The National Defence College
course was organised as an annual curriculum, beginning in early September and
terminating in mid-July, with graduation certificates presented by the governor
general. It was a magnificent course, with the student body consisting of
promising military, government and civilian leaders. The course was much sought
after as a great sabbatical from the incessant daily pressures. The venue, a
grand old structure at the military base in Kingston, had history and charm to
provide the appropriate setting.
Terry and I had decided that
it was best for her and the children to stay put in our Ottawa home as we had
no idea what would be in store a year later. The children were happy enough
with their high school, therefore it would also not be fair to disturb them. I
found an apartment that I shared with another NDC course member, a civil
servant who I met while he was the executive assistant to the deputy minister,
who, by the way, was neither civil nor much of a servant.
The attendees of Course
XXXII consisted of 14 senior military officers, one RCMP superintendent, 15
federal and provincial government senior public servants, four representatives
from the United States(one each from the army, navy and air force and the
fourth from the Defence Information Agency), a British army brigadier, a
British naval captain, a British Foreign Service member, an Australian air
commodore, a CIBC executive, a member of the Calgary Mannix family and a Roman
Catholic priest. We were an interesting mix, each of us in our prime and moving
up the ladder of organisational success.
The purpose of the course
was to instil a sense of the global linkage of all major decisions and events.
It was an encouragement to visualise the big picture from a Canadian
perspective. We sat in comfortable
chairs in the lecture hall, commonly called “the master bedroom”, and were
treated to presentations by top-level national and other speakers on a broad
variety of subjects. And the really good part? No assignments to work on at
home. Well, not quite. We did have to put together one major paper, but we had
all year to do it.
Our course senior, Brigadier
General Walter Dabros, was appointed into that position by the commandant.
Actually he was the second choice as the initial appointee was promoted within
a few days of course commencement and recalled to Ottawa. Walt will scold me
for revealing this, as he never considered himself the second choice for
anything. It was first or don’t bother! Anyhow, this chief military meathead,
who could curdle asphalt with his language yes that bad was a great course
senior, rather unorthodox in some ways but predictable and consistent in things
that mattered. Occasionally, I sensed the attitude from some of the civilians
that they “followed him out of sheer curiosity” and were otherwise uncertain as
to how much sugar coating was required. Ultimately, they understood that some
allowances had to be made.
There were other characters
on the course, more than I wish to dissect, but I will mention that we had our
resident “might is right” proponent, or maybe two or three, a committed
separatist from Quebec, a number of unabashed party animals, a navy captain who
was itching to straighten out the headquarters, gourmands anticipating the
international offerings, and then the rest of us.
The initial few weeks felt
strange. I had been programmed for years to react, to do, to use every minute
effectively. Time was at a premium and none can be wasted. Overnight, the
situation changed and I could lounge in a comfortable chair listening to really
good information, well presented, and I did not even have to take notes! I
thought I had died and gone to heaven! Anyhow, we were encouraged to ask an
occasional question to give the speaker, and the staff, the impression that we
were interested. And it was hard not to be interested as the majority of the
speakers were good. When we had a dud, and some did bomb, the lack of questions
would be the most telling critique.
On one such occasion, it
even created hard feelings within the course. Each of us was responsible for
hosting a speaker on a rotating basis, which included the introduction before
the presentation. We then relied on our peers to pepper the speaker with
questions during the question period. On this occasion, the after-lunch
speaker, bad time to begin with, really stunk. At the completion of the
presentation, the host kicked off the questions with one of his own, and that
was it. No more questions! Nobody would get up to help save the day.
Eventually, a staff member thanked the speaker and the session ended. However,
the host let us all know in no uncertain terms that we could all rot before he
would support us during our turn. We were embarrassed for him, yet he was
dogged in his determination and stayed glued to his soft chair for a number of
months before relenting and joining in the question sessions. Mind you, some
members did not ask a single question all year, even without provocation.
