The 2Wing RCAF Sign Caper

Don and I had decided to take the kids to my old stomping grounds at 2Wing Grotenquin.  I had heard the French took over the base after it was closed in 1963.  I was curious to see it and to visit the PMQ’S, the apartments where we lived which were located 17 kilometres from the base. I wondered if the farm would still be there with the chickens and rabbits. It was still vivid in my memory.

We found the base and it looked so different.  Trees had grown up everywhere and no longer could the relentless sun burn the sidewalks and roads.  The guard house was still there; and, much to my surprise, there was a guard in it.  I wondered what he was guarding as the base looked completely deserted and dilapidated.  Apparently the French had assumed the runway and the rest of the base was left to rot. I tried to convince the guard to let me go onto the base to have a look. But his job was to ‘protect’ the base and I could not soften his resolve.  We had to be content to see it from the fence that bordered it and gaze over the barrier that blocked me from my past.  

There was a large metal sign outside the base indicating this was a RCAF base.  It had a CF100 painted on it and ‘RCAF 2Wing’ in big letters on a sky blue background. It measured six feet by twelve.  It graced the grounds just outside of the guard house on the civilian side. It had been there for thirty years and, although we didn’t know it at the time, we were about to steal it away and return it back to Canada.

We left the base to visit the PMQ’s and the old farm.  

The PMQ’s had been updated and looked pretty good.  The hill rolling down to the farm was all built up with homes, all close together, as were my forest and ravine, save for the forest around the water tower. I ran into the woods with great anticipation to see my fantasy palaces, the bunkers.  I searched and searched and finally had to come to the conclusion that they had all been removed. I was crestfallen. 

I was sad to see that the farm had been deserted and it loomed dark and gloomy.  What could express abandonment better that a large, empty, neglected house?  I wondered what had happened to the girls.  We did manage to track down one of them.  We had a wonderful visit catching up on the family news, over a cafe au lait, sitting in the sun at an outdoor cafe in St. Avold.

My curiosity had been assuaged by revisiting my childhood haunts, the base, the PMQ’s, the farm and the forest. I thought things might have been more the same as I remembered them, but they were not.

On our way back home to Boinville, we stopped to visit military friends in Lahr, Germany. We were discussing the fact that all the signs at the Canadian military bases in Europe had disappeared..  Since we had just come from 2Wing, we shared that  this one was still there. Our friend said he’d arrange a posse to steal it, or rescue it, as he preferred to call it. Don said, ‘Give us ten days.”

Instead of going home, we went back to Grotenquin. 

We stopped off at a hardware store to get some tools, like a hammer, a screw driver, a lever and a pair of gloves and headed for the base once again but this time we had a mission. We were going to get that sign away from the French and back into Canadian hands where it belonged. 

When we arrived at the guard house, we did have a little conversation with the guard at the gate to clarify what area the French had jurisdiction over.  Well, it wasn’t outside the base, so we figured the coast was clear.

The looming sign located off side of the guard house. There were tall cypress trees bordering it which helped hide us from the guard’s view as we performed our nefarious deed.  I set up a picnic beside the sign in full view of the guard.  He didn’t leave his little window.   It seemed he was facing us the whole time.  We casually sat and ate our meal, chatting and looking over the rolling fields as if nothing was going on.  But something was going on.  Don was gripped onto the sign like Spider Man, disengaging the screws, one by one, releasing each six by three foot panel and letting them fall to the ground in front of the sign and out of sight of the guard.

Don had to now get the panels into the station wagon without being seen.  My job was to divert the attention of the guard so Don could fulfill his mission. When we had finished eating, I collected the garbage and went into the guard house to ask where we could put our refuse.  The guard obliged and we started to chit chat.  It turned out that he was on the base the day the CFG100’s crashed and landed in the hospital. I was across the street sitting on the church steps and he was working in the building next to the doomed hospital. We established a rapport and I ventured to ask again if I could go on the base.  It was a different guard and a different situation and he acquiesced.  

Just as we were finalizing the deal, Don came into the scene, his white shirt covered in blue chips of paint, looking like the cheshire cat who swallowed the canary.  We were all looking up at the ceiling and whistling in an imaginary way.  Please don’t notice that the blue on his shirt matches the blue on the sign! 

The question became, do we take a chance and take a 45 minute tour of the base, or high tail it before some senior officer drives up and sees the sign is gone?  Well, I had to take a tour of the base.  The old swimming pool was more than deserted, it was in ruins, as was the rest of the base.  There was only a wall and steps remaining of the church and practically nothing of the hospital and PX.  The trees had overgrown everywhere. It looked like a jungle.  

I was anxious to return to the car and get out of there before things got complicated.  The metal panels went from the front of the station wagon to the back and there was no place for the kids to sit except on the floor, sort of.  We drove a few kilometres away and reorganized so we could make the 4 hour trip back home.

