Metz, France

I think it was 1954, just a year after 1 Air Division HQ moved, kicking and screaming, from the bright lights of Paris. The new home near Metz took over the elegant Chateau de Mercy. But the beauty of the grounds was soon impaired by the addition of several inelegant buildings which began to pop up - barracks, messes, and a building that housed the "PX", snack bar, book rack and canteen.

It was the canteen building that offered some hope of gaining social control of the lower ranks. And that’s where I came in. It began with a scary summons to appear before the adjutant. I mounted the stairs to his office humming The March to the Gallows, racking my brain for any misdemeanor I might have unwittingly committed. Gord Florence was a no-nonsense Admin Officer who had come from the ranks. There was little point in trying to concoct an alibi for him. He had heard every wild excuse in the book.

Although I had expected the worst, it got worse. He explained – as if I didn’t know – that the airmen and airwomen had created a problem by frequenting the local bars too much in preference to the newly opened "wets" on camp. He decided that I, in the apogee of my corporalhood and with a firm grip on the social graces, could lead the troops back home. The anxiety I felt upon entering his office was intensified by the awesome responsibility I involuntarily volunteered to undertake by rasping, "Yes, sir" from a dry throat.

But as the idea began to settle in my spinning brain I realized that I had also been handed a bargaining chip, if not a carte blanche ticket. I would propose such a spectacular event that the whole idea would quickly evaporate and we could all return uninhibited to the ABC, the Charlamagne, or the infamous Carnegie Hall in downtown Metz.

The kick-off extravaganza I proposed was a formal ball. The kicker would be the attendance of the AOC and his wife as guests of honour. The males would have to dress to the nines in ersatz mess kit. The ladies – hitherto known as airwomen or local girlfriends – would surely bedeck themselves suitably. Maybe NFP would spring for some RCAF tartan gowns. There would be a live band. The bar would be free.

Rats! In spite of my frontal assault on non-public funds, the whole scheme was accepted without modification.

With my talent for exaggeration I was able to conscript a sort of Tom Sawyer group of volunteers to prepare the ballroom (aka "the wets"). Names like Ted Baker, Wilma Brownlee, Bert Curcio, Joy Mills, Bill Busby, Bob Anderson, Lois Nesbitt, Sam Goudie, Alice Emeny and Dottie Lucas come to mind. Chairs, tables, tablecloths, candles and flowers were acquired and put into position. Musicians were engaged. Balloons and ribbons were tastefully installed and the bar was stocked with a supply of free beer. As their leader, of course, I arranged to open the bar all afternoon for the volunteers. The civilian bartenders, I felt, needed a lot of practical training.

Late in the afternoon somebody shouted "Piano!". We had forgotten to pick up the rented piano from the company downtown. No problem. Dick MacLean got a large stake truck from the MSE Section. We filled it with singing stevedores for the trip to the store. But the truck would not fit the back streets of mediaeval Metz. No problem. About a dozen of us hoisted the piano onto our shoulders and staggered a half block up the steep, narrow sidewalk to the truck. The piano owner watched us with a look of terror on his face. The townsfolk scattered as the heavy load started us lurching and running in several directions. Each bearer shouted suggestions to lessen the chances of ramming the piano through a storefront window or smashing it to pieces on the cobblestones. But we made it to the truck and back to the Chateau.

With the work all done, I declared a time-out for a nap to prepare myself for the arrival three hours later of A/V/M and Mrs. Campbell. Accordingly, I returned to my room, locked the door, and flaked out. Before flaking, however, I ordered my helpers to make sure to wake me in plenty of time to meet the AOC. My speech of greeting was well rehearsed.

A short time later I was aroused by a great clatter in my room. One of the guys had come in through the window, having been unable to get a response by hammering on the door. Three of them – Bill Kowaluk, Ron MacLean and Earl Elder – stood me up and began hassling me to shower, shave, get dressed in my white shirt, bow tie and best uniform. When they finally got my razor cuts to stop bleeding they rushed me across the road to the ballroom.

The sun was just below the horizon and the sky was oyster pink. It was time to get the show rolling. I hopped up the steps of the building and right into the arms of a service policeman who was blocking the door. The canteen ballroom was locked up tight. The only scenario that flashed into my mind was that someone must have punched out the AOC.

"Out of my way," I commanded. "I’m in charge here". The SP looked as if he should be reaching for a net. I continued to assert my authority. He continued to wear the stunned look of a man confronted by a lunatic.

I turned to my three helpmates for help, only to see them in the growing daylight, rolling in the grass with laughter. Slowly it dawned on me that the sunset was rising in the east. I had slept through my buddies futile attempts to wake me. The party had been over for hours.

When I finally recovered what senses I originally had, we all jumped into my Nash 600 and headed off for breakfast. Someone knew where we could get bacon and eggs in Paris.