The Words They Left Behind

Five young men, living in an impoverished region on Canada's east coast, seek adventure and a new life. WWII delivers both. And as in life, some win, many lose.

This is Doug Dolan's fourth book. It is detailed, factual and harrowing. Available on Amazon.ca on October 31, 2026.

 

Forever Young

 This story profiles my uncle, Norman Joseph Ramsay, a soldier who died in the Battle of Ortona, Italy, aged twenty-three.

Norman Joseph Ramsay

 

 

 

Newcastle, New Brunswick, in the nineteen thirties represented a community battling for its economic survival. "The Great Depression" combined with the collapse of the lumber industry threatened to extinguish its last breath. Men and boys clambered aboard rail cars in the dead of night. They looked forward to a brighter future in Western Canada.

Ben Ramsay and his wife Clara barely made a living in a rented house on the town's waterfront. Six days a week, he would climb the town hill to the Canadian National rail yard.

He joined a work gang to be transported to the site of a project several miles into the deep woods. Two men teams carried railway ties weighing about one hundred fifty pounds each on their shoulders. The work was brutal, in summer with the creosote preservative oozing from the wood, burning their skin. Long, hot days seemed to stretch on forever. All of this earned him one dollar and fifty cents per day. For her part, Clara would clean the homes of local business people.

Norman Ramsay, the couple's oldest son, had reached fifteen years of age in 1936. Standing at five feet six inches, he was shorter than his grade eight peers; however, his dark skin, abundant black hair, and brown eyes contributed to his attractive appearance. His outgoing, fun - loving personality made him a hit with the girls.

Rumours of a significant event found their way into the little town and filtered down to the local pool hall where Norman and his friends hung out. A madman in Germany threatened countries around it. There could be a big war. It would be a chance to see the world.

"I'm gettin out of this town as soon as I can, and if some crazy lad in Germany wants to help, that's fine by me," said Norman as he casually drank his Coke. "As soon as school is done in June, I'm headed over to join the North Shore Reserves."

 "G'way with ya, Ramsay, y'er just a kid." Dick Gough, Norman's best friend, issued the teasing challenge. They knew all the best fishing spots within a day's walk and accumulated the highest combined truancy rate of Harkins School. 'Your Ma ain't goin sign no permission for you to do that.' The gauntlet stood thrown, the challenge presented. His friend and some other companions had assembled near Norman, who surveyed them. He curled his lip in his best imitation of Hollywood's current star, Clark Gable, and replied, "Just watch me."

Susie Gibbs swooned in a corner.

"Dick Gough, if Norman says that he is signing up, I believe him." Susie and her friends thought Norman the most handsome boy and capable of doing the most dangerous things.

As promised, on the last day of school, young Norman displayed his report card, proclaiming that his time in school had concluded. His parents were not surprised. Neither had gone beyond the elementary grades, and few in the town progressed into high school. In case the released student supposed he had turned into a man of free time, Ben set him straight. The son was expected to secure work, aiding the family's finances.

Norman had expected the response, and two days later, he presented himself at the local recruiting station for the North Shore Regiment. Such self-assurance from the young man surprised the duty officer; however, few occurrences marked the preceding days. He took the youth's assertion of being sixteen as true.

Norman Joseph burst with pride as he walked through the front door of his home, confident his mother would support her son's initiative. He was wrong. She listened to her son's account without saying a word. She searched a drawer for important documents, then retrieved her hat and coat from the hall closet. If Norman had noticed the storm clouds gathering on his mother's face, he could have avoided the maelstrom he was about to endure, but he didn't. A sharp smack on the back of his head registered, followed by a barrage of impacts on his posterior. They had walked halfway down the street when he understood his mother held him by the collar, while certain individuals, his companions among them, gestured and giggled.

            "What got into that fool head of yours? Clara didn't wait for a response as she clipped his ear. No son of mine is going to put on the uniform of a man while he is still a child." They arrived at the recruiting office, and she threw open the door without knocking. The little French lady from Fair Isle spotted the Sergeant and began a full -frontal assault as she dug through her purse. "How can you be so stupid as to accept the word of a child?" French words followed, needing no interpreter. She slapped the birth certificate on the desk and looked up at the red - faced soldier struggling for words. "You tear up that paper you gave to my son." Still reaching for words, he took the paper from Norman and tossed it into the garbage.

            "I am very sorry, M'am, I…wasn't careful enough."

            "His size should have been a clue for you." With that, she turned, her son beside her, and left.

            What followed over the next week was a stony silence broken by arguments and commands. By Sunday, the anger had been spent. Norman woke to the rare aroma of eggs and bacon. His mother and father greeted him at the breakfast table. He felt the anger of the week drain and the burden of resentment lifted from his shoulders. After they ate, he helped Clara clear the table and wash the dishes. Ben sat comfortably in his rocker beside the window. Smoking his pipe. She beckoned Norman to sit with her on the worn couch and began.

            "Eh bien, eh bien. We had a tough week, you and me. I am sorry for some things that were said. My son, I am not sorry for stopping you from joining the army. She took her handkerchief from her apron, removed her glasses and rubbed away a few tears. At twenty-three, my dear brother Prudent returned from the Great War, physically and mentally broken. The thought of losing you, Norman Joseph, terrifies me. She looked into her son's brown eyes reflecting her own and continued.

"Your father and I have talked. He told me, I am being stubborn and selfish. He is right. I want you to take the time to think it over. If after a few months you wish to join and they will take you, I will not stand in the way. C'est fait," (It is done). She pulled him to her, and they remained still for a few moments. She rose, flattened her smock, and dropped a few sticks into the wood stove.

