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.................

ALL HELL BROKE LOOSE

 

I was almost sure about the month and year. "Google," said I, was wrong on both. Later, when I looked at the dozens of pictures, stories, and some grainy videos, they brought back the images frozen in my mind. On February 04, 1970, the rain and wind started early. Until then, it had been a typically cold season. I was seventeen and not interested in the river's winter activities. Early that morning, I recalled the warm southwest wind as unusual; by mid-morning, it was blowing a gale. Miramichiers, by nature, are not easily stirred, and most people were happy to have a break from the bone-numbing cold, even if they had to contend with the high winds.
As we sat for supper, the local CBC station reported flooding in the provincial capital, Fredericton. That was usually a spring event and of little interest to folks in the Miramichi region. I was glad to get a break from the constant snow shovelling. After supper, I plodded through my homework, knowing my prospects of passing the year were bleak. The start of the school year, the previous September, coincided with the end of a roller-coaster relationship, leaving my self-esteem lower than my grades. Looking for an escape, I eagerly stowed the books and scribblers at eight o'clock and headed downstairs to watch " Bonanza." The famous Western offered an exciting alternative to my daily self - pity party and dull routine. The notion that my family's lives would be threatened in less than three hours was as fanciful as the Cartwright family riding up the main street of our village. Our home was less than a hundred feet from the Miramichi River. Flowing 250 km from the Atlantic Ocean, it transitions from a saltwater basin at Miramichi Bay to a freshwater river famous for salmon and bass fishing. 
A quarter of a mile from our house was Beaubear's Island. Its location is strategic, particularly in the spring, as ice flowing from two tributaries (Northwest and Southwest Miramichi) is divided, thus reducing the pressure on downriver settlements and other locations. At the southwestern tip of the island is a railway bridge. All trains travelling north from Nova Scotia to Quebec and beyond crossed at this point. The daily runs of those trains had become symphonies that lulled me to sleep through each season. On this night, I had a tough time getting to sleep. The neighbourhood dogs seemed especially agitated, with a lot of barking. Our cat (Ash), never one for showing agitation, had been wandering around whimpering. I fell into a restless slumber.
In sleep, our minds have a fantastic capacity to blend past events and actual conditions simultaneously. Something very different challenged my usual peaceful dream of the slow rumble train on the bridge. In my half-awake state, the sound took on an ominous tone that I heard and felt. I sat upright, trying to understand.
During the two previous days, almost 100 millimetres of rain had fallen. It was driven by hurricane-force winds peaking at ninety km per hour. I was hearing the breakup of two massive ice packs stretching over a distance of ninety kilometres. Ice from the southwest and northwest Miramichi tributaries was being pushed into the main river just four kilometres beyond home.
I jumped out of bed, pulling on my clothes as I ran downstairs. I peered outside, but could see nothing. As I sat in the kitchen pulling on my snow boots and jacket, the noise I faintly heard in my dreams had grown into a crescendo.
Opening the back porch door, I was thrown against the outside wall and struggled to breathe. The huge wind was now driving a full-out snowstorm. Crawling to the front of our house by holding onto the veranda railing, I saw two cars stopped in the middle of the street. They were pointed toward the river with high beams on. The blurred images remain imprinted on my mind and have been the source of random nightmares even after sixty years.
The effect of the immense amount of ice being released at once is a phenomenon called pressure ridging. Warm temperatures with heavy rain weaken the layers of ice. The increased river current causes the layers to move. That movement is impeded by the riverbed and the riverbanks. The results are pressure ridges. They grow in height and width until the force behind them is enough to cause movement. This continues as the jam is again caught up, and the cycle continues, building more destruction in its wake.
I heard but couldn't see anything until the vehicle lights provided glimpses of the glacial mass making its way down the river next to our home. Initially, my mind could not process it. First, I had to look up to see the mass. This meant it had to be over twenty meters above the road. This was later confirmed in media reports. The second clip in the surreal picture was trees, some full-length, sticking out randomly among the enormous slabs of ice. Most branches were sheared off like toothpicks. A third spectacle in this apocalyptic scene was the sudden end to the snowstorm and the wind. The abruptness contributed to the panicked atmosphere, as now there was only the cacophony of ice moving and timber with limbs fracturing somewhere in the ink-black night. 
More cars appeared as the news of the ice run spread through the village. I returned home, not wanting to join the rubber-necking spectacle. When I returned, the rest of the family was up and nervously peering out the windows. I shared the little I knew, being careful to avoid betraying my anxiety about what we might be facing. Mom said Dad was in the basement. I went down, wondering what he might be doing there. I was stunned to see a torrent of water shooting up from the basement floor. Again, my mind struggled to make sense of what was happening. Dad was standing on a piece of board, trying to slow the freezing water shooting up from a drainpipe. Suddenly, I realized the combined weight of the ice was forcing river water into our cellar. The drainpipe that led directly to the river was used in the spring to control runoff from heavy rain. As we surveyed the situation, the water was rising frighteningly. We needed to slow the flow rate and get it out before it ruined the furnace and flooded the cellar. Dad grabbed a length of pulpwood, quickly fired up the power saw, and cut it to about a foot. He sharpened an end and placed it at the mouth of the pipe. I hammered it in place as freezing water covered us. The upward force of the water made it pop out twice, but on the third try, it held. Our moment of success was brief, as we saw the water level had gone over the top of our boots. Working as a janitor at a small school with my mother, I recalled a sump pump. I left Dad standing by the drain plug, ready to knock it into place. I jumped in the family car and, in twenty minutes, was back with the pump and a length of hose. We hurriedly set it in place, wondering if it would work after years of sitting idle. The quiet hum of the motor and the feel of ice water in the hose were like a soothing balm as I felt my tense muscles relax slightly.
