Dad Had Sailed These Same Waters
By Doug Harrison, RCNVR and Combined Operations, 1941 - 1945
Doug (foreground), about age 8, poses with members of his family:
Mother Alice, brother Roland, father Roland Sr., and sister Myrtle
Mother Alice, brother Roland, father Roland Sr., and sister Myrtle
The conversation among the Canadian sailors would invariably be of home. We spoke most often of our mothers, rather than our girlfriends. Some of us, including a young, apple-cheeked Mr. Rodgers, shed unhidden and unashamed tears as we talked of our mothers and the mutual concerns we shared for one another.
Usually when we sang navy ditties on decks, with our backs against the bulwark, Mr. Rodgers would emerge from his cabin and say, “Keep it down to a dull roar, boys.” He thought, possibly, that we might attract a U-boat. After a while, with my tutoring, we learned to sing a song about our mothers. Although the officer didn’t join in, he was nearby with his foot on the lower rail, looking off into the distance with his arms folded across his chest. He appeared to be deep in thought; after all, officers have mothers too.
This is the song that my mother had taught me a few years before - a poignant reminder of happier times:
M is for the million things she gave me
O is that she now is growing old
T is for the tears she shed to save me
H is for the heart of purest gold
E is for her eyes with love light shining
R is right and right she’ll always be.
Put them all together they all spell MOTHER
A word that means the world to me.
The Chinese crewmen stood around at ease in sandalled feet with make-shift skullcaps on their heads and those ever present oily rags in their hands. I don’t suppose they understood the word mother, but then again maybe they did.
In a day or two the Silver Walnut, functioning well and her bow cleaving the waters of the Indian Ocean, arrived in Durban where we docked and stayed for almost another two weeks. Durban was a repeat performance of Cape Town with gharry rides and sight-seeing, but with very little money. However, I had a very memorable experience there as a result of saving my friend Mr. Hasting’s very expensive hat from the waters of Cape Town Harbor.
Mr. Hastings came to me on the mess deck and asked if I would like to take a trip on Sunday. I said, “Yes, if we are still here.” With that, he went ashore and made arrangements without revealing anything to me about the trip.
Bright and early on Sunday morning we walked into Durban and directly to a taxi stand. I was introduced to Mr. Owen, our driver and tour guide for the day. And I remember clearly that Mr. Owen had a speech impediment. We drove for miles north of Durban; it was hilly, beautiful country and at long last we drove up to a large, white restaurant with a huge, white cobblestone drive and spacious parking lot. Roses growing on white arbors and tremendous flower beds all in full bloom reminded me of a picture postcard setting. The restaurant was on an elevation set on the entrance to the Valley of a Thousand Hills. I was thunderstruck.
In the early morning the sun shone through the mist and as far as the eye could see there was a tremendous valley with a narrow dirt road and green hills rising hundreds of feet on either side. What good fortune for me. The taxi driver drove slowly down into the valley and explained it all to us.
Upon reaching the valley floor we came upon a black chief and his wives and children. The house was sheet metal and wood, and a large garden surrounded it. They didn’t appear to be short of anything but clothes. Owen the driver spoke with them in fluent Zulu and the chief said he wished to move into Durban. The driver replied that he and his family would lose their lovely white teeth on the city diet high in sugar.
Driving on we met some black boys about 12 years old, and through our interpreter they said they would do a native dance for pennies. And so we tossed pennies onto the sand while they performed a tribal dance for us, but briefly, in the heat of the day.
We met an elderly black man who appeared to be as leathery as the large, hairy shield he was carrying; he also had a long, sharp cudgel. I asked questions of the old man through our cabbie. Why the shield and cudgel (a thick stick)? Were there dangerous animals, or bandits? The cabbie learned that the old man was entitled to the shield, and that the cudgel acted as a cane. And no, there were not any wild animals or bandits to fear anymore.
We stayed in the valley for hours, then returned to the restaurant where we had an eight-course meal, starting with pheasant. With each new course we had a different liquor. All the time we talked with the black lady owner.
Mr. Hastings paid dearly for the saving of his hat. I don’t know the cost of the meal for three, but the cab fare was $385 (1943 prices). We arrived safely back aboard the Silver Walnut about midnight, and I thanked Mr. Hastings for a wonderful day.