Part of the course time was
also spent in syndicate discussions and these, too, were interesting as the
breadth of backgrounds and views created great sessions. We would take an
assigned subject related to the series of speakers for that week, and spend a
few hours hammering out some consensus before presenting our views to the full
class. Because the subject material was also interesting, the presentations
invariably drew out many additional questions and viewpoints. Having attended a
number of military courses, this one was heads and shoulders above in every
respect. And the best was yet to come.
The total length of the
course was 42 weeks, 19 of which was spent on trips ranging from tours in
Canada including a northern swing, to extensive coverage of the United States,
to a fabulous three weeks in Central and South America, to an exotic four weeks
circling of the globe from Korea to Pakistan to Israel, to the grand finale - a
five-week criss-crossing of Europe. An air force 707 was at our disposal for
the international flights and for some of the continental visits. Otherwise, we
travelled aboard a C-130 Hercules, which was more readily available and quite
acceptable. Whatever the mode of travel, certain commodities were constant. An
honour-system bar was always available from “wheels up” to “seat belts on for
landing”. On the 707, we had first-class seating and, having arranged with the
cabin crew to subsidize the meals, we ate like, well, first-class passengers.
Shrimp cocktails and grilled steaks were the norm and with a pre-dinner drink
and a few glasses of good wine, the food settled well and the airborne hours
flew by. The bridge tables were busy, many books were read and hours of lost
sleep relocated. The “underway replenishment officer” did a commendable job of
stocking supplies and, being a steady customer, was able to keep a good eye on
preferences and quantities. It was a labour of love.
In Canada, we visited every
major military headquarters plus numerous big business plants, mines and paper
mills. While in Calgary, Fred Mannix, our course multi-everything, arranged an
additional western event, a ranch visit and a western barbeque.
Numerous humorous events
occurred during the tours and these were recorded by the course recorders. One
of the wives who accompanied the western swing will always be remembered for
her naivety as it related to cattle. As we bussed by a corral, a steer mounted
a cow; probably faintly recalling that this would have been one of life’s
pleasures had the veterinarian not gotten to it first. Anyhow, our naïve wife
inquired as to the purpose of the animal’s action and was told by one of the
wags that being short, the steer was trying get height to see over the fence
and determine who had come to visit. She accepted the answer as plausible and
was puzzled that it caused prolonged gales of laughter.
A set number of wives were
permitted to accompany each tour and they added much needed grace and charm
with their presence, but were not immune to being made the object of practical
jokes if circumstances warranted, or if they put their foot in it. On the other
hand, many were also able to shell it out as well and were therefore accepted
on equal terms, most of the time.
Names had been drawn,
representing those wives who wanted to join the travel schedule. Terry lost
out, being drawn as a backup, but backup for the exotic global trip. Well, lo
and behold, only one wife cancelled out all year and it turned out to be a
cancellation for the exotic trip, therefore, Terry qualified. But first she had
a major hurdle to overcome. She had been operated on in the fall and developed
a severe internal infection that almost killed her. It was pretty tense for a
while, with her primary surgeon proving to have been a bad choice, later sued
by other patients for negligence. In the meantime, a second surgeon, a
moonlighting military doctor, examined her and performed a rescue operation
that pulled her through. She recovered quickly and worked hard to regain enough
strength to get her doctor’s blessing to accompany the tour.
A standard feature on the
tour stops was a hospitality room, sometimes referred to as the “hostility
room”, in which the members gathered to have a drink and chat or argue or plan
events. Much humour came out of those and many hours of sleep were lost by
those who were regulars. I was not, but did enjoy the camaraderie and
occasionally found myself behind the power curve the following morning. Thank
goodness it was usually a matter of hanging on until lunch, during which a
little hair of the dog provided a temporary cure. The trick was not to overdo
the hair or, even worse, not to eat the whole dog at lunch or later, before
dinner.
The overall preparation for
the round-the-world flight included a last-minute change in the agenda. We
would not be going to Iran, as the revolution to get rid of the Shah was
getting out of control and the Islamic fundamentalists were gaining. Instead,
we would now spend the extra days in Pakistan. As course members, we did not
get to vote on this, External Affairs instead making the decision for us. At
each of our official stops, we were met by senior government or military
representatives and were given great tours and excellent presentations. As
well, the accommodation were first class, the receptions interesting, and the
food always exotic and frequently superb.