When I went outside to place the hose across the road, the thunderous noise had subsided, showing the ice run was slowing. More vehicles lined up along the road despite the cakes being even with the roadbed, a height of twenty - five feet from the river's usual level. It would be morning before we knew the full extent of the damage. Among the people gathered, I noticed my Uncle Earl. He worked with the provincial Natural Resources Department. He and another DNR employee tried to move people back, but were unsuccessful. We exchanged hellos, and I gave him a summary of our recent episode. He and I sat in the warmth of his truck as Earl recounted some of the news he was hearing on his government and police radios. Earl was a quiet and deliberate man, not given to overstatement. His account of what happened "upriver" left me speechless and heartbroken. Our situation paled in comparison.
Near the communities where the Miramichi River narrowed, over twenty -five houses, barns, camps, etc., were torn from their foundations. In several cases, families had only minutes to flee. Farmers along the fertile belt lost dozens of livestock that could not be rescued. They died a horrible death in the carnage. In Keenan siding, a community twenty miles from our home, a father drowned in his car as the bridge he was crossing was swept away in six meters of water. He was trying to reach his family when the brook, usually half a metre deep, surged.
Two bridges crossing the Miramichi were swept off their piers in the massive ice jams. Two other bridges were severely damaged, cutting entire communities off from outside help. 
Just below us, in the community of Newcastle, a large ice jam occurred at Morrissey Bridge. The top of the jam was reportedly at bridge level, with an estimated thickness of 12 to 15 metres. About a quarter of businesses were underwater, and the water supply was polluted. Earl was called back to the bridge as the threat of its destruction was growing.
I returned to our home to change my clothes and give Dad a break from the vigil he held, monitoring the pump and ensuring the drain plug was holding. It was about 4:30am when I realized how exhausted I was. To allow Dad and me to rest, I had my two younger sisters stand watch. I climbed into my bed and gratefully surrendered to sleep.
Nearby, heavy machinery woke me up. The pleasant, sunny day was a welcome relief from the literal and figurative darkness of the previous night. As I stumbled outside, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I saw the result of the disastrous events. The sea of ice had stopped a couple of hundred feet up the river. The island had probably saved us and many others along the front street. Acting as a natural divider, it split the jam into two sections, reducing the full energy force by half. I walked up the road, trying to absorb the scene before me. Cakes of ice between two and five meters thick were piled carelessly on each other. Interspersed between them were the trees I glimpsed last night. Most were splintered, but full-length trees up to thirty metres with roots attached were poking out of the mountain. The total height of the glacial structure itself was at least twenty meters in places.
Further up, I saw the remnants of a house sitting atop the ice. Curtains were visible in two windows, adding to the surreal setting. Down the street, the source of the heavy equipment noise was two giant loaders working in tandem to move a slab of ice almost the size of one loader.
Several days after the calamitous events, two vessels appeared below the Morrisey Bridge. Canadian Coast Guard Services (CCGS) Tupper and Wolfe. Their bright red livery contrasted sharply against the mountains of ice. They attracted a lot of attention as they plowed their way upstream toward the largest jams. To allow the ice field to flow freely in the river channel, the plan was to use icebreakers to break it up. The larger vessel, the Wolfe, would work downstream where the river widened, and the vessel would have room to manoeuvre. The Tupper, which was a regular visitor to the region, would work from the bridge up to our area. It was better suited to the narrower channel that ran parallel to our street. It was powered by a 3,500 hp diesel engine. Combined with its weight of 1,400 tons, it was well-suited for the job. The ship's draught was 4.2 metres. Draught is the vertical distance between the waterline and the bottom of the hull. The relatively small draught allowed the ship to manoeuvre freely with little danger of running aground in the 6.4 metre channel. Designed as a supply vessel and for handling large buoys, the Tupper was reinforced with steel plating for breaking ice. An additional feature was a 10-ton concrete block placed on the deck. It was attached by a steel cable to a crane. Breaking ice involves the vessel combining the inertia of its powerful engine with its weight to drive itself on top of an ice sheet. In conditions like those found in Miramichi, the concrete block is raised above deck level, and then the crane begins a slow pendulum motion. This causes the ship to displace even more weight as it settles lower. A simple but very effective tool.
As a seventeen-year-old, I was fascinated by the power of this beautiful ship as it laboriously went about its work. What made the scene even more surreal was watching it unfold from the riverbank, which was now twenty -five feet below this mighty powerhouse.
It would take days for the water to recede and weeks before the Miramichi region returned to something resembling normal. But it recovered, and there were more floods, and the people picked up the pieces from each occurrence because, as one of my older neighbours said, "What else is there to do? " This is our home, and we must be satisfied."

