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Illustration by Drew Shannon
Sometimes life gives you a second chance.
My father, a veteran of the Second World War, died suddenly at age 64. Had I asked him about his war experiences as an officer in the Royal Canadian Navy? No. And if I had, would he, like most vets, have been reluctant to talk about them? Had he suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder? Probably. I remember my dad as a gentle soul who loved to write, paint, sing, play the piano and fish in the summertime.
In 2020, I wrote Archives Canada to request his war records. Four years later, an e-mail arrived − a PDF of 700 pages of scanned paperwork and the directive to review it in one week as it would “disappear.”
One of my daughters immediately linked my father’s landing craft, LCI (L) 285, with a recent interview she’d seen with war veteran, Richard Norris of Summerland, B.C., who had served on that ship. At 18, Norris was the youngest crew member.
I called the Royal Canadian Legion in Summerland. Yes, they knew him, and if I would leave my name and number, they’d ask him to respond. Norris called a few hours later – at 99 he had a strong voice and a sharp memory. And yes, he remembered my father! They’d spent nine months on the Scottish coast practising landings for D-Day.
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He described my father as a “good-looking fella, reserved, who wasted no words. We knew D-Day was close when he got on the loud speaker and told the crew: ‘All I want from you is to keep her clean, keep her running and keep her loaded.’”
It took nearly a year to meet Norris, but eventually, my two daughters and I travelled to Summerland in late September for an emotional meeting with Norris and four of his daughters. Widowed, still living in his own bungalow, Norris celebrated his 100th birthday this past July. Here was a unique opportunity to reconnect with my father through the eyes of someone who’d lived and worked with him under difficult circumstances. My dad came alive. He was in the room with me.
Open on the table next to Norris’s armchair was a photo of my dad, Lieutenant Shath Square and second in command, Lieutenant J. Patterson. As well as photographs from the D-Day landings, Norris had also kept (and gave to me) a large cardstock “Watch and Quarter Bill” from LCI (L) 285 filled out in my father’s handwriting.
My daughter recorded our conversation and I took notes as Norris shared his memories.
“We lived on the boat and practised night and day. There were 22 of us. The navy didn’t think small crews needed a cook, so your dad assigned a former streetcar driver as cook. The food was terrible. Your dad would row to shore for a meal. Turned out I was the only one on board who knew how to row a boat without drowning him, so I took him back and forth.
“It’s navy tradition that one day the youngest man on board gets to command the ship,” Norris said. “That was me. Your dad told me not to wreck the ship and went down to the seamen’s quarters. I ran the ship okay, but he was put out when he realized I’d also finished off his rum supplies.”
Dad’s ship was one of the first to land on Juno beach. Norris leaned over and looked me in the eye. “You should know your dad had no casualties, no injuries and no damage to the ship.”
My one recollection from my father was that D-Day was terrifying. Norris described 7,000 ships heading to Normandy. No Morse code so they were talking with lamps. The whole channel was flickering. There was the drone of the engines you could feel as a vibration in the ship. Overhead were round-the-clock bombing missions, salvos by destroyers and frigates, inshore bombardment, gun flashes, mortar and machine gun fire.
When the ship reached the beach, Norris jumped off the boat and dog paddled to shore with a yellow guide rope between his teeth. He held the rope taut on the beach, while the infantry, some with bicycles on their backs, swam or walked to shore.
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When Norris returned to Juno Beach in 1999 as a guest of the Canadian government for the 55th anniversary of D-Day, he learned in graphic detail what happened to the men he put ashore.
“Standing among the thousands of headstones, I was moved to angry tears and guilt. The crushing loss! Man’s inhumanity to his fellow man. When all is said and done, we are all the same on each end of the gun.”
My father, responsible at age 27 for so many young lives, fought his demons, often with the help of whisky. Talking with Norris gave us insight into the father and grandfather who in 1940 went to war barely out of his teens and returned a man never quite the same.
I am thankful to Norris for a deeper understanding of my dad. In the bungalow in Summerland, I felt a deep connection and love for my father, gratitude I could make this journey with my girls and wonder at our meeting. Norris calls it a miracle.
Johanne Leach lives in Vancouver.