Briefings were presented or
hosted by very senior government officials, crown princes, or ministers of the
crown, including deputy prime ministers. The information was usually
well-presented and questions answered very directly. We had field trips with
good tour guides to every imaginable business, military and public feature.
Indeed, we developed a strict embussing and debussing routine and that aspect
of our travels became a target of many good-natured jokes. We became as
proficient at that as we were at “milling” around.
After an overnight in
Hawaii, our first official stop was in South Korea. One of the field trips was
to the border with North Korea, established at the cessation of the Korean
conflict. Despite the tenseness of the visit, into a situation where the North
Korean military are positioned behind the demilitarized zone along the current
border, and where the roadways leading to the border are lined with tank traps,
there was much comic relief. One example is that the border divides the table
in the truce room and North Koreans man the offices and use the floor space on
their side of the table while South Koreans and United Nations troops use the
other side. They have been at it now for almost fifty years without progress.
It is bizarre!
The most memorable South Korean
events were the shopping excursions in Seoul. At the time, before the Olympics
introduced the world to South Korean’s entrepreneurial capacities, Seoul had
street upon street lined with tiny shops, filled with inexpensive, but good,
electronic treasures, plus knock-offs of top brand clothing, leather goods and
watches. Each little shop was heated by a charcoal burner that spewed
evil-smelling smoke and carbon monoxide into the air. There were occasional
deaths reported, but the constant flow of customers brought in enough fresh air
from the very cold January outdoors to keep the staff alive. Woe unto those
whose businesses were slow; they were at risk of succumbing to the toxic fumes!
We were like kids in a candy
shop, buying up wonderful electronic gadgets, bolts of beautiful silk cloth,
baggage, leatherwear, name-brand jogging shoes at bargain-basement prices, and
jewellery and watches. Anyhow, the aircraft crew gagged when the booty was
delivered to the aircraft, but would have had an even bigger logistics problem
if the course members had known that the best bargains of the tour were in
Seoul. We lamented that fact for the rest of the trip as we visited market
after market in places such as Hong Kong, Bangkok and Amman and discovered the
bargains we had left behind. Why did someone not warn us?
After the markets of Seoul
came the bustle of Hong Kong. First, the official receptions and briefings. The
British officials at Hong Kong briefed us, then hosted a wonderful reception
and lunch. Gin and tonic flowed, followed by curried and Chinese dishes. The
refreshments were exceptional and the hosts attentive. We spent several days
touring the various points of interest, including the border points with China
where huge numbers of potential Chinese refugees were constantly testing the
effectiveness of the security. We also spent an afternoon on a large Hilton
boat viewing the shore line and the city while enjoying refreshments that did
not quite last the duration of the cruise. The Hong Kong markets were also
richly rewarded by our presence, with many pieces of jewellery and numerous
watches being purchased. I think half the course members equipped themselves
with Seiko digital watches, which they then had to spend hours learning to
adjust and to utilize to full capability. I suspect that many watches found
their way into the bottom drawer of the dresser after the novelty wore off or,
perhaps, out of frustration with its complexity. One of the course members even
made time for a side trip to Macau to test his skill at the gaming table.
Next was Bangkok, a city of
a thousand delights. Our escort from the airport consisted of numerous police
vehicles with lights flashing and sirens blaring, and we weaved our way through
streets thick with old smoke-belching cars, numerous commercial vehicles of
every description, buses filled with passengers, the overflow hanging on in the
doorways, and numerous bicyclists weaving through the clogged streets. The
sound of horns was a constant in the hum and the growl of traffic. In the humid
heat of Bangkok, commuting in such conditions required the patience of Buddha,
which may well be why the religion prevails. You read it here first.
The agenda at Bangkok
allowed time for all the pleasures, shopping, eating and exploring. That is,
whatever pleasures were not built into the official programme. We ate as a
group in a wonderful Thai restaurant, visited a number of the world-renowned
temples, and were received at a lavish reception hosted by the Thai officials.
