Westward ho!
To Union Jack (5536) and all other true believers - all aboard!
Although looking forward to the next stage of our saga, I left the QM with some regret; it had conveyed us across the most dangerous ocean in the world without incident in four days flat, outpacing its protective (?) screen in the process. But soon there was something else to think about as we boarded a train unlike any I had seen before, a train composed of vastly long coaches (or cars, in the local terminology) that by our lilliputan British standards were huge; inside, the open plan allied to a high ceiling and clerestory gave an almost chapel-like atmosphere which the rows of swing-back seats did little to dispel. These were covered in green plush and not over-comfortable, and I hoped the ride would not be a long one; the general consensus was that we were bound for a sort of transatlantic Heaton Park at a place called Moncton, several hours distant.
A strange, deep-toned whistle chimed melodiously from up ahead as the train lurched into motion, creeping round the side of the hill behind the harbour until the Queen's three tall funnels disappeared from view. Trundling through a long freight yard to an unfamiliar clickety-clackety from six- wheeled bogies running over staggered rail joints, we passed endless ranks of boxcars bearing romantic, evocative titles such as Rio Grande, Santa Fe, Southern Pacific, that spoke of the great lands lying ahead; even Wabash or New York Central had a certain magic about them, but the catwalks and roof-mounted handbrake wheels on some of the older vehicles hinted at a school of railroading tougher than any in the old world. Before long this urban scene was displaced by a pleasant countryside, one nevertheless giving more than a hint that the wild side of nature was not so very far away. Quite heavily wooded, with rocky outcrops here and there, agriculture existed only in patches and pockets and the relative sparsity of settlement was obvious.
I passed much of the time looking ahead through the open window, engrossed by the novelty and beauty of it all. Winding our way up innumerable grades and racing down again the other side, we crossed occasional roads protected only by a swinging red light and warning bell. Sometimes a car waited, when waved greetings would be exchanged with the occupants; but more often the road would be empty, a striking difference to home. But empty or not, at every one the whistle would sound the standard warning, its powerful, spine-tingling sound a remarkable and pleasing contrast to the accustomed squeakers of home railways.
After about two hours we stopped at Truro for water, where friendly local ladies bearing baskets of fruit climbed aboard distributing long-forgotten delights such as bananas, oranges and grapes. Getting down to stretch my legs and to inspect the huge, unfamiliar engine I engaged its crew in conversation but, despite amity on both sides, they were strangely reluctant to divulge our destination - no doubt they had been "got at" by some security nut.
Jerking into motion again in what I later learned was the customary North American manner, our train undulated along through scenery similar to that before, stopping briefly again at Amherst and then up into a range of low hills. The cinders fell thick and fast, then following a downhill burst of speed the brakes came on hard and it was evident that civilisation was close at hand. Coasting past some pleasant-looking wooden houses, we slowed further and crept through a station plainly labelled "Moncton", then turned off on to a branch and stopped. To the right was a large complex of military-looking buildings, and sure enough our train backed slowly into an adjacent siding and halted at what was to be our home for the next three weeks or so.
Here we awaited onwards transit to the next stage of training, almost certain to be an elementary flying training school somewhere about two thousand miles to the West. I have no recollection at all of how the days were passed; doubtless the military mind dreamt up some useless activities to occupy us, so useless that my brain has registered zero, but of our spare time I remember quite a lot. However the delay gave us a chance to familiarise ourselves with a new environment, even to pick up a little of the local idiom; my first lesson in 'la difference' occurred at breakfast, when on reaching the head of the chow queue I was asked if I wanted my egg 'over 'n easy or sunny side up' - to which I could only reply with a blank, baffled stare, earning not for the first time a comment along the lines of 'another dumb limey' or similar. But Moncton itself was a pleasant little town; the locals were mostly indifferent, having seen too many of our kind over the years, but the ladies who ran various canteens and similar facilities were always agreeable. The weather remained balmy, and I absorbed the ambience of our new environment with an easy contentment.
