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With the anniversary of Vimy Ridge Day fast approaching, it seems an opportune time to tell the story behind this landmark battle.  Over the next few entries, I will share with you the events as they unfolded.

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Even before the first day of the April 1917 Battle of Vimy Ridge was over, historians were signifying it as “the day upon which Canada became a Nation.” That day – April 9th!!

This was due, of course, to the fact that the brunt of this battle, which was to mean so much in the final outcome of World War I, fell to the Canadian Corps.

The eyes of the world were upon Canada during this battle, and the troops from this developing country in North America were about to render a service for which the free world would ever be indebted to them.

It was through the Canadians’ hands that the torch of freedom had been flung – and from that day henceforth, the world would know that it was the Canadian Army which wrought a hard won victory which turned the tide of battle in the inhuman struggle which came to be known as the first Great War.

Today, the magnificent Vimy Memorial stands as a Silent Tribute to those men who “took the ridge.” Some 93 years later, services at this Vimy Memorial – and in fact across Canada as well, will revere their memory.  It should be a time of serious contemplation. 

History of the Battle

Vimy Ridge itself formed a barrier nine miles long and was, of course, considered to be a most favourable position for an army advancing either eastward or westward.  Prior to the Battle of 1917, the Canadian trenches lay on the southwestern slope of the ridge with tunnels leading right up to its summit.  The German trenches were on the other side of the Ridge in a flat and fertile area with occasional coal pit heads among the villages and farms.

Vimy Ridge was one of the most important tactical features of the Western Front, and a focus for continual fighting throughout the war.  In the first week of October 1914, the French forces were driven back across Vimy Ridge by the German 6th army.  At the end of November 1914, the French commenced upon an extensive plan to recapture Vimy Ridge.  This was to be an imaginative campaign involving ten battalions of infantry, and a corps of cavalry, to be followed by more infantry in motor vehicles.  The offensive opened on December 16th but the mud was too deep and the fog was too thick.  The battle was unsuccessful.  There were 7,771 French casualties.  Thus the first winter of static warfare began, with Vimy Ridge in German hands.

Another allied offensive began on March the 3rd of 1915 – again spearheaded by the French.  The British First Army including the First Canadian Division mounted an offensive of its own at Festubert and Givenchy.  The Germans held on stubbornly, at a cost of some 80,000 casualties, but succeeded in preventing a breakthrough and thus retained possession of Vimy Ridge – the dominant and essential feature of the battlefield.

In the autumn of 1915, the French again went on the offensive at Vimy.  On the northern flank they captured Souchez and almost reached the crest, but the general result was the same as earlier in the year.  The Germans, fighting as in a fortress, still held the Ridge and towards the end of the year the front again became stationary, with a renewal of sapping, mining and patrolling at close quarters.  The French did hold “the Pimple” – the only French position on the crest.

In February of 1916 the Germans mounted a surprise attack and seized “the Pimple.” Throughout the summer of 1916 trench warfare continued on the Vimy front. The Canadians, who had been engaged earlier in the year in the battles on the Somme, took over the Vimy sector in October.  At that time the front was punctuated by an almost continuous line of craters, large and small, infested with snipers and trench mortars.  It was the scene of frequent minor operations, raids and encounters in the dark between patrols.

To be continued in next post.

The RWRs were indebted to the Polish Army.  Time and again, Polish troops had neutralized German gun and mortar batteries which were killing off Canadians.

One episode tells the story.  Charlie Company of the RWRs, which was under my temporary command, was detailed to capture the ground north of the Dives River.  Not easy.  The Germans were evacuating the area in small bunches.  They often put up stiff rear-guard battles in farmhouses.  Our casualties from these engagements were both sad and numerous. 

The Germans were occupying a large farm complex.  On the outskirts, more than 30 members of the Chaudière Regiment were lying feet first toward the road.  All of them were dead, waiting for a priest.

The Black Devils were told to liquidate the stubborn German defenders. It was night-time.  My interpreter told a Polish officer in a tank, that if we could not move the Jerries, my platoon would be sitting ducks at daylight.  The Germans would have a clear field of fire.  The Polish major was asked to do something which tank commanders would rather not do – that is, take his tank out at night and accompany the infantry along the attack route.

Nonetheless, he gave up his safe position in an orchard. It was a welcome sound for us to hear the Polish tank start up.  Through our interpreter and the telephone which was mounted on the rear of the tank, he made it clear that it was not part of the tactics of the Polish Armoured to move at night without a guide.  We agreed and sent one of our best trackers – a Métis with a bed sheet pinned to his back – along the route to be taken by the Polish tank.  It worked. The Germans, realizing that to retreat was the better part of valour, vacated their heavily-fortified farm.

Back to the Trun area and the bridge.  Come daylight.  There were no Germans to be seen around the bridge at the Dives River.  On the far side, our Polish Brigadier was riding his white horse.

A signal came back to our battalion headquarters.  We still needed the bridge.  ‘Okay.  Make sure it is in our hands.’

At this point Sgt Art Kelly was absolutely certain that his company commander (me) had lost his marbles.  When I laid out the plan for the attack, it met with loud guffaws from Kelly.  He said that it made absolutely no sense to attack a bridge which the Germans could easily have used as a defence.  He said it was obvious from the Pole on the white horse that the Polish were in possession of the ground on the far side of the Dives River.