Shopping in the fabulous jewellery stores was a special delight. Once inside,
away from the din of the street, a drink was offered, tea or something
stronger, and the trays of stones and jewellery brought out. Time was not
important and if stones were your thing, you may have to stay for weeks to sort
through them all. Bangkok deserved more time, primarily to satisfy the senses
rather than for any official reasons.
To break from the pleasures
of Bangkok, we flew to Korat in eastern Thailand and were bused to a refugee
camp where thousands of war refugees were living, having escaped from the
ongoing war in Vietnam. We were taken into the camp with escort, briefed on the
extent of the problem and permitted to intermingle with residents. I had a
Polaroid camera which developed instant prints, and took a photo of some of the
little children crowding around. Their eyes got rounder and rounder as they
watched the image develop before them and they squealed with excitement and
giggled when their individual face was pointed out. I snapped photo after
photo, giving them to randomly selected children. It was a heart-warming
episode, lightening the monotony of their hopeless existence. Equally, it gave
me a feeling of at least sharing something with them for that short while. When
we left the camp, it was difficult to wipe their faces from memory and go on to
the next episode of the tour.
Returning to Bangkok, we
spent additional time immersed in the Thai culture by being taken on a river
cruise in small boats, making our way through the numerous produce-loaded boats
selling their delicious-looking fruit, vegetables, nuts and crafts in the
increasing heat of the tropical morning. As the travel days in the various
exotic countries added up and as our needs for sustenance were fulfilled, a number
of the members begin succumbing to various food-induced illnesses. Some of it
may well have been from “bad ice”, but the levels of heat and the obvious lack
of proper sanitary management of food products destined for our sensitive,
sterile, digestive systems took its toll. Kaopectate became the drink of
choice. However, nothing dampened our enthusiasm for the gentle and pleasant
people of the country nor for their cultural and commercial offerings. We
reluctantly reboarded our bus to return to the airport and to fly to Islamabad
in Pakistan.
The flight to Pakistan was
particularly long and the enthusiasm level sank to a low ebb. Perhaps it was
the enforced stay of the extra few days that we were not looking forward to, but
six days in Pakistan seemed like a long time when we could have used the extra
time in Seoul or exploring fascinating Bangkok.
The hotel in Islamabad was
barely passable and the organised tours tightly run by the military. One could
sense the British heritage in the coolness and the clipped curtness, and our
hosts certainly made an effort to project control. Outside the government
showplaces, the rich enclaves and the multi-starred hotels, there was abject
poverty. There were always many people about and they tended to rest in a squat
position. We would frequently see a group of men or boys squatting in a small
circle, excitedly discussing some subject or other. Also, as we walked along
vacant lots or streets with shrubbery, bodies would bob up from a squatting to
an upright position, a rather startling sight at first. Sometimes they bobbed
right down again, giving the impression we were seeing things. Like, did you
see that? What? It disappeared! You’re seeing things!
Anyway, after a six
day-visit to Pakistan it is possible that you might hallucinate as it appears
that any number of hallucinatory products was readily available, judging by the
contented looking pipe smokers squatting around in circles. Well, I did not try
it, let alone inhale. However, I had more than my fill of another local
delicacy, water buffalo meat. It appears that water buffalo was the substitute
for beef in Pakistan. Incidentally, any cut of meat ordered, whether steak or
beef burger, was the same price. Neither the taste nor texture was particularly
appealing. I never want to see water buffalo beef burger again, nor steak.
Whereas Islamabad was
boring, one of the highlights of the entire course was a field trip to see the
Khyber Pass, as guests of the Khyber Rifles. On the selected day, we were flown
to Peshawar, gateway to the pass. As we boarded the waiting bus and were
welcomed by the army tour guide, it was clear that the mood of the people was
different from that in Islamabad. No bobbing heads here, all the men, and even
the youths, had a rifle in hand and looked like they were not subservient to
anyone. On our way out of town, the tour guide cautioned us not to take any
photographs of women as we had now entered a region where tribal rule based on
Islam prevailed, and Muslim laws do not allow photographing someone else’s
woman. Cameras down, except for scenery and donkeys.