Usually when we sang navy ditties on decks, with our backs against the bulwark, Mr. Rodgers would emerge from his cabin and say, “Keep it down to a dull roar, boys.” He thought, possibly, that we might attract a U-boat. After a while, with my tutoring, we learned to sing a song about our mothers. Although the officer didn’t join in, he was nearby with his foot on the lower rail, looking off into the distance with his arms folded across his chest. He appeared to be deep in thought; after all, officers have mothers too.
This is the song that my mother had taught me a few years before - a poignant reminder of happier times:
M is for the million things she gave me
O is that she now is growing old
T is for the tears she shed to save me
H is for the heart of purest gold
E is for her eyes with love light shining
R is right and right she’ll always be.
Put them all together they all spell MOTHER
A word that means the world to me.
The Chinese crewmen stood around at ease in sandalled feet with make-shift skullcaps on their heads and those ever present oily rags in their hands. I don’t suppose they understood the word mother, but then again maybe they did.
"Hermanus, South Africa on the south east coast near Cape Town"
Photo credit - Dan Catton (Doug Harrison's nephew), London Ont.
Mr. Hastings came to me on the mess deck and asked if I would like to take a trip on Sunday. I said, “Yes, if we are still here.” With that, he went ashore and made arrangements without revealing anything to me about the trip.
Bright and early on Sunday morning we walked into Durban and directly to a taxi stand. I was introduced to Mr. Owen, our driver and tour guide for the day. And I remember clearly that Mr. Owen had a speech impediment. We drove for miles north of Durban; it was hilly, beautiful country and at long last we drove up to a large, white restaurant with a huge, white cobblestone drive and spacious parking lot. Roses growing on white arbors and tremendous flower beds all in full bloom reminded me of a picture postcard setting. The restaurant was on an elevation set on the entrance to the Valley of a Thousand Hills. I was thunderstruck.
In the early morning the sun shone through the mist and as far as the eye could see there was a tremendous valley with a narrow dirt road and green hills rising hundreds of feet on either side. What good fortune for me. The taxi driver drove slowly down into the valley and explained it all to us.
Upon reaching the valley floor we came upon a black chief and his wives and children. The house was sheet metal and wood, and a large garden surrounded it. They didn’t appear to be short of anything but clothes. Owen the driver spoke with them in fluent Zulu and the chief said he wished to move into Durban. The driver replied that he and his family would lose their lovely white teeth on the city diet high in sugar.
Driving on we met some black boys about 12 years old, and through our interpreter they said they would do a native dance for pennies. And so we tossed pennies onto the sand while they performed a tribal dance for us, but briefly, in the heat of the day.
We met an elderly black man who appeared to be as leathery as the large, hairy shield he was carrying; he also had a long, sharp cudgel. I asked questions of the old man through our cabbie. Why the shield and cudgel (a thick stick)? Were there dangerous animals, or bandits? The cabbie learned that the old man was entitled to the shield, and that the cudgel acted as a cane. And no, there were not any wild animals or bandits to fear anymore.
We stayed in the valley for hours, then returned to the restaurant where we had an eight-course meal, starting with pheasant. With each new course we had a different liquor. All the time we talked with the black lady owner.
Mr. Hastings paid dearly for the saving of his hat. I don’t know the cost of the meal for three, but the cab fare was $385 (1943 prices). We arrived safely back aboard the Silver Walnut about midnight, and I thanked Mr. Hastings for a wonderful day.
Editor's notes - The cab fare was reportedly $385. In today's dollars the cost might be 20 times higher. Here are the prices of a few other items in 1943 for comparison. "How Much things cost in 1943: Average Cost of new house $3,600.00; Average wages per year $2,000.00; Cost of a gallon of Gas 15 cents; Average Cost for house rent $40.00 per month; Bottle Coca Cola 5 cents; Average Price for a new car $900.00." From The People History. As well, re the song about Mothers, I notice the first letters in the last two lines spell PA. Coincidence?
Please link to Article: "Stout Heart Required in War-Time England"
Please link to Article: "Stout Heart Required in War-Time England"
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