Brooke Claxton, Minister of National Defence, complete with retinue and reporters visited Grostenquin on December 13, 1952 to officially receive the station from French control. I remember it as a grey day. This web site features some excellent photographs of the occasion.
Following the ceremony (I was on the Honour Guard) we all went back to whatever we were doing, while the dignitaries and the reporters proceeded to the Officer's Mess. It must have been quite a party because it was a weary, bedraggled, bunch of reporters who climbed aboard the North Star next morning.
Some time later, news releases appeared in Canadian newspapers. I believe it was a Halifax paper which got things mixed up and published photographs of North Luffenham with captions indicating that they were of Grostenquin. This led to several of our relatives inquiring what we were griping about. Grostenquin looked pretty good to them. Our section had a preponderance of Nova Scotians; in fact there were several of us in the Supply Section that had lived just a few miles apart back home.
Several of us, I remember Don Dunn, Murray Bond, Al Morton, Bill Moore and (I think) Keith Roberts (all Nova Scotians), along with a few foreigners gathered one evening and wrote a song. It's hardly deathless poetry, it does interpret the good natured contempt of the circumstances.
My copy got lost – if I ever kept one, but the copy I have now came to me in a strange way. I was telling this story to a Revenue Canada information officer in Ottawa one day in the ‘70s. He looked thoughtful, went to his files and asked, "Is this what you mean?" It turned out that he was one of the reporters on the junket with Claxton.
The verse obviously received wider circulation than we could have imagined. It found its way to his newspaper and he kept it.
I've always envied that mans filing system. He was a real newsman.
The reference to buildings sinking from sight refers to the electrical building, a tower-like structure just inside the main gate. One morning it simply keeled over, looking something like the leaning tower of Pisa. I can't remember if it was rebuilt or they just pushed it back in place.
ODE TO GROSTENQUIN
They say there's an airport up Grostenquin way,
We knew it all the time;
The brass hats have told us that we shouldn't fret
But we find it awful hard not to forget
That in Ottawa fair they have made it quite clear
Our station is complete
For Claxton came over and opened the base
Although there wasn't a roof on the place.
Yes, Brooke came along up old Grostenquin way
The things he said were all right
He stayed for a day and then he stole away
With reporters who came for to write.
But their research I fear was the labels on beer
They drank with abandon that night,
But the airmen all know when it came time to go
They sure were one hell of a sight.
The straight roads and highways with green shady lanes
And French girlies outside the gate
Waiting for airmen all dressed in their best -
How would they know it for they only guessed.
Our Caravan Club (and now here comes the rub)
Though we know ‘twas a newsie's mistake
That the one that is shown in the photo full blown
Rests inside Luffenham's gate.
Sure, it's easy to see while on such a large spree
These little mistakes will occur,
But in case you should wonder what facts went asunder
Just listen and then you will see.
And now, for a start the moans we know by heart
Will open an eye two or three
Let’s start with the mess (you know we have the best),
But how can they do this to me?
Now the food that they serve, well, they sure have a nerve
To exhibit it for all to see,
The American ration, it sure takes an hashin'
Before it gets passed on to me.
Now things must improve before they hit the groove
We pray for variety,
Hamburg and onions, or onions and hamburg -
Not much of a change you'll agree.
Mow, the mud on this station that's really complete
Could be one foot, or two feet, or three,
But it's most always four when you step out the door
And the fact that you sink to your knee
Does not bother us ‘cause we're used to it now
We've been here far too long,
But enough of the mud; there's other things too
So let's get along with our song.
We're waiting for November, nineteen fifty two,
When our Rec. hall will be through
But it's now fifty three and quite easy to see
There's plenty of work left to do.
Sure, we moan and we whine, but here's where we shine:
Our billets are really the best,
So we were informed o’er the last house adjourned
By those who should really know best.
Yes, Brookie would drool to see our swimming pool
There is one in each room, don't you know?
It's really quite nice until it turns to ice
When the temperature falls down below.
It's really a lark to shave in the dark,
Or by a candle light's glow,
The water is hot; don't tell us it's not,
Cause our Brookie boy told us so.
We're so wrong, we know, though the evidence shows
Our buildings are sinking from sight,
But we sure will know when it comes time to go
Just who was wrong and who's right.
Our story's fictitious, our motives are vicious,
Our morals have sunk awful low,
Just regard it as honkin' from the boys at Grostenquin
And now it has come time to go.