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Captain James Rhodes 1819-1901 brother of Col William Rhodes James Rhodes (uncle Jimmie) was Col William Rhodes's older brother. He was born in Bramhope, Otley, York, England He came and lived in Canada with his brother at times, and summered in Tadoussac. As the oldest male he inherited from his parents, and it looks like he enjoyed his visits to Quebec. James Rhodes (Oncle Jimmie) était le frère aîné du colonel William Rhodes. Il est né à Bramhope, Otley, York, Angleterre Il est venu et a vécu au Canada avec son frère à certains moments, et ses étés à Tadoussac. Comme l'mâle le plus âgé, il a hérité de ses parents, et il semble qu'il jouissait ses visites à Québec. This portrait of James Rhodes was taken by William Notman in 1871, he would be 52 years old. Some photos in my website have come from the McCord Museum http://www.mccord-museum.qc.ca/scripts/search_results.php?Lang=1&keywords=james+Rhodes%2C+montreal Ce portrait de James Rhodes à 52 ans a été prise par William Notman en 1871. Quelques photos de mon site viennent de le Musée McCord http://www.mccord-museum.qc.ca/scripts/search_results.php?Lang=1&keywords=james+Rhodes%2C+montreal Circa 1885, Col. William Rhodes sharing a drink with his brother Jimmie Circa 1885, Le Colonel William Rhodes partager une bouteille avec son frère Jimmie Circa 1890, with his great-nephew Charlie Rhodes on the gallery at Benmore, Sillery, Quebec (check out the toy) Circa 1890, avec son petit-neveu Charlie Rhodes sur la galerie à Benmore, Sillery, Quebec Census of Canada 1891 James 71, "Gentleman", was living in Quebec with his Brother William, described as "Gentleman Farmer". Recensement du Canada de 1891 James 71, "Gentleman", vivait au Québec avec son frère William, décrit comme "Gentleman Farmer". Census of England 1901 James Rhodes at 81, "Retired Army Captain", is living at Oxford Lodge, Ewell Road, Surbiton, southwest of London, with a housekeeper and her children. Recensement de l'Angleterre 1901 James Rhodes à 81, «capitaine de l'armée retraité ", vit à Oxford Lodge, Ewell Road, Surbiton, sud-ouest de Londres, avec une femme de ménage et de ses enfants. Notice of Death 17 August 1901. His effects totalled £11291 6s 7d! Avis de décès 17 Aout 1901 Ses effets ont atteint £ 11,291 6s 7d!

Col. William Rhodes 1821-1892 Anne Catherine Dunn 1823-1911 Anne Dunn was the grandaughter of Hon.Thomas Dunn (1729-1818, Governor of Lower Canada in the early 1800's) William Rhodes was born at Bramhope Hall in Yorkshire in 1821, the son of William Rhodes 1791-1869 and Ann Smith ?-1827 Above, at Benmore with daughters Below, at Tadoussac with daughters and grandchildren John and Frank Morewood William Rhodes and his brother James At Benmore with daughter Minnie Col. & Mrs Rhodes and family on the lawn at Brynhyfryd about 1880's Family and friends early 1890's in Tadoussac Granny and some of her Grandchildren early 1900's Granny with family and friends about 1907 Biography of Col. William Rhodes from Quebec National Assembly website Né à Bramhope Hall, dans le Yorkshire, en Angleterre, le 29 novembre 1821, fils de William Rhodes, capitaine dans le 19th Lancers, l'ancien 19th Light Dragoons, et d'Ann Smith. Entra dans l'armée britannique en mai 1838, à titre d'enseigne dans le 68th Foot (Durham-Light Infantry); arriva au Canada en août 1841 et servit à Québec d'octobre 1842 à mai 1844. Retourna en Angleterre, mais revint dans la colonie en 1847; cette année-là, quitta les rangs de l'armée avec le grade de capitaine. En 1848, acheta le domaine de Benmore, à Sillery, où il s'établit et s'occupa d'horticulture. Engagé, avec Evan John Price et d'autres, dans l'exploration et l'exploitation minière dans les comtés de Wolfe et de Mégantic, pendant les années 1860. Administrateur de nombreuses compagnies, parmi lesquelles la Banque d'Union du Bas-Canada, dont il avait été l'un des fondateurs, et le Grand Tronc; fut président de la Compagnie d'entrepôt de Québec et de la Compagnie du pont de Québec, qu'il contribua à mettre sur pied, ainsi que des chemins de fer de Québec et Richmond, Québec et Trois-Pistoles, et de la Compagnie du chemin de fer de la rive nord. Élu député de Mégantic en 1854; appuya généralement les réformistes, puis les bleus. Ne s'est pas représenté en 1858. Entra au cabinet Mercier le 7 décembre 1888 en qualité de commissaire de l'Agriculture et de la Colonisation. Élu député libéral de Mégantic à l'Assemblée législative à une élection partielle le 27 décembre 1888. Défait en 1890; démissionna du cabinet le 27 juin. Cofondateur en 1851 de l'Association de la salle musicale de Québec. Président en 1883 et 1884 de la Société de géographie de Québec. Président de la Société d'horticulture; l'un des promoteurs du Mérite agricole, créé en 1890. Juge de paix. Lieutenant-colonel dans la milice, mais connu comme étant le colonel Rhodes. Décédé dans sa résidence de Benmore, à Sillery, le 16 février 1892, à l'âge de 70 ans et 2 mois. Après des obsèques célébrées dans l'église anglicane St. Michael, fut inhumé dans le cimetière Mount Hermon, le 19 février 1892. Avait épousé dans la cathédrale anglicane Holy Trinity, à Québec, le 16 juin 1847, Anne Catherine Dunn, fille de Robert Dunn, qui avait été assistant au cabinet du secrétaire civil, et de Margaret Bell; elle était la petite-fille de Thomas Dunn et de Mathew Bell. Juin 2009 Biography of Col. William Rhodes from Quebec National Assembly website Born in Bramhope Hall , Yorkshire , England, November 29, 1821 , son of William Rhodes , Captain in the 19th Lancers , the former 19th Light Dragoons, and Ann Smith. Entered the British army in May 1838 as an ensign in the 68th Foot ( Durham Light Infantry ) arrived in Canada in August 1841 and served in Quebec from October 1842 to May 1844. Returned to England, but returned to the colony in 1847 and left the ranks of the army with the rank of captain. In 1848, purchased the estate of Benmore, Sillery, where he settled and engaged in horticulture. Engaged with Evan John Price and others in exploration and mining in the counties of Wolfe and Mégantic, during the 1860s. Director of several companies, including the Union Bank of Lower Canada, where he was one of the founders, and the Grand Trunk. President of the Company Warehouse Quebec and Quebec Bridge Company, which he helped to establish, as well as railway Quebec and Richmond, Quebec City and Trois- Pistoles, the Company of the railway on the north shore . Elected MP for Mégantic in 1854, generally supported the reformists and the blues. Was not represented in 1858. Joined the Mercier cabinet December 7, 1888 as Commissioner of Agriculture and Colonization. Elected Liberal MP for Mégantic in the Legislative Assembly in a by-election December 27, 1888. Defeated in 1890 , resigned from the cabinet on June 27. Co-founder in 1851 of the Association of Quebec Music. President in 1883 and 1884 of the Geographical Society of Quebec. President of the Horticultural Society, one of the promoters of Agricultural Merit, created in 1890. Justice of the Peace. Lieutenant- Ccolonel in the militia, but known as Colonel Rhodes. Died at his home in Benmore, Sillery, February 16, 1892, at the age of 70 years and 2 months. After the funeral celebrated in the Anglican Church of St. Michael, was buried in Mount Hermon Cemetery , February 19, 1892. Married in the Anglican Cathedral of the Holy Trinity , Quebec City, June 16, 1847, Catherine Anne Dunn, daughter of Robert Dunn, who had been assistant to the Office of Civil Secretary , and Margaret Bell. She was the granddaughter of Thomas Dunn and Mathew Bell. June 2009 Longer (english) b iography on the Bios Page>> www.tidesoftadoussac.com/tadbios/rhodes%2C-col.-william-and-anne-catherine-(dunn) Col Rhodes made the cover of this magazine in 1998 put out by the National Archives, with an article about William Notman's Hunting Photographs, this one was taken in 1866. Col Rhodes was aquainted with the Canadian Painter Cornelius Krieghoff, in Quebec City, and bought several paintings from him. These paintings passed down through the family. Our family owned one called "Frozen River" which was sold at auction in the 1980's. It is now in the Art Gallery of Ontario in Toronto. Col Rhodes is actually in this painting by Krieghoff. The text at left describes the painting. 29

