From Shadow to Light

When you are kid, you often feel like you are living in your parents' shadow.

At least that is how I felt, growing up in a small town where my dad was the high school principal, alderman and respected community member and my mom was a teacher and a compulsive volunteer.

"Oh, you're George Hartford's daughter," people would say.  "Ah, I know your mom!" 

Even now I meet people who knew my parents years ago and hear stories about them.

My parents were leaders in their own way. When they would see a need, they would act. Maybe that is how they learned to live from their parents. Or maybe it was a consequence of being city-bred people who moved to a small town or maybe it was the result of growing up during the Depression or living through a world war.

They had high expectations for us, their four children. Not about what kind of marks we should get or what career path we should follow (although they certainly had suggestions we didn't comply with). They did not have expectations about the kind of wealth we should attain or the status we should achieve. Their expectations were about the kind of people we should become. The sense of obligation to honour those expectations was unspoken, but oh so very powerful.

Did we live up to their expectations?  That's something I will never know.  

But I do know their shadows still loom. The shadows are there when we go to places we visited together. I think of Mom when I am shopping. I think of Dad when there are workplace challenges.The shadows are dark when I do wrong. The shadows loom when I wonder what would Dad have done or what would Mom think.That's when the shadows no longer dominate but guide and support. I think of them both when there is big news in the world and when my kids do something extraordinary or when I have big decisions to make or when I feel sad. Their shadows loom over holidays and special days and dark days. That is when their shadows move from haunting me to enveloping me with warmth. 

I thought of my dad today when I learned that his good friend Burns had passed away. Burns or "Fuzz" and my dad had a long history. They fought together in World War II. They returned to Canada where they had families and served their communities.  They were alike in many ways, and though I did not know him well, I know he was a good and wise man who loved his family.

I know enough about Burns to know that his shadow will figure large in the lives of his two grown children and his grandchildren.

I hope for them that those shadows will gradually cease to be the sometimes dark shadows of memory.

I hope they will find, as I have, that those shadows have gradually turned to light. Light that illuminates a path through this uncertain and dark world. 

The light cast by good parents who have raised their children well.

Trajectory

June 6, 1944.

D-Day.

A fateful day.

The weather was bad in France that day, or so they say. The phases of the moon, the rise and fall of the tides, and the time of day- all had to be taken into account.
So despite the weather, June 6 was the day.
Operation Overlord, code name for the Battle of Normandy that was preceded by the assault of 1200 aircraft that attacked coastal defenses so that 5000 ships and almost 160,000 British, Canadian and American troops could storm the beaches and begin to drive back the Germans.
The assault that turned the tide.
The assault that determined the course of history.
The liberation of Europe.
The Allied victory on the Western Front.
The end of the war in Europe less than a year later.
All part of the trajectory of war.

If the allies hadn't succeeded, how much longer would World War II have lasted?
How many more lives would have been lost?
How much more of the world would have been decimated?
How many more of Hitler's victims would have died?
Without D-Day, the war would have followed an alternate trajectory.
The history of the world would have taken a different path.

Lancaster bombers, D-Day

Just as that day changed the course of history, the results of that day determined the course of my history.

My dad's log book shows three entries as part of Operation Overlord when he and his loyal crew, his good friends Doug Johnston, Burns Foster, Sig Teit, Johnny Knox, were tasked with softening the defenses.  June 4 "OPS Calais. Fair Trip,Gun Emplacements." June 5 "OPS Merville. Good Trip. Gun emplacements." June 6, "OPS Coutances, Good Trip. Excellent Nav, Bridge and Highway, Diverted Colerne."

As my father's Lancaster "S for Smitty" followed its path from Middleton St. George to Caen to Colerne and back,  as his plane moved through space and time, did he know the scope of the mission? Did he know that the fate of Europe hung in the balance? Or, like so many brave young Canadians, did he simply follow orders, trusting his superiors to chart his course? Or did he trust in fate or trust in God?  Or did the crew start that mission, like their 29 other missions, prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice?

The odds of survival for bomber command were slim. Their first 17 missions were flown in a Halifax. In 1943 and early 1944, when my dad's crew were stationed with #419 Moose Squadron, the survival rate of a Halifax Crew surviving the 30 missions of a tour of duty were 16%, Overall, the odds of survival ran under 50%.  Did Dad and his crew know what those odds were at the time? Would it have mattered?  Reading his log book, in typical Dad fashion, he minimized the dangers and emphasized the good work of his crew.  The simple phrase, in tiny writing, "hundreds of SL/S...holes in kite" surely downplayed an exciting trip. His entry of July 18, "coned by SL/S ...Hit by flak" is described in the Moose Squadron website in a far more dramatic fashion.