            A mother's love is unfathomable, and on that morning in 1935, Norman Ramsay let himself sink into the reality. Brashness and overconfidence were honed like a jeweler's stone. After breakfast, the boy left the kitchen, a young man sensing love.

 

            Several months later, after checking to be sure the recruiting sergeant had been transferred, Norman was accepted into the North Shore Regiment as a reservist. He joined a small group of fellow reservists. Wages proved meager. He found work with a local pig farmer, feeding and cleaning the pens. During this time, the young man learned the fundamentals of soldiering. His skills at marksmanship grew, even with the limited supply of guns and ammunition. The Canadian government was unwilling to commit to full militarization even as European countries prepared to battle an unleashed German empire For four years, Private Ramsay did what he needed to hone his skills as a "soldier in waiting" and maintained the image among his friends and townsfolk.

            Canada declared war on Germany on September 10, 1939, after the Polish invasion on September 01. In January 1940, the nineteen-year-old Ramsay was one of the first to join the North Shore Regiment as an active-duty soldier. He, along with about 100 NSR soldiers, requested transfers to the CYR, despite the pleas of the CO of the NSR to stay with them–he even told them that the NSR would not be designated as a home war establishment regiment. The young men were eager to get into the fight. The CYR had become part of the mix for the 1^st Canadian Infantry Division (1 CID) and that division would be the first one sent to England. After he was transferred to the Carleton and York Regiment. He was one of the few Acadians in the unit. His father was Scottish and mother French, but his gregarious personality won him

many friends.

Carleton and York Member,

Norman Ramsay front row far right

 

The following month, the bulk of the Carleton and York Regiment (CYR) was transported to the A14 Canadian Infantry Training Centre at Camp Aldershot, Nova Scotia. The base served as an infantry training center for the CASF. Ramsay's skill as a marksman emerged during this posting. On a bright sunny day in May, the CYR embarked from a Halifax pier on the refitted passenger ship, the SS Duchess of Bedford. Built by the Canadian Pacific Steamship Line, she and her sister ships were known as "The Drunken Duchesses" for their tendency to roll heavily in rough seas. The 20,000 gross ton vessel lived up to her name as she bobbed and heeled in the wild North Atlantic. Many of the troops were unfamiliar with sea travel and spent a lot of time in the latrines or retching over the railing. Norman's difficulties proved more substantial.

A few months later, while on leave in Southampton, he arranged to meet his childhood friend, Dick Gough of Newcastle. Gough was with the North Shore Regiment. Reconnecting brought immense joy to both fellows. In true Miramichi style, they discovered a tavern where local citizens provided hospitality, and they stayed in pleasant company until the early hours. A young barmaid spotted the handsome Clark Gable look-alike and made sure his glass was never empty. The object of her affection gave her prolonged, sidelong, smoldering looks.

The Carleton and York Regiment stayed in England for three and a half years (December 1939 to July 1943) to guard against a possible German invasion and to take part in comprehensive, large-scale training with the 1st Canadian Infantry Division. This was preparation for the Allies' offensive action on the European mainland. Canadian troops, including the Carleton and York, served as a vital strategic reserve and were stationed in southern England to deter and repel enemy attacks.

This extended period of "waiting and training" became discouraging for the soldiers who were eager to fight. Ramsay's enthusiasm and frustration brought him into contact with his immediate supervisors, beginning on Valentine's Day in February 1941. He was fined three days' pay for "conduct to the prejudice of good order and discipline" (in this case "being lippy"), an offence under Sec 40 A.A. This action became a pattern repeated several times in the young soldier's career. The charges remained in the misdemeanour range, including one where he decided to enjoy an extended Christmas Break resulting in a charge of being absent without "AWL."

His senior officers, while dealing with his outbursts, saw the potential in the young French lad. He continued to be well liked and respected by his peers, looking out for the "newbies" to the Unit while providing leadership and "esprit de corps" when morale ran low. On 26 Aug 43 he was promoted to A/Cpl (acting corporal) on 10 Sep. October 06, 1943, he was promoted to Lance Corporal. On 9 Jan 44 Ramsay reverted to A/Cpl at his request. Being separated from his buddies and being in a higher rank didn't suit him.

By his own admission, Norman was never comfortable with the military rank system, which separated the troops. His humble roots and beliefs were the source of his irreverence.

The exhaustive regime for the CYR would be broken by scheduled leaves, which were spent in local villages. Ramsay was a favourite among his mates; sharing anecdotes of his "misbehaviour" and pursuing the young women of the parish.  

Occasionally, he would dash off a letter to his older sister, Rita. The two were only a year apart, but a worldview separated them. During his care-free days in Newcastle, Norman pursued thrills, relishing the company of many. Conversely, Rita maintained a staid, careful perspective on happenings and folks around town. Despite the differences in nature, they remained close. His scattered letters reveal the young soldier's nature more vividly.

May 13, 1943

Hi Sis. I got a few days off base. Just sending a quick message to discover my big sister's latest schemes. As a nurse now, do you think you will enjoy this role? You are a natural, with all the experience of watching over me, occasionally patching me up. It's getting hard to remember those carefree days in our little town. We train and train, then do some more. Nobody says anything, but I think something big is coming soon. I'm not afraid because we are as ready as can be, and when we meet Jerry, I can talk him to death if I run out of bullets. Would you make sure Momma and Papa get the Survivor Benefit if something happens. I send most of my salary home, and Momma says it helps. I'm glad about that. Okay, Rita, time to go. A few lads and I are going to the local pub where we hang out. I had a little run-in with an officer yesterday; my uniform made him unhappy, so now I'm unhappy to pay a fine. I will be good tonight, so don't worry. Love you.