The RHODES Family Back in time, in England... William Rhodes 1791-1869 and Ann Smith ~1795-1827 Lived at Bramhope Hall, near Leeds, Yorkshire, England. The house no longer exists. Married 1817. Children Caroline 1818, James 1819, Ann 1820, William 1821 , Godfrey 1823, Francis 1825, and then Ann died in 1827. Everybody on the Rhodes family tree is descended from these two. about 1920 These lovely paintings of Ann Smith and William Rhodes are from about 1820, before photography was invented! Thanks to Ainslie Stephen and Lew Evans. These are the PARENTS of William Rhodes (1821-1892) who immigrated to Quebec City, married Anne Dunn, had 9 children, and built the original Brynhyfryd in Tadoussac in 1860. Ann Smith died in 1827, 2 years after her 6th child was born. William lived a further 42 years, and never remarried. He wrote many letters back and forth with son William in Canada, and over 100 letters between them and other family members (between 1836 & 1890) have been compiled (with illustrations & photographs) in a 300 page book! I have printed and distributed about 20 copies, if you would like to get in on the next printing let me know! William (the father) lived in England his whole life, but he did come to Canada once, as he was a military man, and he fought for the British in the War of 1812, mainly in the Eastern Townships/Richelieu River area. He helped Canada stay out of the hands of our southern neighbours! Well done GGGGrandPa! Bramhope is just north of Leeds inEngland 8

TABLE DES MATIÈRES & DATES importantes en bas de cette page search! cherchez! TABLE OF CONTENTS & Key DATES at the bottom of this page DATES TADOUSSAC the oldest photos Maps & Images Hudson's Bay Station Anse à L'Eau Buildings Disappeared Main Street Rue Principale Golf View from High Up Drydock - La Cale Sèche Molson Museum Horses, Buggies and Cars The Dunes Shipwrecks The Old Wooden Wharf Yawls & Small Boats BOATS & SHIPS Canoes,Punts,Rowboats Ferries Ma rina Goelettes Dallaire's Boat Rivière SAGUENAY River Geology Moulins du Saguenay Saguenay Mills Cap a Jack Anchorages Lark Reef, La Toupie Endroits Intéressants 1930's 1950's High Tide Club Charlevoix Crater Houses/Maisons à Tadoussac et Québec Benmore, Quebec Rhodes Cottage Spruce Cliff Radford Fletcher Lilybell Rhodes ART Paintings by Tom Evans RHODES FAMILY Rhodes - Family Tree William Rhodes&Ann Smith William Rhodes & Anne Dunn Uncle James Rhodes Armitage Rhodes Jim Williams Godfrey Rhodes William Rhodes Rhodes Grandchildren EVANS FAMILY Francis Evans EVANS Dean Lewis Evans & May & Emily Bethune Betty and Lewis Evans RUSSELL William Russell & Fanny Eliza Pope CONTACT PAGE At the confluence of the St. Lawrence and Saguenay rivers, Tadoussac and its surrounding area were a meeting place and a crossroads for trade between First Nations people that have been here for 8000 years. These two major waterways enabled European explorers and traders to enter into the continent. Natives traded with Basques whalers and Breton cod fishermen as early as the 14th Century. As he was sailing up the St. Lawrence in 1535, Jacques Cartier was taken aback by the sheer beauty of the area and dropped anchor in the bay to visit. Pierre de Chauvin built a fur-trading post in 1600, the first building in New France. In May of 1603, Samuel de Champlain sealed an alliance between the French and the First Nations near Tadoussac. It was a commercial, military and foundational agreement that would lead to the establishment of Québec City five years later. After having lived off the fur trade, fishing and whaling, and then the forest industry, in 1864 the village built its first hotel to accommodate summer vacationers. Since then, tourism has been the pillar of local and regional socioeconomic life. Please email me more DATES to add to this list 1535 Jacques Cartier discovers the Saguenay Fjord 1600 Construction of a house and establishment of a fur trading post by Pierre de Chauvin 1647&1747 Chapel built 1838 Price Sawmill built 1848 Price Sawmill closed 1859 Hudson's Bay Post closed 1860 Brynhyfryd built 1861 Spruce Cliff built 1861 Molson Beattie house built 1862 Tadalac built 1864 Tadoussac Hotel built 1864 Powel/Bailey House built 1864 Cid's built 1865 Price Row built 1867 Protestant Chapel built 1869 A rudimentary road links Les Escoumins to Tadoussac 1870 Hudson's Bay Post Demolished 1873 (Spring) The Governor General of Canada, the Marquis Dufferin, builds his summer residence in Tadoussac. 1874 Establishment of a salmon fish farm by Samuel Wilmot in the former facilities of William Price at Anse-à-l'Eau. 1885-9 Église de la Sainte-Croix built 1899-1901 Tadoussac Hotel expansion 1912? Wharf built 1914 Piddington built Ivanhoe 1923 Bourgouin & Dumont Fire 1927 A ferry between Baie-Sainte-Catherine and Tadoussac is in service year round 1927 CSL St Lawrence Launched 1928 CSL Tadoussac and Quebec launched 1931 Destruction by fire of Radford House 1932 Destruction by fire of Brynhyfryd, rebuilt the same yea 1932 Maison Molson/Beattie or Noel Brisson built (Moulin Baude) 1936 Windward built 1942 New Hotel Tadoussac built 1942 Maison Chauvin reconstruction 1942 Power Station at Moulin Baude built 1946 Destruction by fire of Église de la Sainte-Croix 1948 Turcot House built 1950 Destruction by fire of the CSL Quebec at the wharf 1966 End of CSL boats 1986 Webster house built À la confluence du Saint-Laurent et de la rivière du Saguenay. Tadoussac et ses proches environs constituaient un lieu de rassemblement et un carrefour d’échanges entre Premières Nations, présentes sur le territoire depuis 8 000 ans. Ces cours d’eau majeurs ont permis aux explorateurs et aux commerçants venus d’Europe de pénétrer le continent. Dès le XIVe siècle, les autochtones ont commercé avec les chasseurs basques de baleines et les pêcheurs bretons de morue. En 1535, alors qu’il remonte le Saint-Laurent, Jacques Cartier est saisi par sa beauté du site et jette l'ancre dans la baie pour le visiter. Pierre de Chauvin y construit un poste de traite de fourrures en 1600, le premier bâtiment de la Nouvelle-France. En mai 1603, Samuel de Champlain scelle tout près de Tadoussac une alliance entre les Français et les peuples autochtones. Il s’agit d’une entente commerciale, militaire et d’établissement qui ouvre la voie à la fondation de Québec cinq ans plus tard. Après avoir vécu du commerce des fourrures, de la pêche et de la chasse à la baleine, puis de l’industrie forestière, c’est en 1864 que le village construit le premier hôtel pour accueillir les villégiateurs estivaux. Depuis, le tourisme constitue un pilier de la vie socioéconomique locale et régionale. S'il vous plaît écrivez-moi plus de DATES à ajouter à cette liste 1535 Jacques Cartier découvre le fjord du Saguenay 1600 Construction d'une maison et établissement d'un poste de traite des fourrures par Pierre de Chauvin 1647&1747 Chapelle construite 1838 Scierie Price construite 1848 Prix Scierie fermée 1859 Fermeture du poste de la Baie d'Hudson 1860 Brynhyfryd construit 1861 Spruce Cliff construite 1861 Maison Molson Beattie construite 1862 Tadalac construit 1864 Tadoussac Hôtel construit 1864 Construction de la maison Powel/Bailey 1864 Cid construit 1865 Price Row construit 1867 Chapelle protestante construite 1869 Une route rudimentaire relie Les Escoumins à Tadoussac 1870 Poste de la Baie d'Hudson démoli 1873 (printemps) Le gouverneur général du Canada, le marquis Dufferin, construit sa résidence d'été à Tadoussac. 1874 Établissement d'une pisciculture de saumon par Samuel Wilmot dans les anciennes installations de William Price à Anse-à-l'Eau. 1885-9 Église de la Sainte-Croix construite 1899-1901 Agrandissement de l'hôtel Tadoussac 1912 ? Quai construite 1914 Piddington construit Ivanhoe 1923 Destruction par le feu Bourgouin & Dumont 1927 Un traversier entre Baie-Sainte-Catherine et Tadoussac est en service à l'année 1927 CSL St Lawrence lancé 1928 CSL Tadoussac and Quebec lancé 1931 Destruction par le feu de Radford House 1932 Destruction par le feu de Brynhyfryd, reconstruit la même année 1932 Maison Molson/Beattie ou Noel Brisson built (Moulin Baude) 1936 Windward construit 1942 Nouvel Hôtel Tadoussac construit 1942 Reconstruction de la Maison Chauvin 1942 Construction de la centrale électrique du Moulin Baude 1946 Destruction par le feu de l'église de la Sainte-Croix 1948 Maison Turcot construite 1950 Destruction par le feu du CSL Québec au quai 1966 Fin des bateaux CSL 1986 Construction de la maison Webster DATES 50

