Paper Mill Ltd. in Corner Brook. The vessel was attacked on May 19, 1942, after which he and twenty-four other survivors spent days floating on pieces of wreckage before they were rescued and sent to an army hospital.

  Many of his friends had died after two torpedoes ripped the ship in half. Dad was struck by a piece of debris when he was thrown in the water, and for years after, he suffered constant migraine headaches. When he came home, he enlisted again and went to war for another year, before the headaches earned him an honourable discharge.

  While doing research for this book, I found out that his ship had been sunk by the German U-boat U-588, in the charge of Commander Victor Vogel. The submarine was built and commissioned in Hamburg, Germany, on October 31, 1940. This U-boat was sunk on July 23, 1942, approximately two months after my dad’s ship was torpedoed, by depth charges fired from the Canadian corvette HMCS Wetaskiwin and the Canadian destroyer HMCS Sheena. All forty-six men, including Victor Vogel, were killed.

  Dad was never compensated for his war injuries. I have correspondence letters and papers, dated 1942 to 1955, from the War Claims Commission and the Department of the Secretary of State in Ottawa, outlining claims for my dad and his injury up until 1995, forty-three years after his ship was sunk. Up to then, he had still not been awarded any monies for his injuries. He was sent money for loss of clothes and property he had while aboard ship, but that took thirteen years to collect!

  All he really wanted was money to pay for the drugs that he needed for his headaches. Eventually, he gave up trying. The War Claims Commission said they needed some kind of proof that the migraines had been caused by his war injuries—because he could have had the pain before he enlisted. A nice thank you indeed for serving his country in wartime!

  Dad and Tommy Ricketts were war veterans, and both had come close to death and had walked away from it. When he was working with CN, Dad spoke very highly of Mr. Ricketts. Spending days travelling from St. John’s to Port aux Basques was not easy for Dad. He didn’t get much relief from his headaches. Sometimes I would see him sit in his favourite chair and pound his head when they started. Most of the time he just suffered in silence.

  After my father retired from CN, he would often go to Water Street for a walk. I’d meet up with him there sometimes. He would always sit and chat with a group of older men every time he went. I noticed he always talked with the same bunch of gentlemen. One day when I left work at Woolworth’s, he introduced me to them. Later, when I asked Dad who they were, he said they were his buddies from the war.

  They would get together on Water Street and talk about their experiences. I once asked Dad what they usually talked about, and he told me it was not for my ears and that, being so young, I would not understand it, anyway. Maybe he was right. There are some things in life you just don’t need to know. Years later, while having a drink at Christmastime, he told me about his own wartime experience.

  One evening, during the time I was working for the railway, my father took me across the street to meet Mr. Ricketts. Dad told me that not a better nor braver Newfoundlander than Tommy Ricketts was alive on this earth today. Dad praised him up to everyone at work, and I could see the admiration that both men had for each other. He told me to be respectful when talking to Mr. Ricketts, and of course I was. Sir or Mr. Ricketts were acceptable, and never Tom or Tommy. He and Dad even joked about their formality in greeting one another.

  “Good evening, Mr. Ricketts,” my father would say to him with a small bow.

  And of course Mr. Ricketts would respond with, “Good evening, Mr. Ned Hunt.” My dad’s friends always called him Ned, not Edward.

  Mr. Ricketts would then give him the same bow. After their shared ritual,
they would talk about the news of the day.

  Mr. Ricketts always asked Dad to bring in “the missus” so that he could meet her. More than once he added, “her being married to such a fine man.” Dad would respond in kind about Mr. Ricketts’s wife and tell him that Mom couldn’t leave the house on account of her bad heart. He would tell Mr. Ricketts to drop by the house any time to meet her, but he never did seem to find the time to take Dad up on his offer. During all the visits I made to his drugstore before leaving St. John’s on the “Newfie Bullet,” he would remind me to say hello to my father and mother. Always.

  The trains, which were numbered 101 and 102, left the CN station anywhere from 9:00 a.m. to 10:00 p.m., en route to the other side of Newfoundland. We had our chores to do the night before every departure. When I finished my chores in the evening, I would go across the street to buy sweets and soft drinks and get something to read before bedtime. Sometimes Mr. Ricketts would be there and I would chat briefly with him, while other times he would have someone else working there in his absence. I would just say hello to them.

  When we spoke, Mr. Ricketts came across as very quiet and humble. He always had a welcoming smile and a way about him that made you want to come back and see him again. He always had time for you. Whenever Dad and I worked the same trip together, we always walked across the street to his store before the train left St. John’s.

  As a young man, I didn’t know much about Tommy Ricketts or World War I—or even World War II. I remember there was a mention of Mr. Ricketts in our school history book, but I didn’t seem to grasp who he was or that he was a war hero. To me he was just Mr. Ricketts the druggist.

  Sometimes Mr. Ricketts would let me run up a tab at his store. He’d let me take my snacks, and I would reimburse him when payday came around. I guess he allowed this because of his friendship with my father. As soon as I got paid, I would run across the street to pay him before going home. When I got home, Dad would ask me if I had done so. Paying back Mr. Ricketts was to be top priority when receiving my paycheque.