THREADING THE NEEDLE

 

I walked to the back door of my parents' home. The potato chip like crunch of leaves underfoot combined with the crisp autumn air to welcome me. The yellow porch light extended a familiar warm glow. Ash, the family c 

at, my companion since childhood, scurried ahead as I opened the door. She waited patiently as I filled her food dish and rubbed her worn scarred ears. Her purrs acknowledging our bond.

Closing the door against the Autumn chill, I entered the toasty warm kitchen. Aroma of bread just out of the oven teased my senses. The loaves on the counter sat in large worn baking pans. Butter crowned their tops. The kitchen light, created a soft golden glow. I reached into the cupboard for a bottle of freshly made strawberry jam. I picked up the butcher knife by it’s black handle and carefully cut through the warm loaf. When I was ten, that knife had slit a finger of my left hand, leaving it drooping at an odd angle. Shocked, I gazed at the blood ruining my bed lunch. A scream from my sister Sharon, brought me back to reality while my other siblings jostled for a view. In a flash, our mother, a veteran nurse, had wrapped the digit in several layers of clean gauze. Dad called his brother from next door to drive us to the hospital. An hour or so later, we returned home with a huge bandage covering the neatly stitched finger. Cuts scrapes and bruises happened regularly in our family of five boys and two girls. Mom was always there to tend to the wounds, with a dab of emotional salve to speed the healing process.

I heard her now, calling from the living room. "Douglas, are you eating the fresh bread? There is day old in the bin." She gently scolded from her chair.

 "I'm just having a small piece," I responded as I generously spread the delicious jam on the still-warm slice. I ignored my waistline, which had ballooned over the previous years. My youthful form and hair had disappeared. I poured myself a glass of milk and joined my parents.