Joseph Norman

Ramsay's sense that something big was about to happen was prescient. They left the UK in July 1943, and on July 10, 1943, the regiment landed at Pachino, Sicily, during the initial amphibious assault of Operation Husky. They moved inland against fierce German and Italian resistance; they earned their first major battle honours. This engagement helped secure the Canadian advance through the rugged Sicilian interior. On September 3, 1943, the unit crossed the Strait of Messina. They landed at Reggio di Calabria as part of Operation Baytown. They advanced up the "toe" of Italy, clearing the Axis forces out and pushing deep into the mountainous central region. By late autumn, the winter weather and fortified German defensive lines slowed the advance.

Later, Major General Chris Volkes was appointed by Field Marshall Montgomery to lead the First Canadian Infantry Division (1 CID) in November. Volkes grew up in a small Irish village. He came to Canada as a child. From an early age he was a scrapper and gained a reputation as an excellent boxer. The senior staff saw him as an "adequate leader". He inspired unwavering devotion in the men of the Carleton and York. Ramsay admired the broad - shouldered ex-boxer for his direct, sometimes coarse manner. Carleton and York Regiment soldiers came from New Brunswick's villages and small towns, where directness and honesty defined a man's value. When Volkes visited, Ramsay and others were ordered to be in full battle dress. They were to be gathered around their commander as he provided words of encouragement, delivered in colourful language.

            Tank rolling though a street in Ortona Italy

 

By November, the CYR came up against the battle-hardened German infantry, which had set up two major lines of defence: the Gustav and Hitler lines. Combined, the two cut a horizontal track across the middle of Italy, cutting off the route to Rome, a major goal for an Allied victory. By December 13, the fight for an area known as the "Gully" began. There were initial victories, but as the weather worsened, the advances became mired in mud, leading to the village of Ortona. The feared rainy season was preventing the 1st Canadian Armoured Brigade from reaching its goals. Christmas of '43, which had been an unspoken beacon of hope for Norman Ramsay and others in the CYR, was lost in swirling clouds of rain and snow. The situation quickly became a stalemate, with the Allied troops unable to advance against the Germans. Historians agree that Prime Minister Churchill and later Field Marshall Montgomery had underestimated the strategic positioning of the German defences combined with the weather and the resources provided to the Brigade. Many writing of the fighting call it "The Little Stalingrad."

Volkes was under tremendous pressure from Montgomery to keep moving the 1CID forward, despite the deteriorating weather which turned streams and rivers into giant mudholes, immobilizing tanks and any supporting vehicles. Forward movement now depended on the infantry divisions. The stalled assault was becoming world news, with large American outlets throwing a spotlight on Volkes and his boss.

The Allied forces attempted to break through the German defensive positions, but they were facing well-fortified gun emplacements and powerful counterattacks. One episode involved the Carleton and York Regiment losing 81 men. The situation was becoming desperate.

While Volke struggled to devise a plan, soldiers in the quagmire were struggling to stay alive. Their supply lines were becoming unreliable under assault from German heavy guns. Ammunition and food were running out. It was at this time that "mouseholing" was attempted. It involved soldiers avoiding direct assaults from enemy forces by moving from inside one building to another. They would blow holes as exits and entrances, allowing limited forward movement and avoiding mass casualties.

In one of these situations, Private Norman Ramsay and several others had found temporary shelter in the crumbling foundation of a village church. It afforded a temporary safe and dry vantage point. During a pause, they scavenged kitchen debris, locating some food. Somebody discovered a box of tea, and the group was almost comfortable. A few loaves of bread, biscuits, and hot tea combined to make a banquet for the exhausted, frightened lot.

He appeared more like a spectre than a human form. A waif of a child, he darted, sparrow-like, among the ruins, never losing track of the assembled food. Ramsay spotted him first. The boy's clothes were rags, hanging on his wafer-thin frame. Norman made eye contact with the man closest to the child. Almost casually, his comrade reached for the bread on his plate and layered it with jam. He proffered it silently. Others saw it happen and continued to chatter, keeping the youth calm. In a flash, he grabbed the food. But instead of devouring it, he bowed his head toward the soldier to acknowledge the gesture. A cup of hot tea was passed to him, which he drank wordlessly. The strange, slow dance continued for twenty minutes while each soldier gave one piece of his bread and jam while casually talking among themselves.

Afterward, one man, familiar with Italian, began a conversation in a slow, deliberate manner. Gradually the picture became clear. Nino was his name. He was thirteen (he looked to be ten). He lived in a village nearby. His father was killed in battle. There was not enough food in the home. He left his mother and two sisters. The men decided he would stay with them until they met up with a Red Cross brigade. He knew he was safe and clung to the hope of seeing his family again. They readily surrendered portions of their food supplies and watched over the kid.

Tired now, they found quiet spots to rest in fleeting moments; some slept fitfully, others spoke in hushed tones. Ramsay reached into his satchel and pulled out a tattered notebook. He had been thinking of writing a note to his mother. The events of the past few days added a sense of urgency.

December 15, 1943

Dear Momma

Well, it's almost Christmas. I was thinking about the beautiful baking you do. The big sugar cookies with jam in the middle. The notes with the button eyes and the Pubnico molasses cookies. Hope you could get the ingredients. Soon Erving and Oland will go back of the tracks to get a nice tree. Rita is probably home to help you and Millie with the baking and decorations. I hope the other children are behaving. I sure miss them and you and Papa. This year I won't make it home for Christmas, but next year we will have a great big feast. With a good job, I can get some nice presents for everyone. I know I haven't always been your ideal child, but that will change. Love you very much. Tell Papa I love him.

