RENÉ BERTRAND FIRST FELL IN LOVE WITH THE SEA AS A YOUNG BOY AGED FOUR. BUT IT WOULD BE AS A YOUNG MAN THAT THE SEA WOULD CARRY HIM OFF TO WAR — AND LATER BRING HIM HOME SAFELY AGAIN.
From Sea to Sea.
Our country is bordered by three oceans. Endless lakes and rivers shape its horizon.
For centuries, thousands of sailors have contributed to its economy, development and defence.
Water knows no time.
But it is full of stories. Like this one, of René … A sailor.
My first time on a boat, I was four years old. It was at the Welland locks, on the St. Lawrence Seaway. The boat was so close that the sailor, seeing how fascinated I was, lifted me up onto the deck.
I loved the feeling of unsteadiness, while Mom and Dad watched and waited a few feet away. Back home in L’Orignal, the Ontario village where I grew up, I proudly told all my friends about the experience.
When I was eight, I bought a little red rowboat with the money I earned working as an altar boy. I was always out on the Ottawa River. People thought I was fishing, but really I just lay there, rocking in the waves, my hand caressing the water, daydreaming.
Later, as a teenager, I decided that I was going to travel. I wanted to see the world, and the Royal Canadian Navy offered me the chance. That’s what they promised the new recruits, anyway. So that’s what I did. I was 16. I hadn’t reached the age of majority, but I went to Montreal, where an anglophone officer who couldn’t understand my French papers enlisted me.
I left for Halifax. Then went all around the world and came back to Montreal overland via Vancouver.
February 1942. It’s my first mission. I’m aboard the HMCS Vegreville, a minesweeper. We’ve been at sea for 12 days with a transatlantic convoy — 20 merchant ships accompanied by 10 escort crafts (including mine) protecting against German submarines.
The sea is angry, the guys are sick. The canned food is disgusting.
It’s freezing and my wet coat never dries. When you’re assigned surveillance duty, you have to tie yourself to a post to avoid falling overboard.
Despite our zigzagging and speed variations, the Germans manage to locate us.
This morning, when I saw the first ship explode in the distance, I was shocked by the sight: all the debris, the sounds, the screams, the bodies …
I froze for a little while, and suddenly realized everyone was silently running back to their post.
This morning, I launched my first bombs, killed my first enemies.
“Dear Dad, Sorry for the trouble I’ve caused the whole family, but this is too tough, seriously. Can you get me out of this?”
I was exhausted and my heart was heavy. But the day we arrived in Reykjavik, it was so beautiful. The city, the colourful architecture, the brand-new sounds, the smells, the people, the language, the calm … It was stunning.
I tore up the letter.
After the war ended, it took 20 years before I was able talk about it. People wouldn’t have understood me, wouldn’t have believed me. We couldn’t describe the horror.
Yeah, I survived, and staying alive has been a daily battle. I forgot, in order to rebuild.
I left home at 16. When I came back at 20, I had grown up, changed. I felt like a stranger. I felt empty. And my brother was missing.
Guy had joined the Air Force and wasn’t as lucky as me. He died in a plane crash in 1942. I was on a convoy heading for St. John’s, Newfoundland, when I found out. The commander called me up to the bridge to give me the sad news. On Christmas Eve.
March 1943. It’s my 10th time crossing the Atlantic on an escort craft. I’m sick of eating the same old canned food. The incessant sound of ice hitting the hull is keeping me awake. The ship behind us was just torpedoed. It’s the 23rd one we’ve lost on this crossing. War has become ordinary and banal. And that scares me.
The young rookie next to me wants us to go and rescue the survivors who are screaming in the distance. But it’s too big of a risk. Seeing him cry is more unbearable than listening to the screams of the shipwrecked. I close my eyes to spare myself the image.
In a few days, we’ll arrive in London. We’ll mail letters to our families, our wives, our fiancées. In the pubs, we’ll run into comrades from past missions, and we’ll hug each other, happy to find out that we’re still alive. For now, at least.
Seventy-five years ago I wore
the uniform for the first time. I was embarrassed. I thought it didn’t suit me. Over time, it became my identity. I was part of a group that embodied strength and unity.
Today, when I wear my vest adorned with all its medals, I remember my companions.
Only a few are still alive. Many died in combat. Others like me lived a long, beautiful life.
The war brought us closer, but we can’t bear to talk about it. We’re united by our silence, and the presence of others reminds us that it’s better to forget — even though we know it happened.
Some memories resurface, though. I remember my companions and the beauty of the landscapes clear as day, like a photograph printed in my mind. I close my eyes and feel that subtle sensation of unsteadiness, my body swaying along with the ship on the waves of the Atlantic — or the waves of my childhood.
Remembering back to when I first came to love the water. When I was recruited by water.
I CLOSE MY EYES AND FEEL THAT SUBTLE SENSATION OF UNSTEADINESS, MY BODY SWAYING ALONG WITH THE SHIP ...