Entering the pass, the road
started climbing and became a ribbon of gravel hugging the mountainside with
constant hairpin turns. I had chosen the shotgun seat and, on many occasions,
was out in space over a deep valley as the corner of the bus protruded out
during a turn. It was an awesome trip, about two hours each way, with a member
of the Khyber Rifles regiment standing on ceremonial guard every couple of miles.
The mountain sides were magnificent in their austereness, barren except for
patches of what looked to be inedible shrubs. There was some sign of life in
the valley, but limited to flocks of sheep and goats. Throughout the region, it
was difficult to visualise that this land could support anything more than the
little that we saw. The arrival at the Afghanistan border was a pleasant relief
from the bumping and the turning of that mountain road and we were happy to
debus and, amongst other things, to relieve our jostled kidneys.
After an interval of time
for the guide’s comments and for some photographs, the return trip began.
Thankfully, there would be a second break shortly, a stop at the Khyber Rifles
regiment officers’ mess for refreshments and lunch. It was a unique privilege
to be given the opportunity to visit this historic location. Located about 30
minutes from the border, it is an isolated army base with the camp followers’
cluster of shops, homes and service establishments stretching along the road
from the entrance for some two to three miles. Inside the camp was order and
quiet and we were escorted directly to the officers mess for the lunch. The
beer was wonderful, but the food was handled with care by most of us, relying
on the familiar and safe-looking items on the table. The adventurous claimed
they did try the sheep’s eyeballs, softly sautéed in steaming goats’ milk, I
suppose. After an hour of small talk and sustenance, we continued our bus ride
to Peshawar and on to Islamabad.
We spent the remaining days
in Pakistan days, touring every conceivable facility, including an experimental
farm surrounded by the abject poverty of the region When we bade Pakistan
farewell, we did so without remorse, but with very vivid memories of the
magnificent trip through the haunting and historic Khyber Pass.
I looked forward to the
visit to Israel, a six-day stay in this historic and tortured land. Our
headquarters would be Tel Aviv, but we would be in buses for a good part of the
time. The day after our arrival, we were given a terrific tour of much of
northern Israel, beginning with a visit to the Sea of Galilee, then up-country
to the Golan Heights, a drive parallel to the ‘good fence” with Lebanon and a
stop in Nazareth on the drive back to Tel Aviv. It turned into a long day, but
with exceptional guides whose briefings made the history come to life and who
knew all the facts and had all the answers. During the drive through the Golan,
we picked up an extra guide, an army tank officer who had served with great
distinction and who had lost a leg during the 1973 battle with Syria for the
Golan Heights. His briefing was superb and we came away from the area with a
better understanding of the problems underlying the unrest.
The stop in Nazareth was in
response to a strong plea from the course members, one readily acceded to by
the driver and guides. It was a moving experience to visit the town where Jesus
lived, and to walk the streets and look at the surrounding scenery and
contemplate His presence two millenia ago. We had arrived in the early twilight
and left town after dark, as the lights came on and the townspeople were going
about their evening routine. The field trip was memorable in itself; the icing
was the evening stop in Nazareth.
Other trips included
Jerusalem and Bethlehem, and Terry and I did not miss any of them. At the end
of the visit, as our aircraft carried us to Cyprus for an overnight stop, I
felt fortunate to have been given this unique opportunity to see the Holy Land
and to hear the Israeli guides provide us with a commentary that included
linkages to the Old Testament, the New Testament, their religious dogma and
Christian dogma. It was another highlight of the course.
Jordan was next and was
certainly different. The reception was warm, but rather disorganised. In fact,
King Hussein was scheduled to welcome us, but was called elsewhere at the last
minute and the Crown Prince hosted the welcoming ceremonies instead. Several
other scheduled events went down the same path with changes occurring at the
last minute. The travelling ladies missed out on Petra, visiting the Dead Sea
instead while the course members and accompanying staff toured the Roman ruins
in Jerash. These were a marvel to behold, with theatres, a forum and numerous
other major buildings having been unearthed.
