flat out to get the program off the groundâit was a last-minute initiative imposed by the federal minister responsible for youth employment. I had to put together, almost overnight, a training and support plan for close to six hundred young people. Blinded by my own can-do attitude, I didnât realize I was actually in way over my head.
One of my old classmates, who was now a reservist, had been hired to take care of about sixty of these potential recruits. He told me he couldnât find a suitable training site near the garrison and so had made an arrangement with a farmer in the Charlevoix area, a fair distance away. Once he had assured me that heâd ironed out the logistics problems, I gave him the go-ahead.
My buddy took off with three heavy army trucks, with eighteen candidates sitting on metal benches in the back of each oneâclose to the load limit. Unfortunately, the drivers of the trucks were inexperienced and the old highway along the St. Lawrence River was hilly and dangerous in spots, with S bends that swooped down close to the water. One of the drivers missed a curve and his truck spun out of control, tossing most of the young men out along the embankment close to the riverâs edge. Six were killed.
Six young lives lost because of one stupid decision. I was devastated. There was a huge investigation and blame was apportionedâI received a reproof. But I couldnât escape the thought that I hadnât done enough, that I should have asked more questions, that I should have known better. The rawness of the grief of those six families remains seared in my memory, a constant reminder of the particular trust of command.
I had met Elizabeth Roberge at a regimental wedding in the fall of 1969, and we had begun dating. Beth taught kindergarten at one of the Valcartier base schools. She and her colleagues would come for lunch at the mess, and I was smitten by her liveliness and charm. She was the daughter of Lieutenant Colonel Guy Roberge, who had served with my father in the Vandoos in the late twenties and early thirties, and he had also commanded the prestigious old French-Canadian reserve regiment les Voltigeurs de Québec. I was a young subaltern, âliving inâ (staying in the officerâs mess) and sending a portion of my small salary home to my parents. Bethâs family was two generations army, and they understood that a good meal was a welcome treat to a young, near-impoverished officer.
From the moment I stepped in the door of the Robergesâ lovely house, with its wonderful warm smell of spices, its clean, starched linen, and family treasures, I felt at home. Bethâs mother was a gracious lady, extremely cultured and a superb
cuisinière
. But her father was especially dear to me; he became both a mentor and a second father. The Roberges had four daughters and no sons, which I suspect was a bit of a disappointment to Colonel Roberge, as he had rare occasion in the family to talk army. He seemed lonely for the companionship of another soldier.
Sunday dinner at the Robergesâ was a formal family occasion and everybody had their assigned seat at the beautiful old hardwood table. As soon as I sat down to my first dinner, Colonel Roberge rearranged the seating order so that I was in the place of privilege at his right-hand side. I kept that seat every Sunday for all the years I was posted in Quebec City.
My father-in-law had an impressive career, from commanding a regiment to serving in the Italian campaign as the liaison officer between the Free French and the 1st Canadian Corps. He had watched top-ranked generals as they plotted the battles of the campaign, and his stories held me spellbound. On his return to Canada in 1943, he had nurtured and trained two mobilized reserve infantry regiments for service overseas. His many insights into leadership helped shape my own thoughts and practices. We became very close over the years, and he gave me much wise
One of my old classmates, who was now a reservist, had been hired to take care of about sixty of these potential recruits. He told me he couldnât find a suitable training site near the garrison and so had made an arrangement with a farmer in the Charlevoix area, a fair distance away. Once he had assured me that heâd ironed out the logistics problems, I gave him the go-ahead.
My buddy took off with three heavy army trucks, with eighteen candidates sitting on metal benches in the back of each oneâclose to the load limit. Unfortunately, the drivers of the trucks were inexperienced and the old highway along the St. Lawrence River was hilly and dangerous in spots, with S bends that swooped down close to the water. One of the drivers missed a curve and his truck spun out of control, tossing most of the young men out along the embankment close to the riverâs edge. Six were killed.
Six young lives lost because of one stupid decision. I was devastated. There was a huge investigation and blame was apportionedâI received a reproof. But I couldnât escape the thought that I hadnât done enough, that I should have asked more questions, that I should have known better. The rawness of the grief of those six families remains seared in my memory, a constant reminder of the particular trust of command.
I had met Elizabeth Roberge at a regimental wedding in the fall of 1969, and we had begun dating. Beth taught kindergarten at one of the Valcartier base schools. She and her colleagues would come for lunch at the mess, and I was smitten by her liveliness and charm. She was the daughter of Lieutenant Colonel Guy Roberge, who had served with my father in the Vandoos in the late twenties and early thirties, and he had also commanded the prestigious old French-Canadian reserve regiment les Voltigeurs de Québec. I was a young subaltern, âliving inâ (staying in the officerâs mess) and sending a portion of my small salary home to my parents. Bethâs family was two generations army, and they understood that a good meal was a welcome treat to a young, near-impoverished officer.
From the moment I stepped in the door of the Robergesâ lovely house, with its wonderful warm smell of spices, its clean, starched linen, and family treasures, I felt at home. Bethâs mother was a gracious lady, extremely cultured and a superb
cuisinière
. But her father was especially dear to me; he became both a mentor and a second father. The Roberges had four daughters and no sons, which I suspect was a bit of a disappointment to Colonel Roberge, as he had rare occasion in the family to talk army. He seemed lonely for the companionship of another soldier.
Sunday dinner at the Robergesâ was a formal family occasion and everybody had their assigned seat at the beautiful old hardwood table. As soon as I sat down to my first dinner, Colonel Roberge rearranged the seating order so that I was in the place of privilege at his right-hand side. I kept that seat every Sunday for all the years I was posted in Quebec City.
My father-in-law had an impressive career, from commanding a regiment to serving in the Italian campaign as the liaison officer between the Free French and the 1st Canadian Corps. He had watched top-ranked generals as they plotted the battles of the campaign, and his stories held me spellbound. On his return to Canada in 1943, he had nurtured and trained two mobilized reserve infantry regiments for service overseas. His many insights into leadership helped shape my own thoughts and practices. We became very close over the years, and he gave me much wise
Similar Books
