EPILOG

In the years since the end of the war, the telegraphists of the Canadian Navy have been transformed into the first element of a three-element integrated force.  Like men of the Army and Air Force elements, they associate in cliques.  But despite this and other adversities of unification and integration, they have advanced with the changes in technology.  They are known as Communicators, and have become professionally versed in all facets of communications such as:  radio teletype, esoteric on-line and off-line cryptographic systems, satellite communications, and data, computer-oriented communications.

            There is not much difference in ability between the space-age communicator and the young telegraphist of the war years.  Both could cope with their environment, but especially the telegraphist of the hazardous war-time years, for many of these men continued their service into peace-time, and counselled, molded, and inspired many of the modern young men into becoming reputable and professional communicators.

            And now, with 40-years service with the Defence Department behind me, it is only natural that I dwell occasionally on those beloved bygone days.  In reflection, I can easily hear again the musical strains of “The Standard of St. George” played by a ghostly band at St. Hyacinthe, while in my mind, faces of grinning shipmates are spontaneously projected - shipmates whose names have faded with the passing years.

            We, of the war years, had a boundless feeling of good-fellowship, but we had our trivial moments of vexation.  Besides the ubiquitous U-boats, there were the other frustrations:  the weather vagaries of an awesome Atlantic with its wind, ice, fog, cold, and mountainous seas; the loss of comrades; the simple afflictions of homesickness, seasickness, sadness, cramped quarters - and the swish of water in your mess.  All of these, with eccentric dress aboard and the best in personally-bought tiddlies ashore, combined to make us a very special breed.

            Our journeys over shifting sea lanes were often more tiresome than exciting.  During much of the war, the shepherding of convoys by close escorts did not present the same opportunities availing the support Groups and the Hunter Killer Groups.  We could not tarry long over a contact.  The convoys had to go through.  We had to keep up.  But we did have our moments of victory and sent the formidable foe to his Valhalla.  However, the safe arrival of a convoy was as much a triumph as the sinking of the enemy.  In this, we Canadians can be proud of our role in the Battle of the Atlantic.  We trained and re-trained, and in the days of the great convoys we shepherded the rusty ships in our ward and saw thousands of them through safely.  We did our job well; no one can denigrate that.  For many of us, our shining hour was the Newfy to Derry run.  There, in the far reaches of the North Atlantic, was accomplished our finest deeds; there was spent the greatest day of our lives; and there lay the misty memories.

            Newfy to Derry - truly they were our glory days.