arrived they were bored. All of a sudden a car came screeching down the street and stopped dead in front of one of my soldiers. The driver got out of the car, cursing a blue streak, and without any provocation, started beating up the soldier so severely that he ended up in hospital. I had guards posted around the building so that everybody was covered off and no one was isolated, but none of them could move from their positions to help their buddy because of the possibility that this was a trap or decoy. They radioed for backup and we raced out to assist. But the police, who were monitoring our radio frequency and were desperate for a little action, heard the call, too. In seconds, a half-dozen cop cars with sirens blaring and roof lights blazing came barrelling down the narrow street. Brawny cops leapt out, hauled the guy off and proceeded to make him regret whatever impulse had caused him to attack soldiers. As one officer said afterwards, âNobody is going to hurt our soldiers and get away with it.â The police were protecting the soldiers who were there to protect law and order!
I was proud of my men. They had endured incredible provocation and responded exactly as trained. It pleased me that Sergeant Chiasson and I had been able to build that level of skill and discipline in the troop, that they had used their heads and followed orders. It was my first taste of true command.
On December 3, 1970, an army intelligence unit uncovered the approximate location of the FLQ cell that was holding James Cross prisoner. Almost an entire battalion of the Royal 22ième formed a tight circle around a block of nondescript row houses in north Montreal, and as the nation waited, the final tense negotiations to resolve the crisis began. Hours later, a thin, pale James Cross was hustled out of the house along with his kidnappers, who were placed on board a Yukon transport aircraft and flown to Cuba. The crisis was over. By January, I was back in Valcartier and the routine of peacetime soldiering.
2
âRWANDA, THATâS IN AFRICA, ISNâT IT?â
IN EVERY REGIMENT of the Canadian Forces, there is an informal council of eldersâsenior or retired officers who remain intimately connected to the life of the regiment. These elders determine a regimentâs individual culture and character. One of their key responsibilities is to select the so-called streamers, the young men or women who the elders believe have the right stuff to become future generals. There is never any official announcement or acknowledgement of this process, but once you are chosen, itâs as if an invisible hand is reaching out to guide you, nurturing your career through a carefully selected series of command and staff positions that test and prepare you for higher command. Becoming a streamer doesnât mean success is assured; on the contrary, if you blow any of the commands you are offered, your career is over, or at least stalled.
My first shot at becoming a streamer came in the spring of 1971. I had been on exercise with the regiment for about three weeks, and on the last day, two CF5 fighter planes that had been dogfighting north of Bagotville, Quebec, crashed in mid-air. The pilots were lost in the dense bush. The air base at Bagotville tried to mount a rescue, but one of its helicopters crashed while attempting to land, which resulted in more casualties. My regiment was the designated rapid reaction force and was called out to support the search.
The previous evening, we had celebrated the end of the exercise with a smoker, a huge party with plenty of food and beer bought with the profits from the canteen; there wasnât a man in the battery that was not severely hungover. As usual I had totally immersed myself in the festivities and was nursing a wicked headache when the battery commander, Major Bob Beaudry, calledme over. A dignified gentleman of few words, he got right to the point. âYouâve been chosen to lead the
I was proud of my men. They had endured incredible provocation and responded exactly as trained. It pleased me that Sergeant Chiasson and I had been able to build that level of skill and discipline in the troop, that they had used their heads and followed orders. It was my first taste of true command.
On December 3, 1970, an army intelligence unit uncovered the approximate location of the FLQ cell that was holding James Cross prisoner. Almost an entire battalion of the Royal 22ième formed a tight circle around a block of nondescript row houses in north Montreal, and as the nation waited, the final tense negotiations to resolve the crisis began. Hours later, a thin, pale James Cross was hustled out of the house along with his kidnappers, who were placed on board a Yukon transport aircraft and flown to Cuba. The crisis was over. By January, I was back in Valcartier and the routine of peacetime soldiering.
2
âRWANDA, THATâS IN AFRICA, ISNâT IT?â
IN EVERY REGIMENT of the Canadian Forces, there is an informal council of eldersâsenior or retired officers who remain intimately connected to the life of the regiment. These elders determine a regimentâs individual culture and character. One of their key responsibilities is to select the so-called streamers, the young men or women who the elders believe have the right stuff to become future generals. There is never any official announcement or acknowledgement of this process, but once you are chosen, itâs as if an invisible hand is reaching out to guide you, nurturing your career through a carefully selected series of command and staff positions that test and prepare you for higher command. Becoming a streamer doesnât mean success is assured; on the contrary, if you blow any of the commands you are offered, your career is over, or at least stalled.
My first shot at becoming a streamer came in the spring of 1971. I had been on exercise with the regiment for about three weeks, and on the last day, two CF5 fighter planes that had been dogfighting north of Bagotville, Quebec, crashed in mid-air. The pilots were lost in the dense bush. The air base at Bagotville tried to mount a rescue, but one of its helicopters crashed while attempting to land, which resulted in more casualties. My regiment was the designated rapid reaction force and was called out to support the search.
The previous evening, we had celebrated the end of the exercise with a smoker, a huge party with plenty of food and beer bought with the profits from the canteen; there wasnât a man in the battery that was not severely hungover. As usual I had totally immersed myself in the festivities and was nursing a wicked headache when the battery commander, Major Bob Beaudry, calledme over. A dignified gentleman of few words, he got right to the point. âYouâve been chosen to lead the
Similar Books