A short stroll of about a mile took one from camp to town, where it was good to see well-stocked shops again even if our miserable pay did not go very far; one good bookstore provided some diversion, but browsing without buying has its limits and not all the magazines appealed, so for those with wider interests it paid to look elsewhere. Fortunately for me Moncton was an important railway centre, being a virtual bastion of the Canadian National. During late afternoon the daily Montreal-Halifax express made a routine service stop, always worth watching. While the engine took water, a two-man team appeared armed with lube trolley and Alamite gun which they connected to the locomotive's air supply; one then pumped lube to sundry oiling points, the other feeding grease candles into his gun whilst simultaneously applying it to various nipples on the side rod bearings - I can still hear that gun's characteristic sound today. Others rocked the grate and attended to the ashpan, so it was quite a show; but, like all good shows, the best part came at the end for the drama of getting under way was indeed a spectacle worth watching.
It involved the negotiation of some switches on track that curved uphill onto a pronounced grade, and with at least fourteen heavy, all-steel cars strung out on the curve behind, the huge eight-coupled U2g class loco found it a tough task. First attempts invariably resulted in furious wheelspin accompanied by volcanic eruptions of smoke and decibels, the net effect being nil progress at all. A pause followed while the sanders were brought into action but, being gravity operated, little if any of the sand reached the right places but instead forming small mounds on the rails just ahead of the drivers. A repeat performance then ensued, however the resultant commotion did contrive to vibrate a little sand in the right direction, so finally permitting reluctant progress as the wheels began to bite. Agonisingly slowly, the train would start to creep forward, but there were several further explosive slips until at last the whole equipage was properly in motion and the racket finally died away. Quite an entertainment, and free into the bargain!
There was much else to occupy the attention. From time to time shunting of a particularly vigorous nature took place in the adjoining yard, the air resounding to blasts of exhaust followed by the reverberating boom of boxcars coming into violent contact. A total lack of signals looked very odd to an eye accustomed to the forests of semaphores at busy British junctions, and the setting of main line points by hand almost hazardous even if the switch stands were secured by padlock. Very occasionally there was the spectacle of a venerable, tall-stacked antique leaving town with the Shediac branch's weekly two-car passenger schedule, its energetic departure causing a rain of cinders.
Walking back to base during a late summer evening was always pleasant, the soft warm air positively caressing. Crickets chirped in the undergrowth, to the accompaniment of mysterious far-off train whistles echoing in the surrounding woods, while a maple ice cream cone added to the enjoyment of a new land and its ways. By dint of a slight deviation, one could walk back along some storage tracks adjacent to the big locomotive works. Here were line upon line of engines of all sizes, ancient and modern, awaiting their turn for scrapping or overhaul and freely available for inspection. Nobody chased me off, and I doubt that anyone was bothered anyway; most railway property was unfenced, and I had already noticed that inhabitants of this continent regarded it almost as their natural right to use the tracks as a footpath. I would climb into the cab of my choice, sit in the engineer's seat, and imagine myself as a latter-day Casey Jones racing west with some fabled flyer; but there was much worthy of serious interest too, and besides it was a happy way of passing time. It remains a matter of lifelong regret that I had no camera to record these scenes, now beyond recall.
About the turn of the month (August '43) came warning of movement, and another long train duly appeared in the camp siding. Marching down to board in the early evening, we found it markedly superior to the one that had brought us from Halifax; just as well, considering that it was to be our home for the next three nights. Fully air-conditioned, with double-glazed windows firmly closed, the spacious Pullman cars provided a comfortable double seat for each man. Soon the train pulled out onto the main line into the woods, and we received a summons to the evening meal. Walking through several other cars we entered the diner, to be confronted with an unexpected bonus: leather-covered chairs set at tables laid with spotless napery and silver, and white-clad waiters standing by. The good food and unexpected luxury induced a euphoric mood, and as the forests of New Brunswick slid by outside I decided this was an OK way to travel - would that Service life were always thus!