Your Son,

Norman Joseph

      

 

 

Norman's Parents

Clara and Ben Ramsay

 

For twelve days the Allied forces fought a seesaw battle with hardened German troops led by the skilled and feared elite Fallschirmjäger paratroop regiment. Vokes' strategies for advancement failed one after the other, leaving men and machines incapable of fighting. The Charlotte and York Regiment was called upon to act as advance troops in two incidents.

 On the latter battle, Corporal Ramsay sustained a leg injury. A dressing was applied, and an order to transport to a field hospital was issued. The beleaguered and possibly shell - shocked Ramsay refused, deciding instead to crawl into a crater to rest. He stayed there for a day and emerged to fight again.

       On December 27, the soldiers on the outskirts of Ortona heard it first: an eerie silence. It hung over the area like a fog, broken only by the anguished screams of men who pleaded for death to find them. The German forces had withdrawn during the previous night. As the news spread, there was no celebration, just the rustle of boots dragging along empty streets. Back at headquarters, the atmosphere was muted as Commander Vokes and his staff turned a page in the grand strategy book. Ramsay and his buddies climbed out of their many locations. As he walked along the centre street, men crawled out of their hiding spots. Heads kept popping up like so many rabbits. He walked further and came upon the ruins of the once splendid Saint Thomaso Cathedral. It looked as if some immense hand had split it in two pieces. In an act of spite directed at the inhabitants, the German paratroopers obliterated the building in their retreat. Passing by the ruins, the sun that had lain hidden for days emerged to display the huge stained-glass window. Partially destroyed, it seemed to rise from the surrounding rubble, spilling hundreds of colourful rays in a dazzling display of its former grandeur. Norman's thoughts drifted toward the cathedral located opposite his hometown across the river. His uncle had taken him and his mother to see it when he was a kid. He was staggered by its immensity and the huge stain glass window towering on its main wall. This moment brought a sharp focus to a memory long since hidden. Happiness and fear competed for a place when he recalled his mother's comment, "We are never so close to God when we are in his house. Apprehension crept into his mind.

       There was to be no rest for the 1^st Canadian Division as Commander Vokes swept over his terrain map. Montgomery would be up his ass to continue the battle north. He assessed his troop strength. They had been mauled by the fighting since early December. Like cogs in some giant war machine, his troops, while performing courageously, became worn down. The equipment they relied on showed signs of deterioration and lacked availability. The weather, having improved slightly over the past week, was forecast to close in again with snow, wind, and rain. He looked gloomily at the strength of the Second Canadian Infantry Brigade. None of its three decimated regiments could muster enough firepower to provide backup for the other two brigades.

 It would be left to his men, and it could not be a prolonged fight. It must be quick and decisive before they would be destroyed themselves. The 1 CID regiments were a shadow of their prewar strength. Leading the assault fell to the Carleton and York. He reflected on what made these New Brunswick farmers and lumbermen such a vital fighting machine.

December 30, 1943. A location, "Point 59" identified by Allied Command (Italy) was the collection point for battalions. They planned to swing north next for their last assault on the Gustav and Hitler lines combined. The 1 CID was led by the New Brunswick, Carleton and York Regiment. Within four hours, the outcome was determined. The variables were unchanged; troops, supplies, and climate produced identical grim outcomes, mirroring previous conflicts. Tanks were sucked up in the mud like toys. Infantry sections that followed could not advance. The few who tried became fodder for the German gun emplacements.

       New Year's Eve, an icy wind swept down the mountain above the town, accompanied by rain and ice pellets. Ramsay followed his sergeant on a reconnaissance of the area. They were struggling to get through a vineyard when shots rang out from a camouflaged German gun placement. The sergeant hit the dirt. Norman did the same as his Bren gun fired off a few rounds. His leader looked back in terror; Ramsay looked to see his safety was off and he had nearly killed his sergeant. Out of the vineyard, they continued wordlessly until returning to shelter. Neither man spoke of it; both acknowledging the razor-thin line separating them from the surrounding corpses.

Four days later, the same sergeant led his platoon to secure "Point 59". The CYR took Torre Mucchia, a German strongpoint, on 4 January 44, all part of the fighting around Point 59. Hypothermia was a constant threat. Unlike previous attempts, the Carleton and York were supported by artillery. B Company attacked using three platoons. A whistle from the Division commander signalled the advancement. Corporal Ramsay's new respect for his leader put him close to his side. The party slogged through the mud, threatening to entrap and expose them to machine gun fire. Progress steadied as they came over a rise. Ramsay and his sergeant happened upon four Germans trying to reload their guns. Just as his leader threw a grenade to destroy the nest, Norman spotted a single soldier on the side of the trench aiming at the Seargent. Ramsay careened toward him, shooting him in the chest.

Within two hours of the initial attack. B Company, with its three platoons, had accomplished the task. "Point 59" was taken, allowing the advancement of the combined Allied troops north toward Rimini on the Adriatic coast.  

 

            Norman Joseph survived that attack and more in the "clean up" from the Battle of Ortona. The Carleton and York Regiment had established itself as a credible fighting force. It had started World War Two with eight hundred troops. At the conclusion of the Ortona operation, the regiment was listed as being temporarily unfit to continue offensive operations, and the surviving troops were granted an extensive leave of action. During that time, Ramsay and his comrades found refuge in small villages behind the active lines. One such place held the young veteran's last letter to his sister, Rita.

 

January 23, 1944

Hi Sis,

I'm writing this letter after an enormous battle you may read about someday. In it, my regiment got pretty banged up, so we got some time for R & R. Are you back to work after the Christmas break? It must have been great to see the folks again? I miss you, Momma, Papa, and everybody really badly. I have been through stuff nobody could imagine. It showed me value in the good things and people from Newcastle. We have the toughest battle ahead of us, Rita and I may not make it. Sometimes I think of Momma reading the tea leaves, and I don't want to look.

