Soldiering at Metz
The early days of No. 1 Air Division provided a golden opportunity for certain civilians to have a free European vacation. They were called VIPs whether they rated such distinction or not. For we of the non-commissioned species, their visits provided a leaden opportunity to do a bit of soldiering. And we were not the greatest soldiers when it came to mounting a guard of honour to greet the parade of visitors.
These VIPs included Members of Parliament, journalists and sometimes, real VIPs. The procedure was for the prospective visitor to convince the Air Force authorities that they must inspect the overseas forces. For the MPs this was no problem. It was not much more of a problem for journalists who felt it their duty to report to the people at home how well the troops were holding back the red menace. Air Chance – the transport squadron out of Trenton – was the carrier of choice.
At the time, the staff of 1 Air Div HQ was not very big. Rounding up enough airmen to put up a guard of honour just about cleared the Chateau of Corporals and below. But that wasn’t the end of the challenge. We were not seized with the greatest of enthusiasm each time the alert sounded. Often the VIP would be entering the gate while we were racing down the stairs adjusting our white web belts and chinstraps on the run.
Our biggest problem was the "right dress". In the scramble to get into place before the guest reached the Chateau, we shuffled, sized, and formed in a nice symmetrical flight. But when it came to the right dress that was intended to form a perfect line, we couldn’t do it. Our guard commander was Flight Lieutenant Herbie Herbertson, one of the best in the business. He quickly overcame frustration by adopting a practical dressing procedure. He carried a long piece of string. This was stretched along the front of the flight and we were advised to inch our toes up to the string. Bingo! We were ready for royalty or lesser breeds. (I might add that one day we had three guards of honour for three visitors)
Let’s agree that perhaps the vacationing MP rated our general salute. But we didn’t assemble, if I remember correctly, for the editor of the Gravelgrut Weekly Bugle or his confreres from other media. There was another treat ready for them. Anticipating their lack of serious interest in our activities, the PR office (F/L Ken Roberts, F/O Ken Coleman and Cpl. Duke Sauve) had packaged several illustrated stories on the duties and diversions of the Chateau personnel. This way the journalist went home with his work all done – stories on such matters as our occupation of a Maginot Line bunker for a Supply Section, the exhumation of an ancient chapel for the military faithful, the Chateau de Mercy that was the headquarters, and so on.
One can imagine how valuable this was for journalists. One weekly editor arrived and did a quick turnaround after picking up a supply of cheap booze and cigarettes ($1 per bottle or carton) and set out to discover Europe. Some time later the Canadian embassy in Oslo called to say they had taken custody of a sodden Canadian editor who said he was supposed to be in Metz. Weeks later the clipping service would begin harvesting all the stories from the Bugle, all under the byline of the visitor, who wouldn’t have taken a note.
One genuine VIP was the High Commissioner from London, and his visit sent our parade to new heights. The AOC quickly rewrote military protocol and whispered it to Herbie who winced. The new command was: "Salute of the Number One Air Division, Royal Canadian Air Force – present arms!" Herbie managed to get it all out right on his first try. As we stood at the "present" the VIP strode past our ranks without so much as a glance at anybody. The AOC and the camp commandant had trouble skipping into step with him. As they passed me I heard the diplomat ask "What are those buildings down there?" pointing at the barracks. When informed, he said: "I’d like to see them" and set off in that direction. The entourage, complete now with the SWO, entered the first corridor. The visitor, of course, wanted to see a typical room. The SWO opened a door. Inside was a tangle of blankets, clothing and boots strewn about the room. Several empty beer bottles were on the floor. The Service Policeman who had worked the night shift was taking a shower. The door was quickly closed and another opened. Same thing. And yet a third room was in the same mess. All SPs. (We were blessed with great SPs at that time)
When it came to serious marching, it took the French and Americans to smarten us up. One day Canada was invited to take part in a big parade with a large French and American military elements. The French draftees had little taste for a spit and polish affair. Both the other forces tended to walk rather than march. That encouraged us to put extra snap into our performance. We pounded the pavement like palace guards. We slapped our rifles with a crack at the present. We swung our arms shoulder high. We smirked at the crisp contrast to the other units.
A newly arrived Wing Commander had elbowed Herbie out of his role as guard commander for the day. He strode up and down lecturing us like a true martinet. The parade went well, and then we formed in a square while a French general presented an endless stream of medals to survivors of Dien Bien Phu. The French and American forces all stood easy for this hour-long performance. W/C Martinet, however, forgot us. He stood easy, shifting from one foot to the other and stretching his neck, while we stood at attention. Soldiers that we were, not one of us fainted.