“Do you know how much it’s going to cost to transport, shelter, feed, and equip those men?” Father asked. “That’s before counting the amount we will have to pay them and their family members in benefits. And what if another twenty, thirty, or fifty thousand follow them? Our population is not even eight million. Can you imagine how much each taxpayer is going to have to pay to foot that bill? We can’t afford it.”
Mother, who sat kitty-corner to Father, nodded in agreement as he spoke. As was the case with most matters at this time, Mother’s views on the war echoed Father’s. Though Father liked to take contrarian views, he liked it best when others, having heard those views, came to share them, either because, in the case of his wife and children, they should, or in the case of all others, because he had persuaded them to do so. Father was rarely disappointed by Mother, who always agreed with him, or at least appeared to. When it came to his reticence about the war, Mother adopted a similar stance.
“I disagree,” my Uncle William said, putting down his knife and fork. Father and Uncle William rarely agreed on anything political, my Uncle William being both a Liberal (he had previously sought election as a Liberal Member of Parliament for our area) and, though no longer a resident of Brampton, still a member of its establishment. Uncle William was a former mayor of our town, a position previously held by both of Father’s brothers-in-law, but despite Father’s ambitions, never a position held by him. Uncle William resigned as mayor of Brampton in 1907 in order to take an executive position with the Maple Leaf Milling Company in Winnipeg—an act that displayed so little confidence in the future of our town that Father never truly forgave him.
“We’re already paying most of those costs,” Uncle William said. “Colonel Sam is going to send men to England that we’ve already trained and equipped.” Uncle William was referring to Canada’s volunteer militia and our small standing army.
“You know that won’t be enough,” Father responded. “Colonel Sam has promised twenty thousand men. Our force is not that large. Even those that are equipped and trained will need more equipment and more training. They will need transportation and lodging, and we will have to pay them a wage. The British parliament approved $525 million today as an emergency fund for its war costs. Canada won’t get away with spending less than $50 million. And we will spend even more if we increase the number of our troops beyond twenty thousand.”
“Well, I doubt we will need more men than that,” Uncle William replied. “Dublin has committed to sending a hundred thousand Irish soldiers. Add that to Britain’s own and those from France, and that will be more than enough for a short war. This war is going to be over before Thanksgiving.”
My Aunt Rose disagreed with both men. The youngest of Father’s sisters, she was attractive, with thick light brown hair wound loosely at the top of her head. Never lacking in confidence or determination, she had acquired further measures of both in the four years that she had been a widow. She sat at the end of the table closest to the kitchen, opposite to Father. Though Aunt Rose never let her brother assume a role as head of her household, she had during her widowhood allowed him to sit in a location at the dining room table commensurate with that position.
“Jethro,” she said, first addressing Father, “we can’t escape our responsibilities to Britain. When it comes to foreign affairs, we are Great Britain. Once Parliament is recalled later this month and the new union government convenes, they will make that very clear. And the cost? Yes, it will cost us financially—not so much as you fear, Jethro, but more than you will allow, William. Surely, no one is saying that this war will be over by Thanksgiving, William. Christmas. That is what they are saying. Christmas.”
“It’s true, William,” said his wife, Charlotte. “Christmas is what they are saying.” It was an amazingly short number of words to be uttered on a subject about which I knew she felt strongly. Over the past month, Aunt Charlotte had let it be known on a number of occasions that she firmly supported the position of Great Britain and that Canada should be prepared to support the mother country in its time of need, no matter the cost.
As for the young people at the table, we fell into two categories: those who enthusiastically supported the war and wanted to immediately enlist, and those who supported the war but had no intention of enlisting. The first group included my Turner cousins, Roy and Bill, and my other male cousin, John Darling.
“Father,” Bill said, “please don’t say that the war will be over by Thanksgiving or even Christmas, Aunt Rose. You know I can’t enlist until next spring. Unless…” He turned to his Father “…unless you will allow me to seek a deferral of my law studies for a year?” Bill was then twenty years old. His tuition for the coming school year had already been paid. Aunt Charlotte and Uncle William repeated what was obviously a mantra, that Bill had to complete the first year of his studies before he could enlist.
“Uncle William,” John said, “please don’t say that the war will be over by Thanksgiving or even Christmas, Mother. You know I can’t enlist for another year. Unless…” He turned to his Mother. “Unless you will allow me to enlist, though I am only seventeen?”
Aunt Rose laughed lovingly at her son. “John Darling, there are not too many things you can be sure of in this life, but there are two things I think we can be quite confident of: one, I will not be consenting to a minor child going to war; and two, the war will be over long before you turn eighteen next March.” Of the three such cousins, he seemed the most resigned.
“Father,” said Roy, then twenty-two and clearly agitated, “why did you insist I come to Brampton this summer? I told you that the war would be declared while we were here! I need to be home now. I need to be with my regiment. I have to leave tomorrow!” For two years, Roy had been a member of the Winnipeg militia. While completing his university education, he had been training for warfare in the evenings and on weekends.
“Roy,” Uncle William said, clearly repeating another mantra, “the militia has not yet been called up. There is no point rushing to return to the west tomorrow. When the time comes, your commanding officer may prefer you to go directly to England from here. Let’s wait and see.” Roy was only slightly mollified. Ironically, in any other year, the Turners would have been home by August 4th. It was the threat of war that developed in the last week that required Uncle William to stay in Brampton. His firm sensed that his presence in Ontario at that time could be extremely helpful. “We’ll leave next Sunday, per our current plans.”
Roy was an adult. He could have left without his parents—but he knew that it would break his mother’s heart if she was not at the train station when he entrained for England. His mother would not return west without his father.
Of the four remaining young people at the table, three were girls. Our strongest view was that no one we loved or cared about should get shot and killed.
“Like who?” Bill asked.
“Like….our fathers,” I replied. I couldn’t even bring myself to mention my brother and cousins.
“Don’t worry,” Roy said, “they are too old to enlist.” Father, then fifty-one years of age, and Uncle William, two years younger, scowled at Roy, but neither objected.
“Like our brothers,” Hannah said.
“Don’t look at me,” her brother John said. “Apparently I am too young to enlist.”
“Don’t look at me,” her cousin Bill said. “Apparently I am too poor to forego my tuition.” Uncle William scowled more.
“Don’t look at me,” Roy said. “At this rate the war will be over before I get back to my regiment. And if it isn’t, well then, I will be