An unusual feature, from our
perspective, was a dinner served in our honour without alcohol. This
constituted cultural shock for some of my peers, a shock from which they could
not be revived until their return to the hotel and the hospitality room. It
almost necessitated pumping their stomach clear of the food and fruit juice
replacing the contents with some decent alcohol to re-establish the crucial
base.
Amman was the last stop on
the global trip and we were beginning to anticipate our return to Canada, to
see the children and get out of our suitcases. We flew back via Shannon,
Ireland, for a fuel stop, and on landing the crew could proudly proclaim a
30-day, 66-flying hour mission without a single delay or mishap. Hurray for the
light blue!
Returning in mid-February to
Ottawa, where my single brother had ridden herd on the children for the month,
it was comforting to find everything ticking over nicely. But time was moving
quickly and we were frequently reminded of that by our commandant, whose most
annoying saying was, “time is our enemy”. We heard that one a million times,
give or take once or twice. Anyhow, in no time we were back in the
embussing/debussing routine, taking in the military highlights of the USA. Our
American course members were not so subtly encouraged by the rest of us to
explain any evasion in the briefings. They also took initiatives to pre-empt
any enroute glitches, thus minimize eager barbs.
The visits to NORAD,
Strategic Air Command, NASA, Fort Bragg for the airborne and infantry exercise,
and lastly, to the headquarters of the Supreme Allied Commander Atlantic were
worthwhile with the commanders available for the respective question periods.
This was as important as the briefing itself as questions from the course
members tended to focus on aspects that briefers may be programmed to avoid.
The commanders were sometimes hard-pressed to phrase the responses, but seldom
withheld information by pleading security considerations.
A few weeks after the USA
tour, we were back on the road, this time to Mexico, and countries in Central
and South America. Certain aspects of the visits were becoming quite routine or
to use a harsher synonym, boring. In particular, the briefing from the Canadian
embassy staff frequently focused on their contribution and problems and less on
the purpose for the visit, an appreciation of that country’s political and
economic interaction with Canada. Secondly, there were always second-grade
filler tours whenever primary requests were not feasible. However, most of us
worked up a mental appetite for the countries on the agenda and rode with the
punches on the sleep-inducing aspects.
The swing through Mexico,
Panama and Brazil provided some highlights. The first was a field visit to the
Miraflores Locks and a series of briefings by the military governor of the
canal zone. The locks are a marvel of engineering and a busy chokepoint in the
marine flow between the Atlantic and Pacific. Their significance from a
commercial and a military perspective was obvious and warranted the continued
attention to the canal’s security, availability and capacity.
We spent seven days in
Brazil, beginning in Brasilia and going progressively south to Rio de Janeiro
and Sao Paulo, with a stop in Salvador on the return flight north. Brasilia has
a grand countenance, with wide streets, expansive buildings and a definite
bureaucratic overtone. Being the capital, all the embassies must be here,
whereas the main cultural and business centres are Rio and Sao Paulo. I harbour
a suspicion that the majority of embassy staffs would quickly move to Rio,
given the nod. Why? That’s where the action is, certainly not in Brasilia. We
were much more enthusiastic on final approach to Rio than to Brasilia.
Rio has flair and character
and the various field visits gave us a good opportunity to take in the tourist
sights: the Sugar Loaf Mountain, the statue of Christ the Redeemer and the
beaches. Sao Paulo, on the other hand, has muscle and guts, a huge
manufacturing powerhouse. The briefers in the respective cities stressed the
strong points and reinforced the conventional impressions.
Returning to Kingston we
began to sense that our year was winding down. Another month in residence then
a final tour, four weeks in Europe, and our sabbatical was over. We spent the
first part of the month in Kingston reviewing international military positions,
and western strategies and requirements. This led to our next focus, the
division of postwar Europe and our upcoming visit to countries on both sides of
the ideological divide.
We began our European tour
by flying to our airport at Lahr, the airport I had managed from 1972 to 1973.