Don alerted the authorities at the Canadian Embassy of our treasure.  They arranged for a Hercules transport plane to come and pick it up. One evening after dark, we drove the sign into Paris into the back yard of the Canadian Embassy.  The large security doors opened to let us in.  We felt rather ‘impo’tant’.  The sign was delivered to Trenton, Ontario, where it waits to be put on display at the Trenton Military Museum.

Daniel and Martine were shocked and asked us what kind of example we were setting for our kids.  It was a difficult question to answer since we all thought we’d accomplished a great deed. Their reaction made me feel a bit guilty and I hoped the French army wouldn’t be marching in to arrest us.  

We went back one more time to the base, and this time ran into some French soldiers who were recounting the story of how Canadian soldiers from Germany had come and stolen the sign in the middle of the night.  Actually, they had come and taken the wooden base the sign was on. I didn’t have the nerve to tell him that the sign had actually been taken by my little family in broad daylight.  I thought it better not to find out how he’d react at having been had by a couple and their kids instead of by trained military personnel.

Having a Baby in My Car?

My British friend, Sue Walker, was very pregnant.  Her husband worked in Paris and it usually took him some time to get home.  

One afternoon Sue called to tell me I was on yellow alert.  She wasn’t sure her husband would get home on time to get her to the hospital and was needing me as a back up. A couple of hours later, the call was to put me on orange alert and, not much later, it was upped to red.  I rushed over to find her in transition. She had to waddle down a very long set of stairs to get to the car and I was personally worried she wouldn’t even make it.  But she got into the back seat and lay down.

I was in a rush. I didn’t want the baby to be born in the car; it would be so uncomfortable for her.  So I had the accelerator to the floor to the pleas of Sue to ‘Slow down Chris..’  She had visions of the front page of the newspaper announcing the accident with mother and baby. So I’d slow down for a few blocks and then gun it to the cries of “She’s coming!”  Oh gahd, please not yet!

When we got to the hospital, the baby was starting to see the light of day.  I ran in and completely forgot all my french.  I yelled up and down the empty hallways, “Au secour, au secour” That means ‘help’.  A hulking black orderly ran up with a gurney and out to the car.  Sue, who was in the middle of delivering, looked up to see this beast on top of her telling her to hang on.  

She barely made it. Her husband missed the whole show of the arrival of a beautiful baby girl, Sofie. That was a day to remember.

A Hundred Dollars for Christmas

We had promised the boys $100 for Christmas.  However, one day Tyson came to me saying that he could no longer support Brandon’s calling him ‘box head’.  Brandon loved to make fun of Tyson and tease him.  Tyson was pretty good natured about it, but he’d had it this particular day. I tried to cajole Brandon into cutting it out, but he persisted.  Finally, I took out the big guns and said he’d lose a dollar off his Christmas money for every time he called Tyson box head. 

 Well, Brandon, not to be controlled by desire, lost $25 and the hundred dollars was now down to seventy-five.  He asked, “How much is left?”  When I told him “Seventy-five dollars”, he continued, “Box head, box head, box head, box head.  How much left?  Box head, box head, box head….” until it was all gone. I think he tired himself out and it wasn’t a big issue after that, but he didn’t get his $100 for Christmas.

Paris Socked In and the 747 ‘bump’

I took a trip home to Canada for a week or so.  I had trouble breathing and I thought it might be the Paris air.  I suspected, though, that it might be more like repressed emotions. 

On my return, we were heading for Paris, but the plane, a 747, was diverted to Lyon because Paris was socked in with fog.  Lyon airport couldn’t really accommodate all these aircraft, but they kept landing anyway. We were not allowed off the plane which was surrounded by armed guards in fatigues with rifles. Boy, these French meant business. It was 8:00 in the morning.

At one point there was a large bang;  the airplane rocked and all the electrical systems failed.  The lights went out and the GPS (ground power system) shorted out.  It got very hot inside the cabin and passengers were going up to the cock pit to put their heads out the port hole to get some air. Others were walking out onto the small landing of the stair case. The French army didn’t approve of this and ordered everyone back into the airplane. We were there from 8 in the morning until we could leave for Paris at 5:30 pm. 

We were to learn that when another 747 was landing on the crowded runway, its wing got caught under our tail, causing the power outage. A crane had to come and lift our aircraft off of the other airplane’s wing. This took the whole afternoon. When I heard of this I was suspicious that the fuselage had been cracked and I refused to fly on the airplane.  I was instructed to stay on the airplane as de-boarding was going to be in Paris, not Lyon. I was conflicted andI  suspected putting this aircraft back in the air without being checked was not a good idea. It  could be fatal, but I had no choice.  They had guns. Don was at the airport with the kids since 8 in the morning and was never informed of the accident. It was never was discussed by airport personnel nor was it in the news.

I was so happy to see all of them there waiting for me and be on terra firma!