PREVIOUS Windward NEXT PAGE Frank Morewood (1886-1949) and Carrie Rhodes (1881-1973) are both grandchildren of William Rhodes, who built the first Brynhyfryd in Tadoussac in 1860. They both spent summers in Tadoussac with the Rhodes family, in the photo (~1891) below Carrie is 3rd from right, Frank asleep on the right. Frank's family lived at Benmore in Quebec, and Carrie's family lived in Pennsylvania. They married in 1920 and had two children Bill (1921-20??) and Betty (1922-1993), and lived in Bryn Mawr and Doylestown, Pennsylvania. Frank and Carrie Biography www.tidesoftadoussac.com/tadbios/morewood%2C-frank-%26-carrie-(rhodes) Benmore in Quebec www.tidesoftadoussac.com/benmore Frank Morewood (1886-1949) et Carrie Rhodes (1881-1973) sont tous deux des petits-enfants de William Rhodes, qui a construit le premier Brynhyfryd à Tadoussac en 1860. Ils ont tous deux passé des étés à Tadoussac avec la famille Rhodes, sur la photo (~1891) ci-dessous Carrie est 3e à partir de la droite, Frank endormi sur la droite. La famille de Frank vivait à Benmore au Québec et la famille de Carrie vivait en Pennsylvanie. Ils se sont mariés en 1920 et ont eu deux enfants Bill (1921-20 ??) et Betty (1922-1993), et ont vécu à Bryn Mawr et Doylestown, en Pennsylvanie. Frank was an architect and designed a house to be built in Tadoussac in 1936. The location was just east of Brynhyfryd and the Barn, on land that had previously been part of "Dwight Park". The stone entrance which still exists had a wrought iron gate with the name Dwight Park, the gate is in the Molson Museum barns near the lake. Johnathan Dwight died in 1911, and the plaque below sits beside the house. His widow apparently offered the park to the village of Tadoussac, but they refused, so she sold lots to cottagers. In a letter written by Lilybell Rhodes in 1939, there was an interesting note: ...and Mrs. (Johnathan) Dwight were the Tad people present. Mrs. Dwight came up and spoke to me. I would not have known her. She looks so much older (as do we all know doubt). She looked very handsome, but stern and said "you know Frank Morewood has built a house on a bit of my land that he does not yet own". Frank était architecte et a conçu une maison à construire à Tadoussac en 1936. L'emplacement était juste à l'est de Brynhyfryd et de la grange, sur un terrain qui faisait auparavant partie de "Dwight Park". L'entrée en pierre qui existe toujours avait une porte en fer forgé portant le nom de Dwight Park, la porte se trouve dans les granges du musée Molson près du lac. Johnathan Dwight est décédé en 1911 et la plaque ci-dessous se trouve à côté de la maison. Sa veuve aurait offert le parc au village de Tadoussac, mais ceux-ci ont refusé, alors elle a vendu des terrains à des villégiateurs. Dans une lettre écrite par Lilybell Rhodes en 1939, il y avait une note intéressante : ... et Mme (Johnathan) Dwight étaient les personnes Tad présentes. Mme Dwight est venue me parler. Je ne l'aurais pas connue. Elle a l'air tellement plus âgée (comme nous le savons tous en doute). Elle avait l'air très belle, mais sévère et a dit "vous savez que Frank Morewood a construit une maison sur un morceau de ma terre qu'il ne possède pas encore". The photo below shows the bank below the proposed site for the house, just before it was built. The Barn can be seen at upper left. Everyone told the Morewoods they were crazy to build there. Today, 86 years later, the house is 35' from the edge of the bank. The view is terrific. La photo ci-dessous montre la banque sous le site proposé pour la maison, juste avant sa construction. La grange peut être vue en haut à gauche. Tout le monde a dit aux Morewood qu'ils étaient fous de construire là-bas. Aujourd'hui, 86 ans plus tard, la maison est à 35' du bord de la berge. La vue est formidable. The wood arrived on a goélette. The interior of the cottage will be BC Fir. Le bois est arrivé sur une goélette. L'intérieur du chalet sera en sapin de Colombie-Britannique. Painting below by Tom Evans Bundles of cedar shingles for the roof, which lasted over 80 years Peinture ci-dessous par Tom Evans Des paquets de bardeaux de cèdre pour le toit, qui a duré plus de 80 ans right, Carrie Rhodes Morewood below, Frank's mother Minnie Rhodes Morewood Bill Morewood, Ainslie Evans Stephen (hiding), Billy Morewood, Jean Alexander Alan-Parker, Betty Morewood Evans, boys probably Jim Williams and Parkers, Joan Williams Ballantyne, Susan Williams Webster Watercolour by Frank Morewood below Anne and Lewis Evans with grandfather Frank Frank Morewood died in 1949, and the house was passed on to Betty and Lewis Evans for one dollar. We still have the dollar. Frank Morewood est décédé en 1949 et la maison a été transmise à Betty et Lewis Evans pour un dollar. Nous avons toujours le dollar. My parents, Betty and Lewis Evans, were both Tadoussac summer residents, and in 1948, with the deaths of Frank Morewood and Emily Evans, they inherited 2 cottages in Tadoussac. Lewis Evans was a professor, with ample summer holidays, but his family cottage (now the Beattie House) was 80 years old, whereas Windward was on 12 years old, and had better view of Tadoussac Bay so he could keep an eye on his boat! Mes parents, Betty et Lewis Evans, étaient tous deux des résidents d'été de Tadoussac, et en 1948, avec les décès de Frank Morewood et Emily Evans, ils ont hérité de 2 chalets à Tadoussac. Lewis Evans était professeur, avec de nombreuses vacances d'été, mais son chalet familial (maintenant la maison Beattie) avait 80 ans, tandis que Windward avait 12 ans et avait une meilleure vue sur la baie de Tadoussac pour qu'il puisse garder un œil sur son bateau! In 1961 we had an 80th birthday party for Carrie, shown below with Dorothy Rhodes Evans and Anne Evans Belton. Right, Betty and Lewis Evans Circa 1962 we visited Tadoussac at New Year's, at right Lew, Tom, Alan, Anne, the current owners of Windward. Vers 1962, nous avons visité Tadoussac au Nouvel An, à droite Lew, Tom, Alan, Anne, les propriétaires actuels de Windward. Christmas Card Sometimes the shutters were different colours In 1979 two grandchildren had arrived and more were coming, so Betty and Lew built "the Wing", a bedroom and bathroom without all the noise! En 1979, deux petits-enfants étaient arrivés et d'autres arrivaient, alors Betty et Lew ont construit "the Wing", une chambre et une salle de bain sans tout le bruit ! Minke Whale by Tom Evans, only appears in the winter! Minke Whale de Tom Evans, n'apparaît qu'en hiver ! 54 NEXT PAGE

Tadoussac Protestant Church - late 1800's

Wedding picture of Fanny Eliza Pope and William Edward Russell. Quebec City 1874. Their children were Florence Loisa Maud, Willis, Fredercik, Leslie and Mabel Emily. William Edward Russell 1850-1893 & Fanny Eliza Pope NEXT PAGE PREVIOUS Fanny Eliza Pope on a bench in the backyard of Spruce Cliff.