If I don't get back home, would you do what you can to help at home, but take care of yourself too. Life is too short. Love you, sis.

Joseph Norman

 

After the leave, the Carleton and York were strengthened and rejoined the 1^st Canadian Division on the last assault of the Hitler Line. The Allied forces had been fighting since January to push past Cassino in their attempt to capture Rome. Three major battles had failed. In May, a decision was made to move the Canadians from the Adriatic coast west to Casino for a major push by the 8^th British Army. Canadians of 1 CID and 5 CAD would strike into the Liri Valley and push toward Rome.

 

On May 23, 1944, 23-year-old Corporal Norman Joseph Ramsay was mortally wounded by a single shot fired by an enemy. B Company took its objective in 75 minutes. CYR were attached to 2 CIB that day as part of Operation Chesterfield to breach the "Adolf Hitler Line."

Norman is buried in grave IV.G.4 near many of his comrades in the Cassino War Cemetery, Italy.

 

Clara couldn't sleep the night of May 22, 1944. Earlier she had been thinking of her son

Overseas. Awake now, she turned to lie on her side. She then noticed a shape resembling a person

near the bed. She put on her glasses and sat up. An image of her son was sitting beside her.

His tear-stained face was visible in the moonlight through the window. Speaking in a melancholy

tone that she strained to hear, he told her he had been killed in battle. But she was not to worry;

now he was at peace. The figure disappeared as his words drained away. Her shock at the

appearance of the apparition was total and left her unable to move until the morning light. She

didn’t wake Ben, fearing he would not believe her. In the morning, she shared the news. Try as

he might, Ben could not convince her it was a bad dream. Three days later, the comfort of their

home was broken by a knock on the back door. A young boy produced a telegram advising them

that their son Norman died in battle at Pontecorvo, Italy, on May 23, 1944. This account was

shared by her children over the decades. The parents' love for their child and the profound

suffering endured by them and the family outweighs the importance of factual accuracy.

The practical aspect of losing her son hit home to Clara when she experienced delays in

receiving Norman's pension and medals. Hearing nothing from the Defence Department, the

gutsy Acadian wrote two letters. His pay and parents' supplement of approximately $900 was

received fifteen months after his death.

 

The service medals arrived over four years later, in 1949.

When his life–long friend, Dick Gough, heard of Norman's death, he wrote the following poem in remembrance and presented it to Clara Ramsay after the war.

 

MY BUDDY

This boy that I write of, an Acadian lad

Was the best mate in our town that I ever had.

 

We roamed the wood, fished the river and jigged from our school

Yes, both of us experts at acting the fool.

 

Norm, your face I remember, so handsome, so true

And I gave my best grip on my last meeting with you.

 

You came on your leave to see me once more,

And to share boyhood memories of home; long our shore.

 

My Newcastle buddy, how well I remember you yet

The best pal I had, one I'll never forget.

 

That night in old England 'twas a night of good cheer,

As we sat in the pub and drank up our beer.

 

The next day we parted near the old Sally Ann.

And you walked down the road with a wave of your hand.

 

Months later you gave them all that you had,

Your youth and your life, you Canadian lad.

 

Yes, this Acadian soldier, this buddy of mine,

In the bloodbath of Hell on the Hitler Line.

 

Richard Gough

 

 

 

 

Norman's Nephews Norman (R) Dan (L)

visit grave Cassino 2026

 

 

 

 

In 2006, Erving Ramsay and his wife, Jessie, donated a stained-glass window to St.

Mary's Parish in the former town of Newcastle. It commemorates the sacrifice and ultimate death

of his brother, Norman, and those who perished in the Italian campaign of World War Two.

 

 

                                                                                                                                                    

Lahr Valley

 

Dog tags of Norman's brother, Gerald Ramsay,

and brother-in-law, Dennis Leslie, both also served in

the Canadian Armed Forces

GUNNER

 

This story is one of five which will be published in October 2026. It follows the exploits of a young Miramichi, New Brunswick, airman during World War Two. Part two will appear here on June 28.

EARLY DAYS

 

As a five-year-old, I saw him as the imposing man behind our village post office counter. When I got the chance to pick up the mail, I’d stand outside the building, waiting for an adult to open the heavy doors. A glimmer of polished brass in the entrance signalled the building’s importance. The sparkling glass of the large windows enhanced the dark wood. This individual held dominion over the adult world. My mind buzzed with questions about him and his work. My father, a man of few words, provided token insight. He described how we are related and spoke about an experience in World War II. The latter piece of information only increased my curiosity. It took several decades for me to learn about Wilfred (Wilf) Gorman’s wartime experiences. The narrative unfolded as one of courage, resolve, and appreciation.

Wilf entered the world in the small community of Craigville, New Brunswick, on September 10, 1921. He was the middle child among seven offspring. Based on present standards, the family was poor. Most families in the larger Miramichi region were poor. Wood harvesting and lumber mills, the largest source of employment, had cratered following World War I. But there was land, and lots of it. The Gorman family took full advantage of it. From spring to fall, sunrise to sundown, every child had chores to maintain the hundred-acre farm. The abundance of hard work and plenty of fresh, nutritious food ensured the kids grew up healthy.

Gertie and Wilfred Senior, the parents, had little education. But they knew its value. A one-room school occupied a corner of their land.

Rough-cut planks formed its construction. Oakum filled the gaps in the wooden sections for warmth, and a potbelly stove offered a miser’s heat. Successive teachers over the years (some certified) taught students from grade one through eight. Wilf, with the older boys, would cut and split winter wood and keep the stove fired. He handled the early morning task of lighting a fire. The building, long since silenced, remains today.