Dad acknowledged me tacitly. His attention was fixed on the daily Parliamentary "Question Period." Experience told me to hold off conversation until the show ended. Mom was in her rocking chair, about to mend a pair of Dad's pants. Neither of them would have considered throwing them out despite their worn appearance. She deftly gathered her scissors. Her only concession to time and failing vision was to ask that I thread the needle, which I did quickly and handed back. She nestled into her comfortable chair and put her legs up to begin the task. "You know Douglas, as I get older, it’s harder to accept change in myself and things around me." It seemed a strange statement from someone I saw as strong and determined. The conversation shifted. "What brings you out tonight?" asked Mom. "Meet the Teacher" I said, with little enthusiasm. "Not my favourite event. "The parents I need to meet don't come.” I relaxed, while digging into the sandwich.

"Yes, I went to the sessions for each of you. I think it showed the teachers we cared, although there wasn't much we could do in high school." Mom’s oblique reference was to my failing Grade 11. She didn't mean to hurt. But the current of regret still trailed through me. My mother saw missing a grade as a five-alarm fire.  Her sensible boy who helped with chores without asking and caused no worry, had failed! I wore the shame like a hair coat. At that low point in my young life, a tempest was brewing, a sexual storm.

 At sixteen, I struggled with my identity in a world created for the obedient son, the Boy Scout, the Altar Boy. The disguise was almost exposed two years earlier when a handsome wonderful boy came into my life. Exciting feelings and urges were unearthed, colliding with inherited religious and cultural teachings. Those few shining months with Gerald, helped me see there was an alternative to my self-imposed isolation. When his family moved to Australia for his father's work, we tried in vain to maintain communication.

 

In my blue-collar village, the resident’s beliefs were strongly anti gay, leaving me in constant conflict with myself. A friendship with another boy grew into a sexual relationship, followed by bouts of guilt and anger directed at him. It confused Kevin as he only wanted a companion. It ended when rumours emerged that our friendship was more than that. Reluctantly, I slid once again into the closet. My life fell into a dull heterosexual pattern in High School.  

My university years started along the same paradigm.  Beyond a few glances and the odd gay fantasy, I had managed to push the homosexual side of me firmly into the subconscious. I didn’t understand that humans are far more complicated than most of us can understand. As teenagers and young adults, our brains and personalities are still developing and can not be simply turned on or off. That lesson nearly cost me my life a decade later.

At age eighteen, I was a straight man to myself and others, yet just below the surface, eddies of uncertainty were swirling. At the small university, I met students and teachers who challenged my world view. The beliefs I had carried from my tiny village were gradually discarded in favour of more expansive and inclusive ones. I began to see the damage I had done to myself by conforming to the expectations others had for me. But the pace of change was slow and sporadic. I continued a long-distance relationship with a girl from high school. It was a comfortable pattern that I saw no reason to break.

While I was content to selfishly play a role in one theatre of my life, I struggled to find my place in the other where my long-held beliefs were under the microscope. I regret not allowing them more space in my mind but am grateful for their efforts to break through. Two good friends, Anthony and Charles have since died. During my five undergrad years, they were constant in my life. They tried to poke holes in my armour, while I played the mature student leader. They spotted the farce and gently chided me when they could.

Other students, labelled Charlie a clown. Outwardly he seemed to enjoy reinforcing the image. When we were alone, he abandoned the role and shared ideas and personal feelings that showed how much he struggled. Sometimes, his anger and frustrations boiled over when he was taunted. He wanted the help of a friend when I couldn't even help myself. I played into the pranks that further isolated him.

In some ways, I envied Charlie. Few expected much of him. I worked to maintain my "man in control" image. Charlie went on to finish his Education degree, married and worked in Alberta. We stayed in touch for a while.

One Sunday morning, after Mass, his older brother told me he had died. "Yeah, the crazy bastard hung himself in his garage." The message and the coldness cut me deeply. Years erased the shock but did little to lessen the loss.

            Anthony, that intellectual giant, a whirling dervish, blew into my dorm room unannounced, day or night. He introduced me to new and different approaches to appreciating people, free from bias and prejudice. Tony taught me to understand and love classical music. When I hear Mozart I see Tony, looking quizzically at the billowing summer clouds. My friend had his private battles. Sexuality may have been one. But that beautiful expansive mind, wasn’t to be contained by the mundane world. Whether he ended his life or succumbed to the illnesses that plagued him, I don't know. At that time. the fear of aligning with him was more than I could offer. 