PREVIOUS Mélange - Odds and Ends NEXT PAGE Meteorite hit Charlevoix - 100 million years before the Dinosaurs La météorite a frappé Charlevoix - 100 millions d'années avant les dinosaures The Charlevoix Crater is a large eroded meteorite impact crater. Only part of the crater is exposed at the surface, the rest being covered by the St Lawrence River. The original crater is estimated to have been 54 kilometres (34 mi) in diameter and the age is estimated to be 342 ± 15 million years (Mississippian). The projectile was probably a stony asteroid, at least 2 kilometres (1.2 mi) in diameter, and weighing an estimated 15 billion tonnes. Mont des Éboulements, situated in the exact centre of the crater, is interpreted as the central uplift, a consequence of elastic rebound. The impact origin of Charlevoix crater was first realized in 1965 after the discovery of many shatter cones in the area. Today, 90% of the people of Charlevoix live within this crater. Below, approaching La Malbaie from the east, The hills of Les Eboulements are visible on the horizon, this is the "uplift". Le Cratère de Charlevoix est un grand cratère érodé d'impact de météorite. Seule une partie du cratère est exposée à la surface, le reste étant couvert par le Fleuve St-Laurent. Le cratère d'origine est estimée à 54 km (34 mi) de diamètre et l'âge est estimé à 342 ± 15 millions d'années (Mississippiennes). Le projectile était probablement un astéroïde pierreux, au moins 2 kilomètres (1,2 miles) de diamètre, et pesant environ 15 milliards de tonnes. Mont des Éboulements, situé dans le centre exact du cratère, est interprété comme le soulèvement central, une conséquence de rebond élastique. L'origine de Charlevoix cratère d'impact a été réalisée en 1965 après la découverte de nombreux cônes d'éclatement dans la région. Aujourd'hui, 90% des gens de Charlevoix vivent dans ce cratère. Ci-dessous, l'approche de La Malbaie de l'est, les collines des Éboulements sont visibles à l'horizon, c'est le « soulèvement ». The High Tide Club This "club" is easy to join and has many members. You may be a member without knowing it. All you have to do, is look at a tide table and figure out when the biggest high tide in a cycle is, then go somewhere and observe the tide. This leads to comments like "wow, look how high the tide is!" The club was created by Alan Evans, who has done this many times. He even went to Passe Pierre once at night to observe the highest tide. A good time to enjoy the high tide is the twice annual drydock event, when the boats leave the drydock in the spring and return in the fall. This event usually happens at night, and is a good excuse for a big party in the drydock. It always coincides with the highest tides so the water is as deep as possible. Technical Note: The highest tides occur just after the full and new moons, when the alignment of the sun, earth and moon maximizes the sloshing effect that causes the tides. The high tide can be enhanced by a storm. The low pressure of the air actually results in higher water levels. Easterly winds push the water up the St Lawrence, raising water levels. The combined effect is called a storm surge, and can result in water levels much higher that expected. Unfortunately the biggest high tides in the summer occur at night, but at other times of the year they can occur in the daytime. La Club Marée Haute Ce «club» est facile à rejoindre et a plusieurs membres. Vous pouvez être un membre sans le savoir. Tout ce que vous avez à faire , c'est de regarder une table des marées et de comprendre quand la plus grande marée haute dans un cycle, puis aller quelque part et observer la marée. Cela conduit à des commentaires comme "wow, regardez la hauteur de la marée! "Le club a été créé par Alan Evans , qui a fait à de nombreuses reprises . Il est même allé Passe Pierre une fois la nuit pour observer la plus haute marée .Un bon moment pour profiter de la marée haute est l'événement annuel de la cale sèche, quand les bateaux quittent la cale sèche au printemps et le retour à l'automne. Cet événement se produit généralement la nuit, et est une bonne excuse pour une grande fête dans la cale sèche. Il coïncide toujours avec les plus hautes marées afin que l'eau est aussi profond que possible. Note technique: Les plus hautes marées coïncident avec les lunes pleines et nouvelles, lorsque l'alignement du soleil, de la terre et de la lune maximise l'effet de ballottement qui provoque les marées. La marée haute peut être améliorée par une tempête. La faible pression de l'air résulte en fait des niveaux d'eau plus élevés. Les vents d'est poussent l'eau vers le haut Saint-Laurent, ce qui soulève des niveaux d'eau . L'effet combiné est appelé une onde de tempête , et peut entraîner des niveaux d'eau beaucoup plus élevés que prévu. Malheureusement, les plus grandes marées élevées en été se produisent la nuit, mais à d'autres moments de l'année ils peuvent se produire dans la journée . November 2011 One of the highest tides ever seen in Tadoussac, the water flowed over the road by the boathouse and down into the drydock! Photos by Paulin Hovington. L'une des plus hautes marées jamais vu aTadoussac, l'eau coulait sur la route par le hangar à bateaux et descendre dans la cale sèche! What is that chunk of concrete and steel on the beach just beyond Pointe Rouge? It doesn't look like it could have drifted in on the tide! Photo by David Evans Quel est ce morceau de béton et d'acier sur la plage juste au-delà de la Pointe Rouge? Il ne semble pas que cela pourrait avoir dérivé dans la marée! from Patrick R. O'Neill: Actual story of concrete berm: Many years ago, when the current lighthouse was being built on Prince's Shoal, there was a need for gravel to stabilize the structure on the river bed. The idea was that gravel could be brought down from the gravel pit and loaded on to barges moored off Pointe Rouge. The berm was placed where it now sits by the contractor so that a bulldozer could be offloaded from a barge and made to climb up the incline to the top of Pointe Rouge. The berm was placed at the foot of a sand path from the beach to the first plateau. This hope proved false as the incline was too steep for a bulldozer. The idea was abandoned in favour of trucking the gravel from the quarry down to the CSL wharf, where it was dumped into barges. (That was a noisy and dusty summer as the rocks tumbled down steel chutes from the wharf to the barges!). The berm was not removed after the failure of the experiment, and it marks the amount of beach erosion that has occurred over the past 50 years. Just imagine how much sand has washed away from the hill to leave the berm so alone on the beach! My mother told me this story. de Patrick R. O'Neill : Histoire réelle de la berme en béton : Il ya plusieurs années , lorsque le phare actuel a été construit sur Shoal du Prince , il y avait un besoin de gravier pour stabiliser la structure sur le lit de la rivière . L'idée était que le gravier pourrait être ramené de la gravière et chargé sur des barges amarrées au large de Pointe Rouge . La berme a été placé là où il se trouve maintenant par l'entrepreneur afin qu'un bulldozer peut être déchargé à partir d'une barge et fait monter la pente au sommet de la Pointe Rouge . La berme a été placé au pied d'un chemin de sable de la plage pour le premier plateau . Cet espoir s'est révélé faux que la pente était trop raide pour un bulldozer . L'idée a été abandonnée au profit du camionnage gravier de la carrière au quai de CSL , où il a été jeté dans des barges . ( C'était un été bruyant et poussiéreux comme les roches dégringolaient chutes d'acier du quai pour les péniches ! ) .La berme n'a pas été retiré après l'échec de l'expérience, et il marque le montant de l'érosion de la plage qui a eu lieu au cours des 50 dernières années . Imaginez la quantité de sable a emporté de la colline de quitter la berme donc seul sur la plage ! Ma mère m'a raconté cette histoire . The sand comes and goes! 2016 Le sable vient et va! 2016 NEXT PAGE

PREVIOUS WELCOME/BIENVENUE to/à Tides of Tadoussac/ Marées de Tadoussac Please send me an email and tell me you saw the site! Tom Evans tomfevans@icloud.com This site is going to be a home for historic photographs of Tadoussac. Our ancestors came to Tadoussac in the mid-1800's and built a summer house in 1861. Over the years many other houses were built, and the families came to Tadoussac every year. They took many photographs, and together these photos illustrate the social history of the community. I'd like to thank all the people who have shown me their photographs! If you have photos or other historic material you would like to contribute, or any corrections to the information here, I'd love to hear from you! I copy the photos by taking pictures of them with a digital camera, it's fast and easy and non-destructive. If other people contribute to this site it could expand fast! So far I have collected almost 5000 photographs, there are over 1000 in the site, lots of work to do! But it is a pleasure to make these Materials available for everyone to see! I have added French using Google Translate, I apologize if it doesn't always make sense, please send corrections! Faites moi parvenir vos suggestions, vos documents, vos corrections ou vos commentaires à :Tom Evans (tomfevans@icloud.com ) Merci d’avance Ce site est destiné à recueillir des photos historiques de Tadoussac. Nos ancêtres sont venus à Tadoussac au milieu des années 1800 et y ont construit une résidence d’été en 1861. Au fil des années de nombreuses autres résidences ont aussi été construites et d’autres familles sont venues, chaque année, passer l’été à Tadoussac. Beaucoup de photos ont été prises. L’ensemble de ces images raconte l’histoire et la vie de notre communauté. Je tiens à remercier les personnes qui m’ont montré et prêté leurs photos ! Si vous en avez vous-mêmes ou possédez d’autres documents d’intérêt historique ; si vous désirez contribuer à la réalisation de cette «vitrine historique» sur Tadoussac ou si vous désirez faire des corrections aux renseignements qu’elle contient ; il me fera grand plaisir de les accueillir. About 1905 on the Terrien Yacht on the Saguenay - back - Frank Morewood, Bob Campbell (who is he?), Bobby Morewood, his mother Minnie Morewood, Kate VanIffland second wife of Armitage Rhodes. Middle - Sidney Williams and Billy Morewood, Nan Rhodes Williams and Lennox Williams. Front - Charlie Rhodes, ?, Nancy Morewood and Mary Williams Wallace. A l'époque 1905 sur le Yacht Terrien sur le Saguenay Note! 3 young people in the front row have cameras! ! 3 jeunes dans la première rangée ont des caméras! Mid 1860's. The old Hudson's Bay Post on the right, the back of the original Hotel, at the far left can be seen the 5 Price staff houses (they were all the same then, l to r Cote House, Ida's, Hovington's, Stairs', gap where the rectory is now, Beattie's). Also Spruce Cliff (behind trees) and old Brynhyfryd at the top of the bluff, no Barn or beyond. Dufferin House not built yet, the steeple of the old church is just visible above the hotel. Lots of landslides on the bank! Not many trees on the hills! Milieu des années 1860. Bay Post de la vieille Hudson sur la droite, à l'arrière de l'Hôtel original, à l'extrême gauche on peut voir les cinq maisons du personnel Price (ils étaient tous les mêmes; de gauche à droite Maison Cote, Chez Ida, Hovington, Stairs, écart où le presbytère est maintenant, Beattie). Aussi Spruce Cliff (derrière les arbres) et ancien Brynhyfryd au sommet de la falaise, aucune Barn ou au-delà. Maison Dufferin pas encore construite, le clocher de l'ancienne église est à peine visible au-dessus de l'hôtel. Beaucoup de glissements de terrain sur la rive! Pas beaucoup d'arbres sur les collines! Please send me an email. Comments, Corrections, Improvements, Additions, Photos, anything! Welcome Tom Evans 13 Rue Pc Languedoc CP 176 Tadoussac Qc G0T2A0 200 Clearview Ave #2730 Ottawa ON K1Z8M2 tomfevans@icloud.com Tides of Tadoussac seemed the obvious name for the website, being the name of the book my dad (Lewis Evans) wrote about Tadoussac. We have copies if you want one