I only remember him telling us two stories of his time in the air.  On one trip the crew witnessed one plane after another going down ahead of them. Defying orders, Dad veered off, surely saving himself and his crew.  In another, a malfunction prevented the plane from dropping its load of bombs. But the plane, with a full tank of fuel and a full load of bombs, was too heavy to land. So they flew out over the ocean, "reduced weight" as the log puts it, and then landed safely at base with a full load of bombs. Moments that defined my Dad.

I wonder if the fact Dad and his crew survived against so many odds influenced how they lived. Did they feel lucky? Did they feel blessed? Did they feel powerful? Did they feel, on some level, that they were saved for a reason? Did they think about how the war made them into the men they would become?

If my father's plane had been shot down, he wouldn't have married my mom. I wouldn't be here. My children would never have been born.There would have been an alternate version of history. One without me in it.

How many stories begin, "It was a fateful day?"  While the phases of the moon and the rise and fall of the tides may influence our trajectory, so too does every act and every accident.  I think of the history of my country, the choices made by my ancestors. The acts, big and small, that influenced history. The small things we say that influence our children and our students in ways we may never know. The flick of a switch. The thrust of a throttle. Who you sat next to on a bus. A car accident. A letter. A relative stranger telling you "You're good at that." A fire.  Day by fateful day, over the course of history, the course of each of our lives, one defining moment after another.  Defining moments that shape you, that make you who you are.  Yet it all could have taken a very different path.

Every day is a fateful day.

My dad and his grandson

For Fuzz

Burns Foster

My dad always called him Fuzz.  He never explained why. It wasn't until years later when Fuzz and his wife Kay came for a visit that we learned his name was Burns. Kay did not call him Fuzz any more than my mom called my dad "Ginge"- which was the name Burns called my dad. This was mystifying for us kids because Fuzz was the guy who featured in many of Dad's stories as bomb-aimer of their Lancaster "S for Smitty". Burns was someone else altogether.

My dad was a pilot in World War II. Fuzz was a bomb-aimer who described his job on the plane as follows:

“Fuzz”, Burns Wilfred Foster, Bomb-aimer, probably caused more disturbance than the others. He sat beside the skipper and shoved the throttles through the gate on take-off; took a position beside the navigator and behind the pilot to operate Gee and H2S and pass fixes to the navigator; down to the bomb hatch to fuse bombs upon crossing the enemy coast; drop window (foil strips) to confuse enemy radar, give the pilot directions to the target—steady,steady, left left steady, push the button and wait before calling bombs bays closed. Much the reverse on the way home.

Burns far left and my dad third from the right.

I think about Dad and Fuzz and their navigator Doug as they once were, bright Canadian boys barely out of high school. How young they were. How eager. I picture them flying through the dark skies over Europe, skies pierced by searchlights, holding their breath as they prayed to escape detection by the enemy. As they watched one plane after another fall in front of them, at some point did they think their luck would run out? I imagine Fuzz and Dad and Doug working in a kind of strange rhythm that must have developed over their many missions, reacting to whatever came at them. Hoping their bombs would hit the target. Mission after mission, returning unscathed. My dad's neat notes in his log book tell a tiny part of the story in his own perfect block letters, "FLAK HOLES IN KITE."  "SAW FIVE KITES SHOT DOWN, 2 CHUTES OPEN." On D-Day "GOOD TRIP EXCELLENT NAV. BRIDGE AND HIGHWAY." "WELL PRANGED." Once in awhile "RESULTS DOUBTFUL" and once "WE DID IT AGAIN!"

I imagine the adrenaline rush. The camaraderie. The joy and relief after a safe landing. And I wonder too, did they dare dream of the future that they might never experience?  

These life and death experiences must surely have shaped the men that they became. Confidence, faith, civic-mindedness and compassion were qualities they all came home with. An appreciation for what they had. And friendships that lasted a lifetime. Dad and Fuzz had a special connection in those exciting years in 419 Moose Squadron. Their experiences in the air created a bond as did their time away from their missions. 

The home of Gwen Smith in the Lake District.

On leave they once spent time on an estate in the Lake District. My dad boasted that he had once played on the same pool table as Winston Churchill. I wonder if Fuzz was with my dad the time these gullible young lads met some girls in the pub-perhaps the infamous "Oak Tree" down the road- girls who told them they would meet them in church the next day. The boys showed up and the girls never arrived.

Burns was not the youngest of my dad's crew as I once thought- he says he had five months at least on my dad and Pete was younger yet. He went on to become a pharmacist in Ontario and had a couple of kids and now grandchildren and great grandchildren. My parents received Christmas cards and letters from them every year. Once they came to visit. Years later we drove across Canada and met them. I know very little about him but I know he is a good man who has lived a good life.

