.

It was a great honour to call Fred Tilston a friend.  Fred, who served with the Essex Scottish Regiment, was wounded at the Hochwald and suffered the loss of an eye and a bilateral amputation of both legs.  He was very prominent within The War Amps until his death in Toronto, Ontario on September 23, 1992.

Through the years, he was profiled in many books, documentaries and articles.  One such example was in 1973, when, in collaboration with Hakkert Publishers of Toronto, The Canadian War Museum released a publication titled Valiant Men, which tells the stories of Canada’s Victoria Cross and George Cross winners. 

Below is the excerpt from the book:

On the western edge of the Hochwald, one man epitomizes the spirit which finally won the forest and the route across the Rhine.  He is Freddie Tilston, the man who ‘never would make an officer.’

It’s his first attack as a company commander and his last.  Across 500 yards of open ground with no tank support, Major Tilston leads his company just behind the creeping barrage.  He is wounded, for the first time, in the head.  Into enemy trenches he charges, firing his Sten from the hip.  His left platoon comes under heavy fire. He dashes forward and silences the machine gun with a grenade.

He approaches the wood.  Flying steel smashes into his hip and he falls.  He waves his men on, then struggles to his feet and catches up.

His wounds are forgotten as he leads the sadly depleted company into hand to hand fighting with the enemy.

Fred Tilston consolidates his position… then stumbles from platoon to platoon urging his men to hold the vicious counter-attacks which slash into grenade-throwing distances.  His ammunition run lows and… [Tilston] crosses the bullet-swept ground to the company on the left to replenish the supply of grenades and bullets.  Six times he lurches across the deadly killing ground; but this was no ordinary man the enemy soldiers squinted at through their sights.  He just couldn’t be killed or stopped.

But on his last trip he is hit again, in the other leg.  This time he stays on the ground but only to pass on the plan and to urge his men to hold.

And as medical assistance finally came, his only words were: “We held.”

Here are more ‘Snapshots of War’ from my continuing series:

This photo shows soldiers awaiting medical evacuation in Normandy.  Poised above are the remains of a German pillbox.

This is Bretteville – just inside the Beachhead.  The troops are from the Queen’s Own Rifles.  The civilians remained in town throughout the fighting – yes, and even the little pup!

World War II – October 13, 1944.  An Alligator – built specifically for troop carrying duties over ground and water.  Some wag named this one the ADMIRAL NIMITZ.  The Officer with the map board is W.A. Teed who later served as CO of the 1st Battalion, The Black Watch in Camp Gagetown.

World War II – Make way for the Khaki Navy!  An M10 Tank Destroyer embarking for the Breskens Pocket in the Scheldt Estuary.  The ferry service was operated by the Engineers.

In the last years of her life, Queen Victoria crocheted eight woollen scarves which bore her Royal Cipher, “VRI”.  She intended to present them personally to private soldiers of the Colonial Forces who distinguished themselves in the South African conflict, but died before she could do so.

Conditions under which the scarf was awarded were of the highest order.  Soldiers nominated had to be first recommended for the Victoria Cross, with subsequent recommendations for bravery in the field.  It was to rank equally with the VC and be awarded by a vote of comrades in the field.

In 1900, Private Richard Rowland Thompson, “D” Company, 2nd (Special Service) Battalion, The Royal Canadian Regiment, won this unique award for his heroic efforts to save wounded comrades in the bloody fighting of the Boer War.  He was the only Canadian to win it.

On February 18, 1900, his company had just finished crossing the Modder near Paardeberg Drift, to support the fighting line about 2,000 yards from the Boers.  The enemy, in wooded positions along the northern edge of the river, kept the Canadians pinned down by heavy fire for over seven hours.

At the outbreak of the shooting, Private Bradshaw of “D” Company was shot through the neck by a Boer sniper, and fell exposed to the eyes of the enemy.  Thompson, exhibiting no regard for his own personal safety, crawled to the spot where the wounded soldier lay.

Despite the concentrated fire directed at them by the enemy, Thompson lay for seven hours with his thumb and fingers pressed against his wounded comrade’s shattered jugular vein, preventing him from bleeding to death.  Ignoring the bitter cold and cutting winds, he wringled out of his jacket and used it to keep Bradshaw warm.

On February 27 at the battle of Paardeberg in which the Canadians helped capture General Cronje’s stronghold, Thompson was to again exhibit the courage and bravery which were to earn him a recommendation for the Victoria Cross.

The RCR troops were occupying positions in the main trenches towards the left of the line at the time, when a wounded Canadian soldier was seen a few hundred yards from the Boer lines, waving his arms to attract assistance.

Volunteers were called to go to his aid, but before anyone could move, Thompson rose to his feet, calmly placed his pipe in his mouth, vaulted the top of the trench and ran to where the casualty lay.  Despite the lethal hail of death from the muzzles of the Boer rifles a short distance away, Thompson gathered the man in his arms and began the hazardous trip back to the Canadian lines.  Although the wounded man died enroute, Thompson brought his body back for burial.