View from High Up Vue d'en haut Circa 1880 Circa 1880 Circa 1895 Circa 1895 Circa 1900 Circa 1930 Circa 1935 Circa 1940 Circa 1945 The Church is gone L'église a disparu Circa 1947 Circa 1950 Circa 1965 Two interesting close-ups Both late 1800's Road behind Cid's going down into the gully And a house overlooking the lake Deux gros plans intéressants À la fin des années 1800 Route derrière Cid va descendre dans le ravin Et une maison surplombant le lac

Été à Tadoussac Summer 1920-1940 NEXT PAGE PREVIOUS Mnay photos that I have collected from the summer community in Tadoussac are from the 1920's and 1930's. This was a time when many of our parents and grandparents were young and were lucky enough to enjoy summers in Tadoussac. They did many of the same activities that we do today, but they certainly wore different clothes! I hope it will give you a feel for what it was like to grow up in the summer community in those days. You may recognize some of the people! This is LONG, take your time! Seven Pages Please let me know what you think, or if you have corrections, or additions! Beaucoup de photos que je l'ai recueillies auprès de la communauté d'été à Tadoussac sont des années 1920 et 1930. Ce fut un temps où beaucoup de nos parents et grands-parents étaient jeunes et ont eu la chance de profiter des étés à Tadoussac. Ils ont fait un grand nombre des mêmes activités que nous faisons aujourd'hui, mais ils portaient des vêtements différents! Je l'espère, il vous donnera une idée de ce qu'elle était de grandir dans la communauté d'été dans ces jours. Vous pouvez reconnaître certaines des personnes! Cela est longue, prenez votre temps! 7 chapitres S'il vous plaît laissez-moi savoir ce que vous pensez, ou si vous avez des corrections ou des ajouts! First Page Première Page The Village of Tadoussac La ville de Tadoussac Travel by Car?? Voyage en Voiture?? Travel by Steamer Voyage par Steamer Second Page Deuxième Page The Summer Cottages Les Chalets d'été Third Page Troisième Page Picnics and the Beaches Pique-nique et les Plages Fourth Page Quatrième Page Meeting the Boat Rencontrer le Bateau Fifth Page Cinquième Page Saguenay Trips Des excursions sur le Saguenay Sixth Page Sixième Page Sports Sports Seventh Page Septième Page (More) Faces of Tadoussac (Plus) Visages de Tadoussac PREVIOUS NEXT PAGE

R. Lewis Evans was an English Teacher who loved to write. Although his books are quite well-known, his short stories and articles belong mostly to the more distant past. It was during the 1940s and 1950s that magazine short stories were popular and sought after and Dad wrote over 20 of them. Most were published, and many are of interest especially to those of us who know and love the Lower St. Lawrence and Saguenay areas of Quebec, so I decided to get them out of the file and onto the web-site where they can be read once again. I've divided the stories into categories. While he wrote mostly river stories about the Tadoussac area, including some historical fiction, he also wrote 6 stories about World War II (4 of which overlap with our beloved river), and a number of odd inspirations, one biblical, several inspired by newspaper items, and even one (gasp!) Science Fiction. There are also some non-fiction articles which will be coming along later in the year. I love them all partly because he wrote about what he loved and I love it too, but partly because his characters are thoughtful, compassionate and real. I've included a few notes that he kept in the file. Some are news articles he drew his ideas from; others are comments he received from editors either printed in the magazine or sent along to him separately. I've also tried to reproduce the illustrations, duly credited, as all the stories that published were supported by visual art. Only one, Casual Enemy, has no illustrator mentioned. My guess is he drew that one himself. I've read all these stories several times in my efforts to get them up onto the web-site correctly and I've never tired of them. I hope you enjoy them. A fair warning: some readers might recognize a few people! Alan Evans NEXT PAGE R Lewis Evans War Stories Casual Enemy (As Published in “Boating Magazine”, Vol. 18, no. 3, April, 1942) by Lewis Evans PIERRE TREMBLAY put down his pipe and listened. The hollow chug of a diesel engine had suddenly broken the silence of the bay as some craft rounded the steep headland at its outer end. “No running lights,” the old French-Canadian murmured to himself, and then he smiled at his own comment, for his own little work boat, anchored close under the rugged hillside near the head of the bay, carried no riding light. The bays off the Saguenay River are deep—thirty to a hundred fathoms; small craft have to anchor close to shore in order to find bottom, and lights of any kind attract mosquitoes from the woods. The jarring clang of a bell slowed the engines of the incoming craft, and Pierre sat back and drew on his pipe again. She was the “Phantome”. He knew that engine bell—it had been cracked for years. The “Phantome” was a diesel-engined coaster with a shady history. Five years ago, meeting her under the same conditions, Pierre would have known that she was bootlegging cheap French liquor from St. Pierre and Miquelon in the Gulf of St. Lawrence to the dry counties up river. Not much money in that game now, though, and the “Phantome” had been out of it since her crew had had to jettison a cargo worth well over a thousand dollars, and the pursuing government patrol boat had just enough evidence to get Xavier Bouchard, the “Phantome’s” captain and Pierre’s sister’s son, two years in the Quebec jail. Well, he hoped that Xavier was up to nothing that might get him into trouble again. That jail sentence had nearly broken his mother’s heart, for she was a gentle and pious woman. Perhaps he was netting salmon—that would get him a fat fine if he were caught, but the government boats were too busy trying to keep the St. Lawrence free from German submarines these days to worry about coasting vessels breaking the Fish and Game Laws. Only a week ago a freighter had been torpedoed out in the Gulf, not so very many miles from the Saguenay. Two patrol boats had already claimed the destruction of the submarine. Why couldn’t Xavier get some honest work, and save Marie, his mother, the anxiety which was making her old before her time? Honest work was to be had easily enough these days, though Pierre himself was not too sure what kind of a job he could pick up now that this work on the fish-hatchery dam was over. His had been the supply boat for that—a government project to build a salmon hatchery on the stream that emptied into the bay. Today the dam had been finished, the gang had been taken out by launch, and Pierre’s boat was loaded with shovels and picks, unused food stores, cement and dynamite. Ah well—he’d get something to do. There was work going on aboard the “Phantome” — sounded like heavy oil drums being rolled along the deck. Surely they would not be shifting their cargo at this time of night. Still no lights, and only occasionally came a subdued order. Pierre could see nothing — bateme, but the night was a black one. Then came the louder rumble of oil drums — empty ones. Pierre suddenly stood up and peered into the darkness. Surely Xavier could not be such a fool . . . but still, the St. Lawrence was a long way from Germany, and diesel engines needed fuel oil, and Xavier had always liked easy money . . . Quietly Pierre hauled in the painter of the ten-foot flat-bottomed boat that served him as tender. As he eased himself aboard he remembered to leave his pipe behind — the dynamite was stowed in the tender for safety’s sake. Two stealthy strokes with a paddle moved him away from his boat. The tide had begun to rise and a slight current set round the bay, drifting him towards the “Phantome”. At last he could make out the shape of the coaster, her stump mast, and the wheelhouse at her stern dimly silhouetted against the mouth of the bay. Pierre peered at her waterline . . . was there? . . . yes — a long, low, shelving shape protruded astern of the coaster. The submarine lay on the far side of the “Phantome”. Pierre worked his boat back against the tide, which was running more strongly now, and almost bumped his work boat before he saw it. He got aboard and sat down, holding the tender’s painter. Poor Marie — what would she do if Xavier got into trouble for this piece of work? And this might be only the first of many refueling episodes. Straightening up with decision, Pierre hauled his tender to that side of his boat farther from the “Phantome”. Leaning over, he worked fast. Once he paused to peer at the position of the coaster, once to dip his hand into the current slipping past the side of his boat, testing its strength. He rummaged in the cockpit and came up with a large reel of cod line, one end of which he secured to the tender. Leaning over the smaller boat and opening his coat wide as a shield, he struck a match. An end of fuse lay in the bottom; he lighted it and doused the match quickly. Manoeuvring the tender round the stern of his boat, he felt to make sure that the cod-line was not snarled, and then gave the tender a long, gentle push towards the “Phantome”. Sitting down, he carefully paid out the line as the little craft, in the grip of the tide, asked for it. The rumble of oil drums on the “Phantome” had ceased, and now came a clanking. She was weighing anchor. Pierre gave his tender more slack and felt her take it up. Slowly the coaster’s anchor chain clanked inboard, and her engine was started up. So much of the cod-line was now in the water that Pierre could not feel a definite pull from the tender, but he went on giving slack. The cracked engine bell jangled aboard the “Phantome”, and her propeller kicked ahead slowly. The clanking of the chain had ceased. Pierre found that the end of the cod-line was in his hand. Knowing the length of the line, and praying that his judgement of distance was right, he pulled in a fathom or two, and crouched in the cockpit. Suddenly there was a hoarse shout in the darkness — the tender had been seen. Pierre tensed, gripping the cockpit coaming. Then a flash lit the bay — lit up for a second the silver streak of the submarine stretching forward from the flash, three figures on the deck