Our plan had been okayed by the CO.  It called for artillery support with a start time.   At precisely 0900 hours, Charlie Company approached the bridge area with a false air of nonchalance.  Surely the Germans were not bothered by the one Polish officer on a white horse.  No - they were waiting for the Winnipegs.  We still had to take that bridge.   As Jerry opened up with his mortars and MGs, a valuable lesson was learned.

One Pole mounted on a horse, did not necessarily mean that no Germans occupied the other side of the Dives.  My war diary entry said the fire fight lasted at least an hour.  The Germans were eventually routed.   It was not a foolish gesture simply to rescue the Polish officer and the white horse.  We did indeed capture the bridge, but it proved to be a difficult objective.

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In an earlier entry, I described the Prime Minister’s 1999 visit to Poland.  I was honoured to accompany him on this trip. 

At a state dinner, the General who commanded the Polish Armoured Division, made reference to the ‘white horse’ incident.  He suggested it was a tribute which allowed a high-ranking Polish cavalry officer, who had been captured on September 4, 1939, to regain his honour.  My small part in the entire episode was recognized by the Polish Minister of Defence.  How?  By awarding me a medal. 

It marks my modest contribution to an episode which gave the Poles an even greater appreciation of the friendly cooperation which allowed both the Polish and the Canadian divisions, en route to close the Falaise Gap, to work in harmony and develop a great friendship.

The story of the white horse goes something like this:

The Falaise Gap was closed and thousands of Germans were trapped.  It was August 27, 1944.

The Canadian Army and the 1st Polish Armoured Division carried much of the fighting in Normandy in the Eastern Section.  The Allies had taken about 10,000 German prisoners.  The mood of our guys could be described as ‘slap-happy.’  Charlie Company was walking along the north bank of the Dives River, heading for Trun.  My lead platoon spied a white horse in a farmyard.  With a little help from the boys, I managed to get up on it – bareback.  It was quite a sight as we travelled the miles between towns like Fresne-la-Mer and Crocy and along the north bank of the Dives River.

We had become friendly with the First Polish Armoured Division, most of which was across a ditch from us.  They said later they liked the way the Canadians fought.

A Polish officer approached. He was yelling, “Shakespeare – Shakespeare” and in Polish he was shouting “Moje Królestwo Za Konia” (My kingdom for a horse)!  We had plenty of Polish boys in the Winnipeg Rifles and translation was no problem.  What could not be understood was why this Polish officer let it be known that he wanted the white horse very badly.  The reason was understandable when explained.

Germany attacked Poland in 1940.  The Polish Army was largely composed of cavalry, with the officers mounted on horses. 

To get to the story itself, the Polish officer was saying, in Polish:  “By God, I started this war on a white horse!  I want to finish it off the same way!”  Having seen the Falaise Gap closed, the Pole was under the impression that the war was over.  The only fitting closure for him would be to ride herd on the German prisoners, astride a white horse.�

With the 82nd Annual Academy Awards Ceremony taking place this weekend, it seems an appropriate time to tell the story of a World War II amputee who holds a unique position in Oscar history.

The late Harold Russell was a Canadian-American World War II veteran and one of only two non-professional actors to win an Academy Award for acting. In 1946, he took home the Best Supporting Actor award as well as an Honorary Oscar for his role in The Best Years of Our Lives, making him the only person to receive two Academy Awards for the same role.

Harold was born in North Sydney, Nova Scotia in 1914.  At the age of 19, he and his family moved to Massachusetts.  The day after the attack on Pearl Harbor in 1941, Harold enlisted in the Army. 

In 1944, while demonstrating the use of hand grenades to a group of soldiers with the U.S. 13th Airborne Division, a defective fuse detonated and he lost both hands.  As a replacement, he was fitted with steel hooks.

While attending Boston University, Harold appeared in a film about rehabilitating war veterans titled Diary of a Sergeant.  It was this film that brought Harold to the attention of Director William Wyler. 

He was cast as Homer Parrish, a sailor who lost both hands during the war, in Wyler’s film The Best Years of Our Lives.  The film depicted the problems veterans faced on the home front as they dealt with their disabilities.  Harold won the 1946 Oscar for Best Supporting Actor and, “for bringing hope and courage to disabled veterans through the medium of motion pictures,” he was given an Honorary Oscar.

Harold returned to Boston University and graduated with a business degree.  For much of his life, he chose to work as a spokesperson about disability and as an advocate for veterans’ organizations and for the employment of people with disabilities. He served on the President’s Committee on the Employment of People with Disabilities, first as Vice Chairman in 1961, and then as Chairman from 1964 until the late 1980’s.  During this time, he also served three terms as National Commander of AMVETS, an American volunteer-led organization that provides support for veterans and active military personnel. 

In August 1965, Harold paid a visit to The Toronto Branch of The War Amputations of Canada.  I was pleased to be there for this occasion, and the whole group ‘had a ball.’

Harold Russell, Charlie Mitchell and myself discussing the Amps’ Booklet

Harold surprised our members with his determined attempt to find out what we in ‘The Amps’ were doing and was most impressed with our programs.  He made a real hit with the Toronto Amps.

On January 29, 2002, at the age of 88, this remarkable man passed away from a heart attack, leaving behind his daughter Adele, stepson Gerald and second wife Betty.