The commander of our NATO forces in Europe briefed the course members, hosted a
welcoming reception and sent us on to Bonn. We were well-briefed and well-feted
by the German government and the Canadian embassy staff before departing for
Berlin, one of the highlights of the tour. Our visit to Berlin included a bus
tour of East Berlin. All were mesmerized by the starkness of the street scenes;
the few vehicles, the dilapidated buildings, the paucity of flowers for
roadside colour, and the uncut grass in the parks. Most of us were well read
and had seen many photographs of East Berlin under communism, but it was the eerie
atmosphere of watchful emptiness that was so apparent when experienced first
hand.
This uncomfortable reality
also was apparent during a boat tour of the Havel River, which bordered East
Germany. On the western side, the water was alive with boats and waterfront
activity, whereas beyond the line in the water, a grim-looking police vessel
patrolled up and down the border. There were no other powerboats in sight and
very little other activity, with only a few small boats near the shore. I found
out later, during my tour in Czechoslovakia, that normal citizens in communist
dominated countries were not permitted to own motorized boats as these used
petrol and polluted the environment.
The reality, of course, was
different. Motor boats could be used to make a run to freedom, and as for
pollution, the many plants and factories that I observed as part of my duties,
spewed everything into the air, killing the surrounding vegetation and creating
the kind of moonscapes with which we were familiar around Sudbury. Only on a
much more massive scale.
West Berlin, on the other
hand, was all colour and bustle and commerce and smells, with the wide streets
filled with BMWs, Mercedes and Opels. The Germans were loud and confident and
aggressive, proud of the progress they had made since the last war and ready to
expand their brand of lifestyle into East Germany, given any chance.
Everywhere, prosperity was in your face.
The next agenda stop was
NATO headquarters in Brussels, where nothing unexpected happened and the
expected was irrelevant: a series of packaged briefings on NATO matters by a
series of bureaucrats, both in and out of uniform. We were eating well, so we
put up with this interruption to enjoyment of life. The walls of our “hostility
room” likely resonated with the caustic assessments of various members. Our
venerable course senior, the Polish boy, likely peeled the wallpaper with his
critique.
Spain was next and elicited
some enthusiasm from an increasingly satiated body of travellers. I welcomed
the opportunity to see Spain for the first time and, having read James
Michener’s Iberia, expected more than I got. Certainly, Madrid was a
disappointment, and the five days in Spain seemed to drag. Perhaps my scheduled
posting, as the Canadian Forces Attaché in communist Czechoslovakia, was
affecting my priorities and I was subconsciously focusing on the next two
countries, Hungary and Romania, both communist, to assess what I was getting
myself into.
The common perception of
Hungarians as a proud and enterprising people boded well for the next stop on
our schedule. Our respect for the national spirit of the Hungarians, a result
of their heroic resistance against the Soviets in 1956, gave added purpose to
this visit. I looked forward to my first contact with communism, the immoral
system that gave birth to the human brutes that desecrated my ancestral
homeland, butchering and starving millions as they forced Ukraine and other
conquered nations into submission. Nothing was too cruel or too inhuman for
their godless system to have in its unholy torture cabinet.
By its resistance, Hungary
had gained stature throughout the world, and begrudging respect from the
Soviets. A deal was struck. Hungary was allowed certain economic and internal
freedoms, as long as it towed the line on maintaining socialism and remaining
partnered with the Soviet Union. This uneasy truce would be maintained until
the Soviet bubble burst ten years after our visit.
Budapest is divided by the
blue Danube River and, whereas the Pest side is spread over a floodplain and
includes most of the shops and commerce as well as the government buildings,
the Buda side is hilly with a panoramic view of the river and of Pest. On
arrival, we were eventually bused to our hotel, a beautiful western Hilton on
the Buda side on Castle Hill. The hotel had many fine features, including a
beautiful park, proximity to the river and good restaurants. The view across
the Danube, straddled by numerous beautiful bridges, was magnificent.