On returning to our car, we found the Pullman porter making berths ready for the night. The lower seats pulled together making one bed, while the upper berth hinged down from its stowage above the windows. Losing the toss to my companion I climbed into the upper section, finding it remarkably comfortable even if undressing in the confined space was an exercise in contortionism. Curtained off from the centre corridor one could read or sleep at leisure, but the soporific rhythm of the wheels soon sent me off into a dreamless slumber. Breakfast the next morning discovered us running through open farmland, in the distance a great river that had to be the St. Lawrence. Soon there was a far glimpse of Quebec standing on its eminence, then later we moved slowly over a long bridge into Montreal; but as I recall, we saw little of the city, probably because we went under rather than through it. The western edge of the conurbation was a strange area, flat and featureless with distant groups of buildings (industrial areas, towns?) connected by myriad railway tracks (or so it seemed), all of which we crossed noisily on the level apparently unprotected by signals; one or two had trolley poles and wires, indicating that they were interurban lines i.e. long-distance tramlines, something unknown in the UK and now only a memory in their homeland.
That casual British habit of leaning out the better to enjoy the passing scene was thwarted by the locked windows, however a superb vantage point was to hand by dint of opening the top halves of the end vestibules' Dutch doors. This practice was strongly discouraged by the train crew, who would close them up again and chase us off with curses; no doubt we had infringed some safety regulations, but after a while it was usually possible to creep back and resume the vigil. Thus placed, it was possible to savour such delights as the drama of a heavy express speeding by, our own train halted in a passing loop; for even in this relatively populous area most main line trackage was single. Scenic pleasures, of which many were to follow the next day, were also seen to great advantage from the vestibule doors.
Towards dusk we crept slowly through Ottawa, the main memory being the Parliament buildings' green copper roof (about the only thing recognisable to me on my next visit over fifty years later). As night drew on empty country once again surrounded us, the following day revealing a strange land of endless forests interspersed with areas of bog and numberless rocky outcrops. Some of the latter rose to form minor bluffs and crags down which poured foaming rapids, and occasionally the train brushed by lakes of indeterminate size. Already we had understood something of the Dominion's epic scale, but as the second day drew on it really began to sink in; for when light faded once more, the scenery was exactly the same as it had been at breakfast. Include also the terrain covered during the previous night, plus what we were to travel through on this third night to come, and one began to grasp that Canada was indeed a place of huge distances and few people; for outside the few stops there had been no sign of habitation, nothing whatever all day long - the whole vast domain was empty.
I found this experience enthralling beyond belief, but was surprised by the attitude of some of my companions who passed the entire time in card play, only looking outside to complain loudly at the allegedly boring and uninteresting scene passing before them. I found such philistinism shocking but enlightening, for I was to discover that there are people of limited outlook and closed mind who dislike things alien and unfamiliar; sad, for truly they were the losers.
Periodic service stops occurred about every two hours, when the engine was watered and the cars' supplies of ice replenished. Trolleys carrying large blocks of this commodity were already positioned along the low platforms as the train halted; said blocks then being manhandled into containers beneath the floor, their purpose to provide the cooling element for air conditioning. At the same time some of the crew might detrain and be replaced by others, catering supplies taken on board, dirty linen exchanged for new and so on, such tasks being the sole raison d'être of these small settlements. None of them had road access; indeed there was no sight of any roads at all throughout the day, the entire territory being at that time 100% dependent on the railway (plus some bush pilots) for links with the outside world.
In late afternoon we passed close by a lake that stretched to the horizon, a body of water with the appropriate name of Longlac but none the less a comparative midget by Canadian standards at a mere fifty-odd miles in length. Despite the bright sun it had a vaguely sinister appearance, and I found myself imagining Indian war canoes sliding round the nearest headland; perhaps it was just coincidence that during the coming night we were to halt at a remote station with the evocative title of Sioux Lookout.
Towards dusk the train stopped at Nakina, a junction with the Ontario Northland line that straggled in from the east to join us after its hundreds of lonely miles through the Canadian Shield's endless forests. With a change of engine the stop was longer than usual, and some took the opportunity to visit the solitary general store just across the tracks; but it had little to offer, and a long whistle call from our fresh locomotive soon brought them back. Tomorrow we were due to change trains at Winnipeg, so after the evening meal we turned in wondering what the next day would hold for us.