He repeated this act of heroism the same day shortly before the Boers surrendered, emerging unscathed from the thick of the battle.

Thompson did not receive the Victoria Cross, but was awarded the Queen’s Scarf of Honour instead by a unanimous vote of his comrades in the field. 

In July 1900, Thompson was invalided home as a result of severe sunstroke and, in 1908, at the age of 31, died after a case of acute appendicitis.  His personal effects were sent to the family home in Cork, where the Queen’s Scarf of Honour had been carefully preserved by the Thompson family.

In May 1965, the scarf came to rest in the Canadian War Museum in Canada’s capital, scant miles from the small rural cemetery at New Chelsea, QC, where the hero is buried.

The other seven recipients of Queen Victoria’s Scarf of Honour are:  Australian Private Dufrayer, N.S.W. Mounted Rifles; New Zealander Private H.D. Coutts, New Zealand Contingent; South African Trooper I. Chadwick, Robert’s Horse and from the British Army, Quartermaster Sergeant Henry George Clay, The East Surrey Regiment; Colour Sergeant William Colclough, The Devonshire Regiment; Colour Sergeant Thomas Ferrett, The Queen’s Regiment, and Colour Sergeant Frank Kingsley, The West Yorkshire Regiment.

Almost every soldier has a tale to tell.  This concerns one who survived but with life-long damage to his face.  It tells the way in which an ordinary soldier handled serious war disabilities when he returned to civil life. 

It had been my good fortune to meet Harold Prout shortly after he enlisted.  We found ourselves sitting on a bench in Brandon, Manitoba, waiting for transport to get back to Camp Shilo.  There happened to be a panhandler going by our bench.  The derelict took off his cap and asked for a donation.   Harold, quick on the uptake, told him:  “We’re working this side of the street; go stake out the exit door of that pub across the way.”

The laughter was loud and long, but the thought was serious.  Harold, ever the wit, said within earshot of half a dozen ‘Shilo-ites,’ that he would get a tin cup and sell pencils if he did not get out of the war in one piece.

Harold Prout is a prime example of the kind of men we had in the Royal Winnipeg Rifles (RWR).  During battles in the Rhineland forests of Germany late in the war, he was riding in his carrier when a German airburst exploded above him.  He sustained damage of the worst kind.  The most devastating injury resulted from a large fragment which tore off his entire lower jaw.  The gaping hole could not be repaired.

War wounds are often the acid test to determine whether the soldier did his part in combat.  Was he able to handle serious medical war-caused problems when he returned to civil life?  Let’s see!

Harold was in my platoon.  We still correspond on a regular basis.  He was unable to return to Winnipeg – his home before enlistment.  This was due to the severity of the shell wound and as he states:  “The only two medical facilities in Canada at that time [1944] that could attempt to handle my facial damage were in Toronto and Montreal.”

After returning to Canada, Harold underwent something like 25 different surgeries.  The best that the medics could do was give him a supply of bandages to hide his wound and a syringe to get liquid food down his gullet.  His post-war job was in the artificial limb shop at Toronto’s Sunnybrook Hospital – a place I often visited on business.  This gave me a chance to ask him whether the wages paid by Veterans Affairs were somewhat better than a tin cup and pencils (our private joke!).  He proudly showed me his wedding invitation along with the deed to his new house.  It was a heartening experience for me.  Harold, notwithstanding the loss of his jaw, could still get a great smile with his eyes.

Is it possible to measure the courage of a man if an examination is made of the manner in which he handles the damage inflicted upon his mind or body by war?  The experience of Harold Prout seems to define the kind of riflemen we had in Northwest Europe.  They need not take a backseat to any of Hitler’s supermen.

Harold had what would be a normal upbringing for Canadians joining the Forces.  He was born in Portage la Prairie, Manitoba, but was raised on a homestead in Hudson Bay Junction.  This is where the CN train leaves the main line for the Northern Port of Churchill.  The real danger in working a homestead in that part of the world came in the swarms of mosquitoes.  Also, the rail line was given to cave-ins.  Riders were routinely asked to walk either in front or behind the train in case the entire embankment hit a sinkhole.  This was muskeg country.  The whole train could disappear. Harold’s job (part-time) was to walk the rail line.

So the picture becomes clear.  He worked on a homestead in the mosquito-infested bog around Hudson Bay Junction.  Then his family moved to Winnipeg and he went to school in that city.  Next, he joined the Army where his keen sense of humour made him popular with his bunkmates.

He would need every ounce of courage when we speak of his war wound.  Harold and I keep in touch.  He will not mind if I stress the fact that he has lived for 65 years with only one-half of his face.  This means that, after moving back to Winnipeg more than 20 years ago, he suffers the consequences of Winnipeg weather – hot in summer, cold and dangerous in winter.  His mark of distinction?  His dignity was not impaired by the visual effect his facial damage had on others.