Every June 6, Burns used to phone my dad. They talked about their families and their lives. They caught up with stories about the rest of the crew. I don't know if they ever talked about what they did on that fateful day-D-Day-a day that changed the course of history. Did they reminisce about their flight over the coast of Normandy or the bridge they bombed, the night they flew so low they could feel the bomb blast in the cockpit? Did they recall their amazement as they looked down on the ships that filled the English Channel on their return flight? 

I contacted Burns when my dad passed away and every now and again I hear from him. An email entitled, "Love of my life" telling me that Kay, to whom he had been married for 72 years, had died. Another time, an apology, saying that even though his picture had been in his local paper as being a "tech savvy senior" he did not know how to accept my accidental LinkedIn request. More than once he has complimented me on my blog and thanked me for being my father's daughter because "that, of course, is how I make the connection." That is a kindness not many would think of. Burns and I were both excited to hear from the grandson of the one missing member of the air crew. John Knox junior had read my blog. I sent him photos he had never seen. Burns shared stories with him. In my Dad's absence, Burns and I speculated about why their old wireless operator had fallen out of touch. 

Now, every June 6, Burns reads my blog and sends me an email. Perhaps I am the only connection he has to his past: the only connection that remains to his good friend Ginge.

Once in awhile the phone rings and I see "Burns Foster" on the call display. My heart skips a beat and I smile. Yet while he talks my eyes well with tears and I can barely speak because it's like for a few minutes my dad is right there beside me. The emotion is almost overwhelming. I too have a connection, a connection through my dad to a man I have scarcely met and barely know. A connection to the lively young Fuzz who came alive for me through my father's stories. A connection to the much older Burns, a wise and gentle man who is so much like my dad. A connection that transcends the miles and the years. 

Burns Foster. The last living connection I have to my dad and his generation. I am glad to know him.

Dad in the middle at the back, Burns far right front.

Per ardua ad astra

 For my dad, on D-Day

My dad, George Hartford

On D-Day 70 years ago my dad was 21 years old, just a little older than his grandson Hart is today. As part of Operation Overlord, Dad piloted his Lancaster bomber "S for Smitty" over the skies of Normandy, dropping bombs on German coastal defenses, protecting the troops about to land on the beaches below. Among the 14,000 he protected on Juno Beach that day was a man he had never met, medic Sam Martin, a man who would become my uncle. Dad and Uncle Sam and their fellow young Canadians helped turn the tide of the war, leading to the liberation of Europe and the defeat of fascism.

340 Canadian soldiers died on D-Day. Nearly 2,000 Canadians died in the invasion of Normandy. They lie buried not far away in Beny-sur-Mer cemetary. A few years ago, together with my husband and three kids, I visited those quiet graves. It was humbling to walk among the tombstones, reading the epitaphs. We did not say a word. Because what is there to say in the presence of such loss and sacrifice? Would we have been so bold, so selfless, so daring? The unspeakable gratitude for what they provided for future generations hung heavily upon us. 

When the crew of S for Smitty returned to Canada, they were not treated as heroes, nor did they think of themselves as such. My dad was loathe to wear his medals and rarely did he talk about the war. He knew his actions led to peace. He also knew that war causes civilian deaths and he made his peace with that. I know the war shaped those young men in ways I can never understand. 

My dad, known as Ginge to his crew, went on to become an engineer, teacher, school principal, healthcare administrator, mayor, volunteer, dad and granddad. His navigator Doug Johnston became comptroller of McGill University and father to three beautiful girls. McGill offers a scholarship in his name. Bomb aimer Burns or "Fuzz" Foster was a pharmacist with two kids. Dad and his crew maintained contact throughout their lives and I still get emails from Burns and his son Doug. When my dad found his career as an engineer unfulfilling, he wrote to Doug, "Navigator, chart me a course." Doug suggested education and that is where dad spent the bulk of his working life. 



Dad, Doug and Burns were Canada's finest. They along with 1.1 million Canadians risked their lives and then came home and helped build the Canada we love today, with its human rights, free healthcare, first rate education system and opportunities for all. 

I look at today's youth and I wonder who among them would have the courage of those young men. Who would be willing to risk their own lives to preserve the way of life they take for granted? But then I look at my dad's eight grandchildren and I know we will be in good hands. He helped build their country to be a place that is worth fighting for.

Per Ardua Ad Astra: Through Adversity to the Stars

Motto of the Royal Airforce

Burns Foster, Doug Johnston, George Hartford
Paul Piotrowsky, Sig Teit 

The aircrew.
Back row left to right (Unknown, Dick, Wilf, SIg, Dad, Pete, Smitty (he is the boss of the kite), Herb, Pat
Front row Phil (Engine Chief), Doug, Ted,Hank, Johnny, Fuzz
From Dad's writing on the back :How do you like our girl? She never complains of the cold either. Each bomb on the "LOVE" is one trip. We on about 20 of them. Altogether I did 40 and the rest 38.

The ground crew
 The air crew of S for Smitty