The morning found us moving slowly through a very different landscape, flat and unforested though dotted here and there with spindly trees; soon groups of buildings, roads even, indicated that Winnipeg was close at hand. Crawling ever more slowly through the inevitable yards and sidings we came to a stand in the station itself, an impressively large structure with many platforms; detraining, instructions were given to present ourselves several hours hence for the onward journey. Although the largest town for hundreds of miles around, Winnipeg could not be said to have offered very much; so after visiting a cafe and a bookshop it was back to the station to inspect the "Countess of Dufferin", an elderly wild west type locomotive on a plinth outside. The obvious solution of finding a good bar was out of the question, for at this period the Canadian liquor laws were extremely harsh; very limited quantities of the hard stuff were available to over-21's only, and beer sold in a limited number of sleazy "beer parlours" at very restricted hours. So perforce we remained dry, which was probably just as well.
I would happily have chosen to pass time on the station itself, but passengers were allowed onto platforms solely for the purpose of joining or leaving trains; the notion of a platform ticket per se was unheard of, and the concourse allowed no sight of the action----a strange and unfamiliar situation that held some logic in view of the savage Canadian winters, but was an irritation in the warmth of early September. Gathering at the platform gate at the appointed hour, our party passed through the subway and emerged to board a train very different from the one we had recently quit, one bearing the dull maroon livery of the mighty Canadian Pacific; unfortunately the change was more than cosmetic, and so our new magic carpet was viewed with a considerable degree of displeasure.
The entire consist might have come from some repository of Canadian legend, being made up of a collection of antiques grandly termed "colonist cars". In other words, these creaking contraptions were the traditional conveyance provided for immigrants, it being apparently considered that only the most basic facilities were needed for East European slobs, Irish peasants, air cadets, et al; no doubt they formed part of the CPR's history, and one half expected to find arrow holes in the exterior (wooden) panels. The seats were trimmed with a thin layer of unyielding black leather, the uncomfortably upright backrests similarly equipped, the floor covered with lino rather than carpet and air conditioning was by means of opening the windows. So we were not very impressed with the CPR, and the subsequent discovery that the cars' springs were as geriatric as the rest of the outfit promised a pleasant trip.
However, at least our motive power was fairly modern. One of the CPR's regal Royal Hudsons, once clear of city limits it whirled us across the endless prairie at a cracking pace, making brief water stops every two hours or so at small towns that all looked exactly alike. After about ten minutes' near-silence broken only by the sigh of the wind blowing from nowhere to nowhere to a distant accompaniment from the locomotive's bell, a warning whistle told us to brace as the engineer took up slack in the inevitable style. Accustomed by now to getting under way with a series of jolts, we took comfort in knowing that us poor backward Brits managed at least one thing better at home.
I would not pretend that this was the most interesting part of our journey, but it did show me that the prairie was not universally flat and featureless. Ignoring the fact that it rises very gradually as one goes west, there was a surprising amount of gentle undulation, with low bluffs appearing later on; further north and west, as I discovered later from the air, there were surprisingly deep valleys and large rivers. Apart from occasional clumps of low trees, mostly serving as windbreaks for adjacent farmsteads, the prairie was one vast wheatfield; I do not recall seeing any animals at all, although there must have been a few somewhere.
The tedium increased as the day drew on; the first few miles of open country had come as a welcome change from endless forest, but several hundred miles more of the same was more than sufficient. The heat made open windows essential, but the draught brought dust and cinders with it while the discomfort afforded by our miserable seating became intolerable. At Brandon there was a brief taste of our future as we ran past a large airfield where many Harvards were going about their business, but it was soon gone, to be replaced by more of the same as before.
In the early evening the train rolled into Regina, capital city of Saskatchewan and the only substantial town since leaving Winnipeg more than three hundred miles behind us. There was enough light to see the Provincial Parliament Building, like so many others both north and south of the 49th parallel modelled on the Washington Capitol; but darkness fell as we moved on to Moose Jaw, fifty miles further west and junction for the branch line to our final destination at Assiniboia.
Postscript: More than fifty years later, while en route Halifax-Montreal, I again passed through Moncton by train, the dome car enabling a good view on both sides. The main street looked much the same but the station, although still functioning, had lost both its main building and the adjacent hotel while the site of our transit camp appeared to have morphed into an industrial estate. The biggest change, of course was up at the front of our train - no more steam of fond memory pulling us along, just a pair of poison gas pumps.