bout de papier, Vol. 5, No. 4 (1988) — Winter 1988 // Hiver 1988, p. 48
Tug of War by W. Denis Whitaker and
Shelagh Whitaker, Byron Farwell, Stoddart,
Toronto, 1984, 461 pp.
Tug of War is the story of the campaign fought by the Canadian Army in September- October, 1944 in northern Belgium and the south-west corner of Holland. The virtue of the book is the reminder that the war in Europe after the Normandy invasion was not a glorious romp to Berlin, but often, a tough, grinding, bloody fight; regrettably, the book is also an exemplary product of the whining school of military history.
In August 1944, the Canadian, U.S. and British armies raced across France and Belgium, believing that the enemy would crack by Christmas. But the Allies had no major port in their possession. Antwerp, the city, had fallen in early September, but stretching 85 kilometres from the North Sea were cleared. All supplies had to be shipped by truck from Normandy. If the Germans held, the Allied armies would run out of food, fuel and ammunition.
The Germans stopped the British at Arnhem in mid-September. The task of opening the route to Antwerp was assigned to the Canadian army.
The campaign was the antithesis of a glorious romp. On either side of the Scheidt, there was no cover for the infantry and armour advancing over the waterlogged farmland and the bombed out villages. The battle was slow and murderous, the German troops brave and resourceful, the losses to the Canadians crippling. It took two months to open Antwerp to Allied supply ships.
Denis Whitaker was commander of the Royal Hamilton Light Infantry in the campaign. His otherwise admirable account of the campaign is cluttered with bitter criticism of the strategy and tactics of the high command. Why was the importance of the Antwerp approaches not recognized from the outset? Why were insufficient and inadequately trained replacements not provided to replace the severe casualties suffered in the Normandy campaign? Why did Canadian politicians ignore and then conceal the truth?
All this is in some measure true. But war is not a precise business. The ultimate stupidity is to make war in the first place. Avoiding casualties is a good reason to stay out of war, but a poor way to fight. The major strategic error was to believe that the enemy was beaten. Once the Germans stopped retreating, there was nothing for it but to fight it out. That’s what the Canadians did. All honour to them.
Tug of War rekindles fond memories of the Liberation March in Belgium held annually on November Ist to commemorate the campaign. The march is a thirty-three kilometre trek across the dykes and country roads of the battlefield from the Dutch village of Hoofdplaat to Knokke, a resort town on the Northern Belgian coast an hour’s drive from Brussels.
The March forms up in the central square of Hoofdplaat near beaches assaulted by the North Nova Scotia Battalion on October 9, 1944. A platoon of Koyal Canadian Engineers from Lahr takes the lead, followed by a collection of young and old, Belgians and Canadians, bicycle clubs, and fraternal associations. Across the cobbled pavements to the haunting wailing of the bagpipes and steady beat of drums, the marchers — 2,000 strong — begin their journey.
I am accompanied by Barry Mawhinney late of the Queen’s Own and his trusty walking stick. Si Taylor, then Ambassador to NATO and his family join the march.
The first stage is a fifteen-kilometre hike to Oostburg, a village captured by the Queen’s Own on October 26, 1944. Barry and I reconnoitre loud bursts of applause coming from the City Hall, find the soldiers, the Oostburg Mayor and Town Council and Willy Parker, late of the Signals, Ambassador Tait’s chauffeur — the honoured Canadian guest for that year. Barry loudly announces that we are the Canadian diplomatic representatives and would be obliged for a glass of schnapps. The speeches over, the Mayor beaming, Willy beaming, the Town Council beaming, Barry and I beaming, we are led to a fine lunch in the local eatery.
Throughout the afternoon, Barry, the walking stick and I keep step with the soldiers at the regulation fifty-five paces to the minute. The schnapps, and wine at lunch, and a bottle of rum passed from hand to eager hand make the following 10 kilometres slide hazily by. At the next halt, an old farmhouse, there are deep tracks in the stone pavement left by two Canadian tanks who shelled German positions until knocked out. The farmer produces two dozen shell casings for our inspection, and schnapps for our consumption; thus fortified we push on five kilometres to the village of Retrenchment.
Joined by the piper and drummers and the town band of Knokke, three more kilometres see us into the outskirts of the Knokke. It is like Liberation day. Barry, the walking stick and I wave to the townsfolk cheering us from their windows and balconies in the bright autumn sunlight. Fine speeches in English, French and Dutch in the Knokke central square conclude a tiring but worthwhile day.
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Originally published in bout de papier, Vol. 5, No. 4 (1988) — Winter 1988 // Hiver 1988, p. 48. Read the rest of this issue →