Hungarians were talkative
and, informally, prepared to be critical of aspects of their lives. An example
occurred during a trip to a co-operative farm where a number of men were
noticed wielding sickles in the grasses alongside the road. Having been told
over and over again by the official briefers that there is full employment
under socialism in Hungary, the guide in the bus turned to me and winking,
admitted that we had just seen a tiny bit of their hidden unemployment. I
thought his brash honesty funny and chuckled, and he freely joined in and then
came out with additional items of information that did not exactly follow the
state script. It was a refreshing change from the serious presentations of the
party briefers and exemplified the conventional perspective of the Hungarian
spirit.
The Hungarian hospitality
lived up to its legendary standard and the gypsy entertainment was equally
good. We ate goulash and drank “Bull’s Blood” wine, a good, robust,
burgundy-style local offering. We also tested bottles of Tokaj, the wonderful
Hungarian dessert wine. American dollars were a prized currency and eagerly,
albeit illegally, sought by leather-jacketed currency traders on every street
corner. We, of course, were cautioned to steer clear. When we finally departed
Budapest, it was with a heartfelt hope that their spirit would prevail and that
they would soon be given another chance to control their own destiny.
Our next stop was Romania,
the other country that we would visit within the Soviet bloc, except that the
noose was much tighter in Romania. On arrival in Bucharest, we were met by much
more security activity than in Budapest, with the leather jackets as thick as
the uniformed guards and police. They were everywhere, watching everything,
including each other. Particularly each other.
The city was bleaker,
shoddier and obviously poorer. Residents never looked you in the eye, and if
they did, you had to know that they were members of one or another of the
security forces. Normal citizens looked worn out, hurrying by with downcast
eyes and lowered heads. Their clothes were pitiful, with few exceptions.
Everyone carried a satchel or a handbag of some sort, to carry that little
treasure away whenever something was located in one of the miserable,
threadbare shops. It must have been an unimaginably barren and hopeless
existence.
The highlight of our stay in
this pathetic, brutishly controlled country was the visit to Dracula’s stomping
grounds, including his fabled castle. We bused to Brasov in Transylvania and
visited Bran’s castle the following day. The bus trip permitted us to see the
attractive countryside and the rundown villages. The rural folk who inhabited
these villages at least did not risk starvation every winter, as their
backyards were dedicated to gardens, ensuring some home-grown food.
With regard to Dracula’s
castle, whatever mystery was associated with the story did not project
effectively and needed the Disney touch to come alive. I slept fearlessly with
a window open.
France was the last stop, a
dose of culture and good food to take off the edge of the individual
hopelessness and subconscious guilt felt after emotionally experiencing the BIG
LIE of communism. We were subjected to a well-organised series of briefings and
field trips. I particularly enjoyed the visit to the Avions Marcel Dassault-Breguet
factory in Toulouse, where the Falcon executive jet was manufactured. Having
flown that fine aircraft when I commanded 412 Squadron, I had a special
interest in the plant.
A few days later, with time
taken for an army-run program in Lahr, we were back in Canada and on the last
leg of the course. The next month was filled with summing up the year’s
lessons, looking at some of the nagging problems facing Canada, reviewing the
individual members’ course papers and holding course-ending social events.. Of
these, we had a huge number, official and unofficial, including golf
tournaments and mess dinners. At one of these, the graduation certificates were
presented to each member by the governor general of the day, Ed Schreyer, who
definitely looked uncomfortable and out of place in a military setting.
We would shortly go our
different ways, back to familiar offices or into entirely new jobs. We would
miss the master bedroom, the hospitality suite, the opportunity to exchange
views and debate issues, and, in particular, the camaraderie. Our fearless
leader, Walter Dabros, had not only organised us to embus and debus properly,
but had also been largely instrumental in giving the course a unique sense of
unity. The best proof is that we continue to hold reunions and to maintain
connectors between the course members and some of the staff.
As the commandant said in
his farewell address, “Course XXXIII is not only the most dynamic, energetic
and intelligent course but the most thoughtful, considerate and friendly course
to pass through NDC”. The first part of that sentence was a repeat of a phrase
he frequently used, tongue in cheek, including at the course opening address,
whereas the last part was a heartfelt assessment uttered only once.
It was a good year.