frozen in their movement, and the “Phantome” clear of the submarine and heading out of the bay. Pitch darkness blinded Pierre; a scrap of wood clattered into the cockpit beside him — of the tender’s gunwale, by the feel of it; his ears, deafened by the blast, heard dimly confused shouts and the hurried thump of the “Phantome’s” motor as she fled out of the bay. The old man, trembling a little, hauled up his anchor and started his motor. Expecting a fusillade of rifle shots at the very least, he zig-zagged along close to shore, heading for the open. No shots followed him, and he rounded the headland and dropped his hook in the next bay down the river. On such a night that explosion should have been heard in Tadoussac, two miles away at the mouth of the Saguenay. If so surely the patrol boat based there would investigate. Not long afterwards he heard the drone of the patrol boat. It swept up the Saguenay towards him, its searchlight probing. Pierre hastily lighted his running lights and got under way back towards the bay. The patrol boat caught up to him just off the headland. Pierre pointed towards the bay and was left rocking in the wake of the grey launch. By the time he had rounded the head the patrol boat was almost alongside the submarine, her searchlight and gun trained on it. There was no resistance, however, for the submarine was submerged and aground at the stern, her bow protruding from the surface at a sharp angle, her crew clinging to the deck. Apparently the blast had occurred near the stern, which had gone down, while the forward part of the hull remained buoyant. Pierre drifted up to the patrol boat. “What do you know about this?” demanded the Naval Reserve Lieutenant in command. Pierre explained, partly in French and partly in broken English, with expressive gestures, but not mentioning the “Phantome”, which by now should be far up the Saguenay, frightened to death but above suspicion. The Lieutenant expressed his amazement profanely, and added: “Meet us in Tadoussac. The government will be very grateful . . .” Marie would be grateful too, if she knew, thought Pierre. “And we'll get you a new tender and some more dynamite,” went on the officer. “Oh, the dynamite — it belonged to the government anyway,” said Pierre. The End He heard a yell and the sound of quick movement from the pit as he swooped towards it and tossed the grenade Monte Cassino Downhill (Published in The Montreal Standard, Spring of 1944) Lieutenant Johnny Martin takes a long chance on a tricky slope by Lewis Evans ILLUSTRATED BY GEOFFREY TRAUNTER TO USE his own expression, Lieutenant Johnny Martin was skunked. He crouched and shivered in the hole he had scooped in the snowdrift under a stunted bush and mentally compared it with what the Americans called foxholes in the Pacific battle zones. The only fox that might condescend to call this "home,” thought Johnny, would be an Arctic fox. The miserable shelter in which he crouched was on the southwest shoulder of Monte Cassino, and below him was the valley in which lay one of the main roads to Rome, the valley up which units of the Fifth Army were advancing towards the town of Cassino. Johnny could see the road down there, about a thousand feet below him, and the gaps in it where the retreating Germans had blown up the culverts. He could see the railway line, too, with the twisted girders of a steel bridge sagging into a small river; the Fortresses had fixed that, in a precision daylight attack weeks ago. The slopes on which he lay, and all the other mountains in that jumble of southern spurs of the Appenines, were deep in snow on their summits but on the lower contours the snow became patchy, and down in the valleys mud reigned supreme. The regiment would be wallowing in it as usual, Johnny thought. The Italian weather had been horribly wet for weeks, and turning cold in December had resulted in the unusual amount of snow on the mountains. Well, he thought, at least his snowdrift, if cold, was cleaner than the mud down in the valley. Opposite him to his left were the slopes of a smaller valley running into the main one, and that was where his regiment was. His problem was to rejoin them. The considerable obstacle directly in his way was a small sector of the German defenses, consisting of a machine-gun nest in the lee of a knoll about halfway down the shoulder of the floor of this minor valley. In front of the nest and below the knoll stretched a mare’s nest of barbed wire, protecting the gunners from a frontal charge. Their field of fire covered the lower slopes of the mountain, where the snow gave way to grass and mud. Monte Cassino had been causing the Allies plenty of worry as they hammered their way through ancient Campania. It was crowned by the huge monastery which had been founded by St. Benedict in the year 529, but that historical fact held little interest for the men whose job it was to rid the mountain of Germans. They hoped that the monks had had the sense to clear out before their mountain became a military objective, and wanted desperately to know if the Germans had established any form of artillery in or near the monastery or the ruined castle just below the two valleys and could break up any advance in force towards Cassino. Air reconnaissance had failed to reveal any gun sites, but the two buildings afforded such opportunities for concealment that the risk of advancing without further information was too great—hence Lieutenant Martin’s uncomfortable presence on the mountain and on the wrong side of the remnants of the German rearguard. JOHNNY had been amongst the Canadians who had qualified as paratroopers at an American training camp early in the war, and last night he had been dropped onto the slopes of Monte Cassino from an ugly Lysander Army Reconnaissance aircraft. In the gray December dawn he had scrambled up and onto the monastery courtyard to find the snow lying clean and untracked, and the great stone well standing in the middle as it had stood through the centuries of war and peace. Then he had slithered down to the ruined castle and satisfied himself that the Germans had established no artillery in either place. Possibly, Johnny thought, they considered the buildings to obvious, too likely to be bombed flat by Allied planes. Into the first rays of the morning sun as it rose behind the Allied armies Lieutenant Martin had flashed the pre-arranged signal which told the watchers that the buildings hid nothing of military importance, and then he had started for home. Worming his way down the shoulder he had seen the machine-gun post. He had expected something of the sort somewhere, and after reconnoitering enough to find that there were other similar nests on other parts of the lower slopes which the advancing troops would probably have to silence by mortar fire, he decided that his only chance was to wait until dark or until the Allied advance had cleared the enemy from their positions. So he lay and shivered, and considered the terrain below him. As the hours crawled by the sun warmed him a little, and the surface of the snow melted. Like spring snow in the Laurentians, thought Johnny, and his memory conjured up visions of Hill 70 at St. Sauveur, and beer and singing in the pub at night, and ski races against Dartmouth, and the Quebec Kandahar on Mont Tremblant, in the days when he was a Red Bird and used to ski for McGill. He thought of standing on the brow of Hill 70 in the cold brightness of a Sunday morning and watching the Montreal train, looking ridiculously small from where he stood, pulling into the station, and the unbelievable number of skiers who poured out of it and fanned out towards their favorite hills. From the stationary locomotive a great white plume of steam would go up like a huge mushroom, and yet he would be looking down on its top, just as he was looking down on this valley and the occasional mushroom of smoke from a bursting shell as some German gunners far up the main road searched for the Allied advance units. SUDDENLY Johnny’s gaze centred on a movement halfway down the slope and well to the right of the machine-gun post. Working round the shoulder of the hill was a man in the white parka of a ski-trooper, and to Johnny’s incredulous eyes he appeared to be on skis. He had apparently come from the steep zigzag road which connected the monastery with the valley below, and where another of the enemy outposts was. From his actions as he traversed the hillside he appeared to be carrying a load, and Johnny figured it must be ammunition or food for the post directly below. His surprise diminished as he realized that the man would hardly dare approach the post in daylight without that white protection, for a field uniform would be seen against the snowy slope from the other side of the valley. Perhaps the Germans had some mountain-trained and equipped regiments here. Their organization was supposed to be efficient and controlled by such inflexible rules that they might easily have sent skis with troops who were to fight in mountainous country even if the mountains were in Southern Italy. The skier moved on and eventually came to the post, stooped to undo his harness, and then dropped out of sight over the lip of the emplacement. Johnny’s thoughts ran on the subject of skis and skiing. Looking down over the machine-gun nest by the knoll and its protecting wire, he idly wondered whether a good skier taking off from the knoll could clear that wire below it. It might be possible, he figured, as the lower face of the knoll was cutaway steeply and the wire ran close under the face. The landing would be too flat for comfort, he thought, but one could hardly expect a natural jump to have everything. If he had some skis he could wait for night and the moon, which was strong, and then run straight for the knoll, lob a grenade into the nest as he passed, and hope that his speed would take him clear of the wire before he landed. If the grenade did its job and if no other machine- gun covered that field of fire — and he had seen no other post close enough to do so — he might ski on down to the snow-line and find cover and perhaps his own advancing units beyond that. Oh, well — what was the use of wishing? — but it seemed silly that after volunteering for a special ski course and being bored to death learning to “bear-walk” and do the “crawl” all over the snowy flats of Petawawa he should need a pair of skis in Southern Italy, of all places. The sun was sloping westwards toward the Mediterranean, and the air was getting colder. Johnny Martin thought of the long night on the mountain – he did not dare seek shelter in the monastery or the old castle as some of the Germans might have the same idea. Another twelve hours before he could reasonably expect his friends to attack – Johnny shuddered. “If I stay here all night,” he said to himself with a smile that was a bit grim, “I shall probably wake up in the morning with a very bad cold in the head – if I wake up. And if the attack doesn't drive those Germans away, or if we don't attack at dawn, I may have to stay on and on.” Anything was better than that, he thought. If that fellow in the parka would start back, and if he could get his skis. . . Johnny got out