Hockey occupied the rare moments of freedom for the boys. They carved sticks from pieces of nearby ash or birch. Skates were a luxury, so most played in their heavy winter boots. Wilf looked small for his age, but small was mighty as he showed any larger bully. Most evenings involved playing cards around the kitchen table or, in later years, tuning into the local radio station.

Wilf’s intelligence and natural curiosity made him popular with his teachers. He would often be called upon to explain difficult algebra and math concepts.

He enjoyed working on his parents’ farm and enrolled in courses at the provincial Agricultural College in Fredericton. During summer breaks, he worked at the local lumber yard for thirty cents an hour.

 

ADVENTURES AWAIT

 

April 1941 brought a pleasant warmth. The ice had run early from the Miramichi River. Wilf and his friends grew restless hearing news of the war in Europe. They longed for something new in their lives. Gorman’s reflections, decades later, provide some insight.

“We grew up with little and worked for everything we had. It encouraged self-reliance. For us, as young lads, news of the war that filtered into our small community fuelled [AC1] talk of adventure and freedom. The opportunity to visit far-off lands and have unique experiences lay within reach. Danger existed, but naivety protected us from the reality.

The next month, two friends, Tom Butler, Fred Adair, and I, decided our time had come. One night after chores, I told Mom and Dad. I saw resignation and fear on Mom’s face. Dad didn’t show his feelings except to say it was the right thing to do and that he was proud. Fred and Tom showed up driving Fred’s uncle’s 1934 Ford pickup. We chose the Moncton recruiting depot because we figured the truck would get us there. Because I had my license, I drove.”

The trio set out with four dollars for gas. Their mothers had made sandwiches to hold them over. During the drive down, Wilf had decided he would sign up for the Air Force. After a four-hour trip and one flat tire, they pulled up in front of the Moncton Armoury building. A smiling sergeant welcomed them, happy to add to the day’s count. 

“They did a lot of tests and four hours later, the fellow supervising asked if I would be ready to go into the Air Force [AC2] at any time. I said yes, and he had me sign a paper. He told me to report to the Moncton train station that night at ten o’clock to go to Toronto. Fred and Tom found themselves on a delayed roster. They had enlisted in the Army. They would see action in a few months. I got them to call my parents and tell them what happened.

While waiting in the station lobby, I read a newspaper story and realised [AC3] the rush to have people sign up was because things were going badly in the European air war. That kind of thinking would not be helpful, so I dismissed it from my mind and focused on the adventures ahead.”

IN TRAINING

 

After a thirty–hour trip, the train pulled into Union Station on Front Street, Toronto. It had been packed with recruits, sitting up on wooden seats which had been added to accommodate troops. Later that night, the young lad from Craigville, New Brunswick, found himself on the parade grounds of the Manning Depot with over five thousand prospective troops. The living quarters were re-purposed cattle barns. Wilf slept soundly while many other city boys had difficulty adjusting.

The four-week orientation and basic training passed quickly, and afterward, Gorman was sent to his first post in Labrador. He learned to live close to the land, working on the construction of the giant Canadian-American base at Goose Bay, Labrador. He developed an appreciation for the Inuit people, at one point, they kept him and another soldier from dying in a blizzard.

 Wilf went to Number Seven [AC4] bombing and gunnery school in Paulson, Manitoba, spending six months training as an air gunner.

“I didn’t know what I would do in the Air Force when I signed up. My vision wasn’t the best, so I figured I wouldn’t be selected as a pilot. That was okay, as I did not want to be outgunning a Messersmith. I wanted to learn something useful when the war finished. When I was assigned as an air gunner, it seemed exciting and useful.

On the last week at Paulson, I got my overseas assignment and spent the two-week embarkation leave at home. Someone took a picture of me and my parents. Mom mailed it a month later. I still have it in my wallet. The finest present I gave her was not mentioning my relocation to Europe.”

 

Wilf and Parents 1941

Before Wilf and other young Canadian recruits joined the fight, things were going badly for the Allied nations. The quick collapse of France and other countries combined with the Battle of Britain served to set them on their heels. [AC5] 

The Allies’ strategic position in Europe underwent a massive change in June 1941. On June 22, Germany launched a surprise assault on Russia with four million soldiers, almost crippling the nation. That fateful decision began a series of events, leading to the involvement of Allied forces. Gorman, with thousands of other Canadians and equipment, had a major impact on events.

 

 

 

 

BOMBS AWAY

 

Gorman joined the 419 Bomber Squadron RCAF in Midland St. George in the north of England. It included Canadian flyers employed by the RAF while stationed in England. From there, he went to the 405 Pathfinder Squadron at Gransden Lodge.

Lancaster Bomber WW11

 In 1942, Bomber Command began making considerable upgrades to how well they could hit targets. A principal element involved in introducing the Pathfinder squadron. The Pathfinders would lead the main bomber group, deploying coloured flares, target indicators, and incendiaries on the objective. Planes coming in to bomb would know where to release their loads. The result was a tremendous rise in striking higher-level objectives such as civilian areas, thus diminishing their confidence in the Nazi government. Wilf’s 405 Squadron was transferred to No.8 (Pathfinder) Group in early 1943 and would remain in that Group until the end of the war. 405 (Pathfinder) Squadron was the only RCAF squadron of the ten squadrons in No.8 (Pathfinder) Group. Pathfinder squadrons had to stay above the target area for the entire bombing raid; when required, they had to join the bomber stream to remark the target. Their task held the greatest danger of the bombing force.