            The university experiences aided my journey of self discovery. But it was not enough to tear down the curtain of illusion I had subconsciously created. A series of events in the final days of school began a journey that took another twenty years to unfold.

I need to start this part of my story, by pointing out a byproduct of denying who you are. Neurosis is defined as, an extreme and irrational reaction to anxiety that interferes with your life. The price I paid, for being the “good boy” was to live with apprehension. At a very early age, I experienced that control was the only way I could limit the crippling effects of uncertainty. I worked hard to keep people and events under control. My brothers and sisters were the first to experience the phenomena. Initially they saw their sibling oddly focused on cleanliness and neatness. They nicknamed me, “the butler.” The moniker seemed to fit. Our mom appreciated the help in her endless household tasks.

It worked well until I began to mature. Some behaviour, of my siblings was causing me discomfort. I tried to change it by manipulating the person. Our youngest sister Sharon was the only one to submit. Cheryl Ann saw it for what it was and pushed back every time, always to protect her younger sister. My brothers seemed to have some sort of an internal manipulation detector. Any attempt to control them generally failed. My parent target, Dad proved equally impenetrable. I patterned mom in her attempts at shame and guilt after his episodes of drinking. I tried to ignore him the next day but gave in and helped get him back in shape.

I brought these unhealthy coping mechanisms into my adulthood. When my girlfriend was about twenty two she developed a tumor in her pituitary gland. The diagnosis and treatment phase proved tough on both of us. For Mary it was the unknown and the fear for her physical and emotional well being.  For me, I fell back into what was now an entrenched part of my personality, the need to control events and people around me. I assumed the role of advocate dealing with her doctors, then sharing the information with her. Consciously I felt I was protecting her from outside forces. Taking on that role had a terrible consequence for me.

            The discovery of the tumor coincided with the completion of my teaching degree. A meeting with a specialist was scheduled two days after my last exam. We were dreading it but wanted to know what would be done. After finishing my final exam, I was driving back home to Nelson. I met a huge snowstorm which had swept through Fredericton the night before. In a white out I hit another car which had partially gone off the road. My vehicle was demolished. I reached my home on the back of somebody’s snowmobile. That evening, I tried to take stock of what had just happened and at the same time work out a plan to get to the doctor. Suddenly the room shrank, I was sweating and could not get my breath. I jumped up and ran outside. It took a long walk to calm myself down. That was the first of the panic attacks.

The following day I managed to get a rental car and we drove to Moncton and met the specialist. The treatment was to be long and not easy.  I continued to show her nothing of my own feelings, concentrating only on bringing her comfort and support. Inevitably the attacks returned and became more intense. A week later, her tests and treatment began. Mary was transferred to hospital in Saint John and I wasn’t able to stay with her. Back in Nelson I made an appointment with my doctor. There I spilled everything to him. He listened and handed me a prescription for a drug he said would take care of the anxiety. I took one that night and had my best sleep in months.  The feeling of being relaxed and completely in control was like nothing I had ever experienced in my life.

Mary’s treatment was lengthy and difficult but thankfully successful. We were married the next summer and I started a teaching job that Fall. Six years later we welcomed our adopted infant son into our new home. I met the groundswell of changes in my life with the same inadequate coping skills I had in university. Each challenge was met with resoluteness and a need to control the situation. A surface view of how I was handling things would have been positive. Internally I was a mess. Nearly a decade after the first prescription I was still taking the pills, benzodiazepine (Serax). I was using my manipulative personality to get the pills from several doctors and at a dangerously higher dosage. The circus came to a screeching halt when a doctor discovered he was one of the prescribers. The word was out. A week later, I drove to the Fredericton treatment center with Mary and my one-year-old son. The picture frozen in time, is me, outside our vehicle looking at my son in his car seat. I still had a bag of tricks I could have used to avoid or lessen the experience but I was fed up with my lies and deceit. I wanted my son to grow up knowing me and not some stoned fool or going to the graveyard staring blankly at a headstone. The next two weeks were hell. The episodes of panic drove my blood pressure so high the staff feared a stroke. It finally settled down and I was left with stretches of boredom and self loathing.