his large scale map. There was Monte Cassino, there was the winding road from the monastery to the valley, and there was the contour line followed by the skier from the road to the macine-gun emplacement. Johnny's finger followed along the contour line and stopped where it swung deeply in towards the mountain and out again. That must be a stream or stream-bed seaming the slope, he knew. If he could meet the skier in that gully they would be invisible from anywhere but directly above or below; they would be, as it were, in a fold in the ground. JOHNNY MARTIN got going. He wriggled out of his foxhole, and keeping the height of the drift between him and the post below he crawled up the shoulder towards the ruined castle, and then bore to the left towards the upper end of the gully. He reached it and slithered into it. It was just what he had expected – a rocky stream-bed with a trickle of water from the day's melting, a trickle that would be a torrent if the weather warmed up a little. Johnny scrambled down it till he came to the tracks made by the skier crossing the gully on the way to the post, and then he crouched by a rock a little uphill from the tracks and where he could see them disappear around the shoulder of the slope. The sun had gone, and visibility was being cut down to a few yards, until at around nine o'clock the rising moon should increase it considerably. Finally Johnny heard the indescribable sound of skis over snow, and a figure loomed against the sky-line. The Canadian gripped the icy butt of his automatic and tensed himself for a spring. The skier slid into the gully, lost his balance as his ski tips hit the opposite slope, and crashed with a grunt. He grunted once more – a grunt of surprise – as Johnny jumped on him and slugged at his head with the heavy gun. Johnny struggled to strip off the man's parka and heard it rip as at last it came away. Then he freed the skis and picked them up, together with the single ski-pole the German had been using, and started climbing up the gully with his spoil. Back in his shelter in the drift Johnny waited while the moon cleared the silvery summits of the distant hills. His plan was a chancy one, he knew, but he could not face any more hours in the damp cold and inactivity. WAITING for the moonrise he adjusted the leather harness to fit his boots, and his thoughts went back to cable bindings and long arguments before log-fires on the merits of super-diagonal and other down-hill devices. “'The time has come,' the Walrus said . . .” murmured Johnny and stretched himself flat on his skis. Using his hands and feet as a seal uses its flippers he slowly and cautiously tobogganed down the slope as far as he dared. There was a bush a hundred yards or so above the emplacement, and there he stopped. Beyond was the clear, steep ground, ground bathed in moonlight where he would be spotted if he tried to sneak across, then the knoll with the shadow of the weapon pit to one side of it, and dimly seen below the knoll was the tangle of wire. Crouching, Johnny got his feet into the harness and produced his two grenades from under his parka. One he left on the ground by the bush – he would only have time to use one, and he didn't like the idea of taking a mighty tumble with enough explosive on his person to blow him to bits, safe though grenades were supposed to be until the pin was out. Slowly he straightened up and launched himself forward. His skis gathered way, and for a moment his mind flipped back to a mad moonlight race on Mount Baldy one March long ago – then he was checking with a forced stem in the yielding snow and pulling the pin from the grenade. His skis came parallel again and he heard a yell and the sound of a quick movement from the pit as he swooped towards it and tossed the grenade in. Then he was on the knoll with his knees bent deep, snapping straight as he crossed the lip of the mound, and he had a blurred impression of white ground surging up at him and a roar from behind him. His skis hit the snow and he wavered, steadied, hit a bump and crashed with a cracking sound that he hoped was breaking skis, not rifle fire. He struggled up to find one ski intact and the other broken off short behind his foot. On he plunged towards the darkness of the valley, trying to keep most of his weight on the unbroken ski. A clump of bushes loomed up and he swung round it in a forward leaning turn that would have been appreciated on the Taschereau run, only to see a great patch of snowless ground beyond it. He tried to stop but his skis bit the earth, and he somersaulted madly. In the first roll his head hit a chunk of half-frozen turf and he was unconscious as he hurtled into a depression in the ground where a very large Canadian sergeant and two men with evil designs upon the German machine-gun nest were setting up a mortar. EVER since dark the sergeant had been heaving his bulk forward from cover to cover to get within range of that emplacement. To have his prospective target blow up for no good reason at all was one thing, he thought, but to have a one hundred and eighty pound unconscious lieutenant impinge on his stomach at that time of night was something else again. Johnny Martin came to dizzily to hear the sergeant emphatically muttering what seemed to be a prayer – except that the words were in quite the wrong order. The End NOTE: It was the following article in the February 7th, 1944 edition of the Globe and Mail newspaper which gave Dad the idea for this story. The (fuzzy and difficult to read despite my best efforts) original is included below. Germans Shell Abbey Housing Own Troops Montecassino Monastery (arrow) high above the town of Cassino, was founded by St. Benedict in 529, on the site of ancient Temple of Apollo. By C. L. SULZBERGER - New York Times Special to The Globe and Mail. Copyright With the 5th Army in Italy, Feb. 5 (Delayed).—German artillery, for some peculiar and perverse reason, today shelled the famous old monastery atop Monte Cassino where the Benedictine Order was born, although there is every reason to believe some of their own troops were within the vast abbey which the enemy is believed using as an observation post. Shortly after 3 p.m. this correspondent happened to be looking at the historic landmark above the lacerated town of the same name, where American troops are slowly battling their way forward in vicious street fighting, when geysers of smoke billowed from the abbey, standing out clearly in the crisp, bright atmosphere. As the smoke drifted southward in huge clouds, careful scrutinizing through binoculars revealed no visible damage. In order to ascertain the reasons for this extraordinary event, since Lt.-Gen. Mark W. Clark has issued strictest orders to his army not to fire on the abbey or any other papal property or a series of specified clerical buildings unless it is a question of the most vital military necessity, the writer made a careful inquiry among American artillery officers. Major A. J. Peterson, Minneapolis, Minn., who observed the same bursts and then inquired of various artillery observation outposts in the immediate vicinity of the monastery, said: “We could identify the shell bursts. There was one direct hit on top of the abbey. Our observers were able to plot the direction of the shells. They came from the north, in the Atinia region, and from the northwest which areas are in enemy hands.” Meanwhile, further evidence of Nazi violation of those few courtesies remaining in modern warfare was received when a French prisoner who escaped last night informed Allied authorities the Germans were forcing British, American and French captives to carry ammunition and dig positions in the Cassino vicinity. These prisoners are forced to labor under the shellfire of Allied guns, and there have been casualties among them. The Frenchman escaped during the night in the confusion following an especially heavy Allied barrage on Cassino positions still held by the Germans. He said that to the best of his knowledge, 12 Englishmen, six Americans, and two Frenchmen still remained with the enemy as prisoners in his group, doing forced labor under fire. Of Assistance to the Enemy (Published in the Montreal Standard, Date unknown) By Lewis Evans ILLUSTRATED BY BEN TURNER “AND SO,’’ concluded the announcer who was summarizing the news in French over Radio Rimouski that night, “of the ten German long-range bombers which made an attempt at five o’clock this morning to destroy the great dams at the head of the Saguenay River, seven were brought down by interceptor aircraft from Bagotville and Mont Joli before they reached their objective, one dropped its bomb load harmlessly into the waters of Lake St. John and was brought down by anti-aircraft fire, and the remaining two fled south from the fighters towards the St. Lawrence, jettisoning their bombs over uninhabited parts of the Laurentians. The crews of these two bombers are believed to have bailed out over the north shore of the St. Lawrence, as their aircraft were observed to crash in the river some miles off-shore. These men are being sought by military units and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. So ended the first enemy attempt to do to a Canadian industrial centre what the British succeeded in doing to the Mohne and Eder dams in Germany some time ago.” Old Captain Tremblay switched off the radio in the cabin of the coasting schooner St. Casimir, tied up at the wharf in Ste. Catherine’s Bay at the mouth of the Saguenay, and listened for a few moments to the comments of his companions as they continued their late meal. Outside, rain had come up on the rising east wind, and the three French-Canadians who formed his crew did not hurry over their food. They were in no haste to return to the rain-swept wharf and get on with the job of loading the St. Casimir with pulp logs. The Captain reached for his battered green-covered copy of “The St. Lawrence River Pilot” and turned to the chapter that dealt with the mouth of the Saguenay and the waters of the St. Lawrence in that vicinity, for he and his ship usually plied farther upstream, and his present route was not a familiar one. With his finger on the place he looked up. "Get going,” he ordered. “About twelve more cords to load. Tide’s full now. so the sooner we can sail the better — the ebb will be in our favor, and I don’t want to waste it.” “The three men, two deckhands and an engineer, put on their sodden caps and went out. Climbing the steep face of the dock they mounted the pile of four-foot pulp logs and bent to their work. With one hand they drove their short hooks into the logs and jerked them upwards, and then hook and free hand heaved them forward and downward into the semi-darkness to land with hollow thunder on the St. Casimir’s wooden deck, illumined by the half-hearted floodlight permitted by the dim-out regulations. When half an hour before midnight Captain Tremblay came out on the bridge to see how the work was going, the twelve cords on the wharf had become six and his men were on the schooner's deck converting the jumbled pile into a well-stowed deck load. The east wind had increased and even in Ste. Catherine’s Bay, sheltered by reefs from the open