“We had a front-row seat to the bombing campaign on Germany. The Lancaster bomber served as the aircraft selected to head the Pathfinder squadron in Britain. From the first time I saw the Lancaster, I had a sense of security. It was huge and loud, powered by four Rolls-Royce Merlin engines. The Lancaster had a seven-person crew: pilot, flight engineer, navigator, a bomb aimer, wireless operator, and mid-upper and rear gunners. Each person was a specialist. We were a real team with mutual [AC6] respect and trust.”

Gorman’s selection as a crew member happened for good reason. The testing he underwent in Moncton identified the intelligence and temperament required to fly into hell and repeat it the next night.

 Pathfinders had a critical importance in the European campaign. But as Gorman explained, success also came with increased risk for the aircrew.

“We were always the first to arrive on target. Our primary missions involved mine-laying in the water, diversionary and bombing raids on German factories and harbours.

Lining up on the target required the plane’s low, slow trajectory, making those runs challenging. That made us vulnerable to artillery fire and fighter-plane attacks. On average, a new crew lasted six weeks before perishing.”

People today would find it hard to understand what life was like being part of a Lancaster aircrew; intense training preceded long, high-risk missions demanding concentration under immense stress.

Each person had to sharpen his skillset to the point of ignoring distractions. When on a bombing run, those distractions included intense flak (anti-aircraft fire), enemy fighters, and mid-air collisions. Wilf offered insight into the situation.

“A recurrent dread among bomber crews entailed a Fokker or Messerschmitt fighter positioning itself below the bomber and obliterating it with guns aimed skyward. Most German night fighter pilots targeted a starboard engine, igniting the plane. This tactic afforded the crew sufficient time to escape. Fighter pilots preferred to take out the rear gunner first. They saw us as easy prey because the Lanc was slow, and they were coming in at over two hundred kilometres per hour.”

The emotional toll included mates being severely wounded, with friends only able to provide comfort as a prayer for a quick death. Combat fatigue caused aircrews to believe they were on a “suicide mission.” It seemed a reasonable inference, given the fifty to seventy–five percent mortality rate typical when Wilf first enlisted in the 405 Squadron.

A WWII Lancaster bomber contained cramped and uncomfortable conditions, as seven crew members operated in a noisy, unpressurized space. Temperatures fell to minus forty degrees Celsius at high altitudes, requiring heated clothing. Aircrews worked in dark, cramped spaces for hours, often without wearing parachutes because of the tight quarters. The Lancaster’s fuselage offered little space, accommodating sixteen bulky oxygen containers and restricting movement.

Gorman occupied the tail gunner’s position. It stood apart from the rest of the team, with frostbite a constant worry. Main wing spars ran through the fuselage, creating a significant obstacle to moving between the front and rear sections, leaving the tail gunner alone during the long missions. The roar from the four Rolls-Royce Merlin engines made communication nearly impossible, requiring the use of the restricted, unreliable intercom system.

The spectre [AC7] of death accompanied the crew on every flight. In early March 1943, Wilfred had agreed to replace the tail gunner from another plane. They met with heavy flak flying over a target in Berlin.

“A piece of flak whizzed past my head. I turned to see that the door had been blown off my gun turret. Into five miles of nothingness, I stared. The pilot told me to stay put; I spun the turret away from the plane, facing the opposite direction, then gripped tight for the rest of the journey. The ground crew couldn’t believe their eyes when they found me nearly frozen, attached to the side of the plane.”

Gorman’s squadron was one of ten RCAF bomber squadrons in No.8 (Pathfinder) Group of Bomber Command. 405 Squadron was known for bombing accuracy and destruction of German targets. On July 24, 1943, they attacked Hamburg using area bombing tactics. It had been the target of 178 bombing raids between 1940 and 1943.

They returned the following month. That night served as the starting point of the term ‘firestorm’, a phenomenon where oxygen escaped from a multitude of collapsing structures converged into one massive inferno.

 

“There were so many scenes of horror that continue to haunt me. That night over Hamburg is one. We dropped so many bombs that the surrounding sky, even at twenty-five thousand feet, was lit up enough to see the hundreds of planes around us. As we turned to head for home, the silence on our radios was deafening. There were no cheers, only a sense that we had done something evil but essential. One last look from my vantage point, we were one hundred eighty miles away, I could still see the lights of a city dying. Fifty thousand German civilians died that night. It emerged later that more than a million were left homeless and destitute until after the war.”

            On August 17, 1943, the 405 Squadron turned its attention to Peenemunde, an experimental research station on the Baltic. It was the location housing scientists developing the VI and V2 ("Vengeance" rockets.) No. 6 Bomber Group led a force of fifty-four Halifax bombers that killed the scientists and eliminated the threat of the program in forty-five minutes.

Strong and impenetrable to outsiders, the ties that bound the aircrews of 405 Squadron existed. Several elements forged the links within and between aircrews. Every person contributed to the endurance of the rest. The success of the mission and the survival of the crew depended on each knowing and performing their job.

In the Royal Canadian Air Force (RCAF), crews self-selected as opposed to the RAF. They would need to discover a person’s beliefs, likes, and dislikes. The unconventional approach fostered genuine connections, as men selected persons with whom they could relate, instead of being randomly matched.

Teams shared the intense, life-threatening moments of combat, as well as the downtime between missions. Men often spent their off-duty hours together, reinforcing their connection.

They were young (Wilf had just turned nineteen when he joined), whereas the more seasoned members were up to twenty-five. They shared the fear of death, the stress of high casualty rates, and the pressure of trying to complete their tour of duty.

The squad operated with seamless coordination, often bypassing conventional military ranks. Theirs was a “democratic” survival strategy, valuing each member’s crucial contribution. Canadian crews refused to accept the traditional RAF approach to determining who became an officer, eliminating the inherent class structure.