 I returned to my work as a teacher shaky but on my feet. The experience of withdrawal and detox shook my confidence but somewhere a seed of possibility was sown. As I grew stronger emotionally, acceptance of being gay wasn’t as threatening. I weighed that against the reality it was conservative New Brunswick in the late seventies.

I loved teaching and was good at it. I brought some gifts I learned at university to my students. I shared alternative views and beliefs for them to consider. As an English instructor, I used many examples of popular writers and musical artists who challenged conventional thinking. But I couldn’t cross the Rubicon of coming out.  It would be decades before openly gay teachers would be permitted in New Brunswick schools.

I did begin some purposeful growth. The visit to my parents some forty years ago wasn’t as spontaneous as I first presented. That night, I intended to share my secret with them, instead, we talked about family and community, then I went home. During that conversation, I made the decision not to tell them. It wasn't that I feared shunning. I knew that I had moved to a different stage where I didn’t need to seek approval, implied or explicit. Confiding in my mother, specifically, would have altered the dynamic between us. I didn't want to subject myself to that. Her ingrained beliefs lay in traditional Catholic faith. Her love for me was steadfast. Why force her to endorse a different version of the son she loved? My parents, are gone now. Looking back over subsequent years, my decision was the right one for me.

After that night visit with my parents, things began to move on my journey of self acceptance. I would like to report that I used the visit as a jumping off point to a new life. But I am not known for moving hastily on any occasion. It would be another few months when my glacial progress moved to warp speed. The internet was in its infancy with dial up and chat rooms being the norm. I discovered the latter innocently one evening and I was hooked like a bee to honey. I was able to “chat” with other gay men married to women. The experience was like fresh air and sunshine flooding a dungeon. I became a regular in the room, One guy and I became friendly and conversations spilled over to letters. The relationship was helpful for both of us, until the day I came home to find Mary, my wife, reading a letter from my internet companion. She was shocked and hurt as she read it. My shock was how much the tone had changed from on line. He had taken things to a different more intimate level. I tried to explain that it was a mutually supportive friendship but what he wrote called me a liar.

And there it was, in a moment our marriage changed forever. As we talked, it became clear we had no future as a couple. She clearly had no idea I was gay. That was simply an acknowledgment my persona as a masculine straight male had worked, There was no success in the realization.

 I made a promise on that day, that I would stay with her and our son until he graduated high school. That concession was a relief to her. Sheldon’s behaviour and performance at school was a concern for us and teachers. As it turned out it was a portent of future events that would upend our lives even further. I don’t regret my decision to stay. The effect of being honest with her was immediate and emancipating. Gradually I came out to my brothers and sisters and close friends. Their support and the acceptance from Mary went a long way to show me, whatever challenges lay ahead I could meet them.

            At this writing, I am seventy – one years old. A friend of mine said I was brave to write about my struggles around being gay. That may have been true if I was twenty. but society has made progress in accepting us. Another person asked if I was resentful of the people who shunned, or hurt me along the way. Simply put, no. Most were acting in accordance with the norms and beliefs of the day. The others are just inherently mean and best left alone. I am married to a wonderful, kind man who tolerates my weak attempts at manipulation and gently, but firmly rebuffs me when I regress into control mode. 

The Mill

 

INTRODUCTION

The complex squatted on land dredged from the adjacent river bed. In the spring, the saturated earth threatened to swallow the mill and the few adjacent houses; The Summer heat baked the earth while listless winds wandered the grounds.

            My youthful view was from the grimy windows of an ancient school bus groaning past the site with depressing regularity. As a sullen teen, I knew the mill absently as the place where Dad worked. Actually, he didn't work "in" the mill. He was the bookkeeper/paymaster in the company office a few hundred yards up the street. A few years later, when I needed work to pay student loans; the mill gave me steady employment at a fair wage.

            It has been shuttered for decades and forgotten by many except retirees and the bank that seized the assets in a bankruptcy claim.

 

In the late eighties and onward, many forestry and mining companies in the Miramichi region shared similar fates. Raw material became unprofitable to access or process. With outdated equipment and shifting markets, many industries collapsed.

Economic and political variables play out with little regard for employees and citizens. People are left to stare at rusting machinery and collapsing buildings. They have a brief time to reflect on their lives and income before they drift to the next era in their community or leave it. The Miramichi region has experienced the vagaries of primary industries since the 1800s.