Cat in the Armoire

We had just left the house, heading to the airport on one of our excursions, when I realized I forgot a belt for my skirt that I kept in the large armoire in the bedroom.  Fortunately, Don conceded to go back for it, because when I opened the armoire door, I found the cat sleeping soundly on my clothes.  Perish the thought of what might have been if it’d stayed there for a week.  I deemed that must have been divine intervention.

When we were on our way again, we passed a little girl who was in Brandon’s class. With heartfelt enthusiasm, Brandon says, “Man, I love that woman.”  He was nine years old.  It was so unexpected and funny coming from him.

Damon Loses His Camera

Don took Damon on his first trip alone… a trip to Corsica where Napoleon Bonarparte was born.  They visited Napoleon’s home and Damon collected water worn tiles in the sea around Bonaparte’s house.  They had lunch one day at a restaurant-pub. When they  left, much to Damon’s heartbreak, he realized he did not have his camera with him.  They went back to the restaurant where all the staff said they hadn’t seen it. Don was just sick for Damon and wanted to buy him another one right away.  He sent Damon back in by himself to ask again if anyone had seen it. This time, someone went into the kitchen and came back with his camera. Well, Damon didn’t leave it out of his sight after that. He was so grateful, he considered he owed the universe one now.

Hans and Yanik

When we moved next door to Chèvre Chou, Hans and Yanic moved in to the sheep barn. Don flew with Hans, a young, good looking, dream boat. He happened to get involved with a younger, brazen little tart.  He was madly in love with her, but Don could see the warning signs and decided to take the situation in hand and advise Hans, whom he considered something like a son, of potential disaster.

Don wrote Hans a letter of advice, unsolicited, warning him of Yanic. The response was similar to Hiroshima, because Hans showed the letter to Yanic, in the delusion that one shares everything with their partner;…well, maybe not always a good idea, if its hurtful.  So the hate-on began.

The letter came before Hans moved in. But just. He magnanimously came over to the house with Yanic and threw the letter in the fireplace, saying we were under too much stress, lets just pitch the letter and forget it. (“We”?  I had nothing to do with this, but I was to pay dearly). We decided to let it go and we agreed, even though we knew it had nothing to do with stress.  Nice cover up on the part of Hans. Or was it denial?

I had a welcoming party for Yanic and Hans to introduce them to all our friends. This didn’t help our situation as she just developed a separate life with them. I continued to invite them to all our parties as if everything were normal.  Little did I realize the revenge this woman could harbour.

I was a flea market junkie and I loved to buy trinkets and old armoires.  Not only did we need the armoires, but I believed everyone should have one.  I was so passionate about them, I started to believe I must have had them in a past life.  At one of our parties I fantasizing about  having an eclectic store at home in Canada,  similar to the flea markets of France, and sell knick knacks and armoires.  It was only wine talk. This was taken as a fait accompli by Yanic. 

At the end of our stay, when our three years passed in France, I headed home to Glengarry with the kids. Don stayed to finish up his contract. We had sold our house in Boinville to a lovely young couple, and Don continued to stay in one of the apartments. 

He called me from France to tell me the airline company he worked for was not going to release our belongings from the French port ‘Le Harvre’ until Don signed a waiver giving up his $10,000 bonus and rendering the company not responsible for our belongings in the transfer to Canada, including a caveat that we couldn’t ever sue them for damages.  Now, I wondered, why would this situation arise?  Is it possible that our friend Yanic, went to the company and told them I was using them to transport my goods for my future store? Deal with it.  I told Don to sign the waiver and not worry about it. 

The saga continued on the other side of the ocean at home.  When our things finally arrived,  I was summoned to go to the port in Montreal to release them.  Well, wouldn’t you know that I had randomly been selected to be investigated.  Our containers would be emptied in a warehouse and inspected at our expense, about $2,000.  “How could this happen?” I asked.  Well, “Just random,” the custom official answered.  Random, my ass is a star.

As I was speaking with the customs officer, he abruptly finished our session at 4:30.  What is going on?  He explained they are working to rule and I was to come back tomorrow.  “Well, who is going to pay for my hotel?”  Just come back tomorrow.

So the next day, fully prepared to stay in Montreal for a few days to clear my stuff, I arrived at the customs counter.  “You live in Cornwall?  You’re at the wrong port. You have to enter Canada at Cornwall.”  I reacted with a mixture of relief and expectation.  

When I got to the customs at Cornwall, I found the chief inspections officer. I tried to explain that the only thing we hadn’t paid taxes on was our new couch.  He seemed rather detached and I didn’t think I was getting through to him.  

Our things arrived at the farm in two large containers.  The customs officer in attendance vocalized that he couldn’t understand why his boss had asked him to stay with the containers the whole day. Usually he just cut the wires on the lock and went on with this work elsewhere. He had just come off of holidays and he didn’t want to have a bunch of papers to deal with. “Just let me know when the containers are empty.” and off he went to lie down under a tree.  

My friends didn’t have to visit me in a prison cell after all!