This connection proved crucial for preserving morale and ensuring operations continued. It transformed a collection of unknown individuals into a close-knit unit of comrades, as shown by many veterans staying linked with their fellow soldiers (or their kin) for many years after the conflict.

As shown in the preceding sections, the men operating heavy bombers made up a separate category of pilots. Within this category, rear gunners proved unique. Stationed in the aft fuselage, Wilf was detached from the others of the crew. The mid-upper gunner at least kept his legs within the plane. Gorman couldn’t see any section of his own aircraft from his position, regardless of how far he rotated his turret.

The rear gunner, in his surreal position, viewed the war like a film played backward. He sat on a metal shelf in a crouched position throughout the mission. His turret occupied the coldest, loneliest area in the Lancaster.

Rear gunners were small-framed. Wilf represented an exception, standing around six feet tall and tipping the scales at one hundred eighty pounds. For seven or more hours, he would scan the sky for bandits racing toward his plane, trying to ambush the seventeen-ton bomber as it lumbered to and from its target.

Rear Gunner in Turret

The trust between the gunner and the pilot was sacred, as they held the lives of their crewmates in their hands. When he spotted the invader, Gorman would shoot the four .303-caliber machine guns on a single trigger. Working from a line of bullets running the length of the plane, he had ten thousand rounds of ammunition, or about two minutes’ firing time. He would call to the skipper to “corkscrew starboard” or “fighter, corkscrew port.” The resulting G-forces as the plane pitched would glue the crew to their seats.

Rear gunners had their own fraternity, and, like pilots and navigators, had their own jargon. A skilled marksman earned the admiration of his team, who appreciated the hardships he faced. Gunners took pride in their position and effectiveness. Many developed an obsession with keeping the turret windows clean, trying to get that one-second jump on the attacker. Some made the cleaner from their own ingredients, bordering on the bizarre, including their own urine.

One of Gorman’s friends took out his turret glass. He insisted that the heat insulation from the warmed aviation clothing offered enough protection. Bomber Command intervened when incidents of frozen limbs rose from malfunctioning suits.

The gunners faced other frustrations. If they used too much anti-icing grease on the guns, they would jam. If they didn’t have enough grease, the guns froze. Too-heavy gloves prevented them from freeing a jammed gun. Too-light gloves and they froze their fingers.

Darkness enveloped the solitary man. Loneliness stocked him. He could not see his crewmates and heard only snippets of their exchanges. German fighter planes, possessing superior weaponry, shattered his solitude with brutal assaults. Mental breakdowns were not uncommon among the courageous rear gunners fighting their battles on two fronts.

 

 

 

LANCASTER CLIMBING

The Lancaster brotherhood shared one-of-a-kind experiences. One member penned the following.

“The Lancaster strained with its maximum load as we climbed through thick banks of cloud, inching our way through rain and ice towards the sun above. Sometimes it took an hour to climb twenty thousand feet. Gradually, the sky brightened, and the clouds shifted from grey [AC8] to white, and we knew we were close to the summit. Then, pop, we surfaced into blinding sunshine, forcing eyes to look only at the instruments. We encountered a sight that staggered the imagination. Stretching from horizon to horizon, over six hundred Canadian bombers sprang up through the mist, their black bellies stark against the white of the dazzling cloud tops.

Stretching upwards, aiming for elevation, they emerged from every direction, seeming to appear out of a magician’s hat. Big, powerful, sinister. We watched awestruck as a silent force converged into one massive stream. Every bomber turning east, all heading towards the German guns. This was a bomber stream. A sense of belonging emerged as squadrons became one. It was poetic as planes rose and flowed like water from above, beneath, and adjacent, creating a flood that stretched one hundred miles long and five miles wide as it thundered toward its goal.

Power, tremendous power, deadly power, thrilling in its sense of purpose and might. Radiating strength and togetherness, the message was “You are not alone.”

Then, as quickly as they had appeared, bombers at the front vanished as sunlight receded into clouds. Those beside you evaporated, and as the sun set, partners behind disappeared, and we flew alone into the darkness. With the first flash of fire from the enemy coast, the beauty left and the crew settled into the job. The Lancaster tilted upward on a single wing and pitched over in a frightening lurch, its excess cargo sending it beyond command.

Our hearts pounded as a wing was wrenched from the skipper’s control. We were in the slipstream of a bomber ahead; the swirling cyclones from its four propellers destroying the smooth airflow over our wings.”

 

 

“WE'VE BEEN HIT.”

September 27, 1943, marked the last mission for twenty-two-year-old sergeant Wilfred Melvin Gorman. Rain and cool weather characterised [AC9] the previous day. As the front moved away, heavy clouds persisted over Brunswick, Germany. The Lancaster crew had completed their thirty missions and enjoyed a two-week break in London. Except for their pilot, who had become engaged, they had agreed to continue.

The night raid had targeted Hanover, Germany. Their role was to fly a diversion, dropping markers on nearby Brunswick to draw German fighters from the primary target. This involved the dangerous, low and slow routine of flying straight on the bombing run.

“We drew near our objective. Flying straight on a bomb run, you have no protection underneath. You can’t tell what, if anything, is beneath you. On this occasion, something flew up. It was a German Junkers 88-night fighter. Right off, we saw we got hit bad. The two port motors were dead. The starboard inner motor sustained damage, yet continued to work. We tried to make it back to England, but the damaged motor caught fire over Holland. With the bomb doors gone and the undercarriage dangling below the belly, we were out of options. We bailed. There isn’t any time to think in this situation, but when my chute opened and I drifted downward, I was aware my life was about to change again.

TO BE CONTINUED.................