This story offers an alternate perspective. It follows four generations of the Burchill family, who created a lumber dynasty stretching over one hundred forty years. The narrative draws from a variety of sources, including John Burchill and his father, Senator Percy Burchill.

Through the experiences of successive generations, this account describes these men as entrepreneurs and community supporters.

The author gratefully acknowledges Derek Burchill (John’s son). His cooperation was essential in making much of the material available.

The Burchill story is compelling. Their successes and failures are intrinsically tied to the people of Miramichi, specifically the residents of the small village of Nelson, where the mill was located.

 

           

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER ONE - Beginnings

The story begins on Beaubear’s Island (Quoomeneegook), or "Island of Pines" as it was known to the Migmaw people. Less than 3 km long and 1 km wide, it’s at the confluence of the Northwest Miramichi and Southwest Miramichi rivers. Towering White Pines still form a canopy over most of the island. For the Mi’gmaw, it was their living and hunting grounds for a thousand years before the appearance of Scottish settlers led by William Davidson.

Davidson was the first non-indigenous person to establish a community on Beaubear’s. His efforts included clearing a portion of the island, harvesting the White Pine for the British Navy, and setting up a fisheries industry. An Acadian population followed after their expulsion by the British from the area we know as New Brunswick and Nova Scotia.

 

 

General Charles Boishebert the island’s namesake) led 900 Acadians from Nova Scotia in a desperate attempt to find a new home. They were not prepared for the harsh climate.

In the first winter of 1657, it is estimated, two hundred individuals died of malnutrition and scurvy. A couple of years later, The British, in a show of force and retribution, massacred most of the others, including women and children.

The island remained unoccupied for the next century. In the early 1800s, the Irish settled on Beaubear’s Island. In 1826, six-year-old George Burchill peered over a ship’s railing as it made its way along the Miramichi River. George, his two brothers, and two sisters could barely contain their excitement. Their parents paired the anticipation with uncertainty. Unlike the generation of Irish emigrants who followed, starvation from famine was not the motivator. The Burchills left behind their comfortable home and way of life in Bandon, Ireland.

The father, Thomas, chose to bring his young family to the sparsely populated country so they would know the value of creating a new life for themselves.

As he matured, George did not disappoint his parents. He began work as a clerk while still in school.

Joseph Russell, a local entrepreneur and shipbuilder, frequented the store where the young Burchill worked. He noticed the boy’s energy and efficiency. In 1840, he hired George as a clerk, and in less than seven years, Burchill had risen to Business Manager, and worked closely with John Harley, the young, ambitious Master Builder. The two became friends. They began to share a vision of one day creating their shipbuilding company. Their first loyalty remained with Russell, who willingly volunteered his knowledge as a businessman and shipbuilder.

Burchill and Harley were enthusiastic students of the older man. Russell was a conscientious person who worked hard to improve the lot of his employees and the community.

He was also a devout Mormon who attempted to recruit followers. The effort was met with resentment from the predominantly Irish Catholic residents. At one gathering of the small Mormon flock, a band of hooligans broke into the meeting. They ridiculed the participants and beat Russell so severely that he gave up the pulpit.

The persecution of those he had helped weighed heavily on him, and Russell decided to move his family to Beaubear’s Island to. Coincidental to his move, the timber market was low. The once-thriving Cunard yard went broke. And with it the savings of many residents of Chatham. Cunard was the de facto banker before the established institutions. Joseph Russell saw the future that did not include him. On June 24, 1850, he set sail for the USA on the Omega, the last vessel he had constructed. Before he left, he negotiated the sale of his boatyard and inventory to Burchill and Harley.

It was not the transition they anticipated but the two men met the challenge head-on. They introduced efficiencies in the boatbuilding process.

They reasoned, a ship’s life could be expanded and thus made more profitable. Harley and Burchill built sturdy and reliable craft and they insured them adequately. They produced nine square-rigged ships weighing 500 to over 1000 tons. The feat would be herculean by today’s standards when considering the rudimentary construction tools. Two of their vessels, "Ocean Bride" and "Equator," carried cargo worldwide for decades.