St. Lawrence, small waves were bunting the schooner against the wharf and her rubbing strake groaned from time to time on the massive piles. The Captain moved aft to slacken a taut mooring line, for the tide had dropped a foot or so. When he turned back there were four men on the deck amidships instead of three. As the newcomer’s shadow came between them and the light the workers straightened up from their task and stared. “Good evening,” said the stranger. “May I speak with your Captain?” He spoke in French, but each of the men listening knew at once that he was no French-Canadian. He was speaking careful school-book French, as most English-Canadians and Americans do. The engineer indicated Tremblay with a gesture and the stranger turned towards him. “Captain, you have a small boat—” he jerked his thumb aft, where the schooner’s lifeboat hung on davits across her stern— “and I want you or one of your men to take me out beyond the reefs to the St. Lawrence. I will pay you what you ask for your trouble.” “Impossible, monsieur,” exclaimed Tremblay. He motioned towards the pulp logs. “We have work to do and besides, the weather ...” He gestured vaguely towards the rainy darkness off-shore, and through his mind went the words he had heard less than two hours before—“The crews of these two bombers are believed to have bailed out over the north shore of the St. Lawrence. . .” “Nonsense!” said the stranger rather abruptly, and he took a step nearer the Captain. “There is no sea to speak of, and I saw from the wharf that your boat has an engine. I will pay you well. I must insist.” Tremblay was silent, staring at the man before him, a tall, fair fellow, bareheaded, who kept his hands in the pockets of a raincoat so soaked and dirty as to be colorless in that dim light. At length he spoke. “No sir,” he said firmly. “It can’t be done.” It was no surprise to him when his words seemed to lift the stranger’s right hand— and Luger—out of the pocket. “Listen, Captain,” said the German. “I am in a hurry. You or one of your men must take me where I want to go — out beyond the mouth of the Saguenay.” “Submarine!” murmured the Captain, stating a fact rather than asking a question. “Ha!” said the other. “You’ve heard of the bombing. There are U-boats at points off the north shore tonight and we were instructed to get to them if we could. You see my position — I will stand no foolishness. Make up your minds — will one of you take me, or . . .” THE CAPTAIN’S eyes travelled over the German. The man was tired — that was obvious. His clothing bore the marks of a day-long battle with the Laurentian bush. A tired man, but the tired man held the gun, and was impatient. The Captain turned to his men. “Lower the boat,” he ordered. The three men turned slowly and shuffled aft to uncleat the falls, conscious all the time of the gun behind them. Captain Tremblay followed. He was under no illusion — that Nazi might shoot one or all of them, whether they did as he told them or not. The blocks squealed and the eighteen-foot boat slid towards the black water. Tremblay glanced over his shoulder and saw the German peering at the illuminated dial of a military pocket compass—but the Luger in his other hand was still on the job. He turned to the German, who was putting the compass back in his pocket. “I’ll go with you,” said Tremblay decisively - and out of the corner of his eye he noted his men’s heads turn suddenly toward him. “That little compass you have - it's no good in a small boat because of deviation caused by the engine . . . and there are reefs outside, you know, and cross-currents. You must have a man with you who knows these waters.” “And you know them?” asked the German drily. “I was born near here,” stated Tremblay, conscious of the stares of his crew, who knew well that he was a Baie St. Paul man. The German was no fool. He saw the men stare and he saw the craftiness in the Captain's eyes, so naive that he almost laughed aloud at it. He could trust him as far as he could see him — and not even that far in a small boat. “Good,” he said. “Get into the boat, then, and start the engine.” Tremblay’s stomach felt cold. He had tried to make the man suspect a trap, and he did not know whether he had succeeded. He turned and swung over the schooner's rail and dropped into the boat under her counter. The German moved up and straddled the rail so that he could watch both Tremblay and the men on deck. The Captain set about priming the engine. After a preliminary cough or two it spluttered to life. The Nazi swung his other leg over the rail. “You make one move from where you are and I'll shoot your Captain,” he threatened the three men on deck, and then he, too, dropped into the boat. “Cast off those ropes and then get back aboard,” he ordered Tremblay. “Back aboard?” echoed the Captain. “Maybe you know these waters too well. Get back,” snapped the German reaching for the clutch lever, and as the other took a grip on the ropes hanging over the schooner's stern he eased it forward. The propeller bit the water and the boat shot forward and was swallowed up in the windy darkness. As Captain Tremblay climbed over the rail the three men on the St. Casimir's deck looked at one another and then all broke out talking at once. The Captain said nothing but made straight for the cabin, where he slumped onto a chair by the table on which still lay the battered green pilot book, open as he had left it. The others followed him in, jabbering. “Why did you offer to take him?” demanded one of the deck hands angrily. The Captain looked up wearily. “Because I wanted him to go alone. I remembered your Marie, Jacques, back in Baie St. Paul. She seemed too eager for the wedding, so you jilted her.” The deck hand’s puzzled look slowly gave way to one of understanding. Suddenly the engineer broke in. “Shouldn’t we go ashore and find a telephone?” he asked. “Perhaps a patrol boat could be warned to pick him up.” The Captain roused himself. “Telephone? Yes one of you had better report about the submarine.” “But the airman,” insisted the engineer. "Couldn’t they—” “They won’t get him,” stated the Captain. The finality of his tone fixed their questioning glances on him, and in explanation he pushed the open pilot book across the table towards them. “Read that,” he said, pointing to a paragraph. “It’s what I was studying after supper.” The engineer picked up the St. Lawrence River Pilot and read the paragraph aloud. “ 'The Mouth of the Saguenay River . . . The ebb tide from the Saguenay River on meeting the ebb from the St. Lawrence sets up very heavy tide rips, so strong as to interfere with the steerage of a vessel. When these ebbs are opposed to a heavy easterly gale, a particularly dangerous cross-sea is raised, which is considered dangerous to small craft, and in which no boat could live’.” The End The Sitting Duck (Published in The Montreal Standard, Date unknown) By Lewis Evans ILLUSTRATED BY GEOFFREY TRAUNTER THE LANDING BARGE lay as still as if she were floating on the fog rather than upon the waters of the North Sea. Somewhere, invisible, the sun was rising, and slowly the thick fog turned from black to grey. For the first time in hours the R.C.N.V.R. Lieutenant on the bridge could see the lines of his ship before him—that is if a medium sized landing barge can be said to have any lines at all. Lieutenant McNeil doubted it, and never could look at the scow-like bulk of his craft without seeing in his imagination the dashing motor-torpedo-boat he had hoped to command. At her very best speed his landing barge could hardly be called dashing, and for the greater part of an hour she had been anything but — she had been left powerless by a defective unit in her reduction gear. McNeil resisted the urge to go below again to see how repairs were progressing. He might as well stay where he was, and if he was sweating with impatience he knew well that the Petty Officer below was sweating too — sweating blood to get the repairs effected. Somewhere to the south and east was the attacking-force of which his craft was supposed to be a part — by now it should be fifteen miles away and almost grounding on the long, low sandy beaches of the Belgian coast, but there had been no sound of gunfire as yet. When his engines had failed he had had simply to drop out of the armada, the dense fog and strict radio silence preventing from letting even the commanding officer know of his plight. NO ONE but the commander of the force knew whether this attack was part of the real thing, the invasion itself, or merely one of the dress rehearsals or feints promised by the Prime Minister. Whatever it is, thought the Lieutenant as he gazed down into the waist of his ship, it will have to get along without those two tanks. He could just see them now, crouched one behind the other, facing the closed ramp at the bow, and their crews lounging round them and smoking. Suddenly McNeil raised his head and listened. Then he glanced at the Leading Seaman in the other wing of the bridge. He, too, had heard the faint throbbing and was peering into the blankness of the fog ahead. The Lieutenant crossed to him. “What do you make of it?” he asked quietly. “Sounds quite close, sir, but faint. Certainly not an aircraft — might be an M.T.B. or an E-boat throttled right down.” They listened again and the subdued hum continued, punctuated once by a faint clang. The killick swung toward McNeil. “Sub, sir!” he whispered urgently. “Surfaced and charging her batteries — that clang could have been a hatch-cover.” “Go forward,” ordered McNeil, “and tell ’em to keep completely quiet. Send someone below to tell the engine-room, too — and find out how much longer they’ll be.” “Aye, aye, sir.” The Leading Seaman slid down the ladder into the waist of the barge. The Lieutenant went from one to the other of the machine-gun crews at either end of the bridge and warned them. Their weapons were designed to ward off low-flying aircraft, and would be practically useless against the sub’s gun. The sun’s warmth could now be felt, and soon the fog would thin away. “That’ll be the pay-off,” thought McNeil, and resolved that while landing barges usually were known by numbers rather than by names, this one might well go down in history as “The Sitting Duck.” “Don’t know about history,” he added aloud, “but we might well go down.” THE IRONY of the situation struck him. For months as the junior officer in a Fairmile he had patrolled the Strait of Gibraltar hoping for a chance at a sub, and the nearest they had got was to let fly at a rock awash in the seas in the grey light of a dawn such as this. In consequence they had become the butt of their flotilla until a few weeks later when their flotilla leader made the same mistake himself with the same rock. Now, here he was with a sub within three hundred yards, and instead of commanding the M.T.B. or Fairmile that he had hoped for when he got his second stripe, instead of having a fighting ship to meet this opportunity, all he had under his feet was a glorified ferry-boat. The men were still lounging by their tanks, but their little motions and gestures of a moment ago had ceased. They were very still, very quiet. The Leading Seaman silently rejoined the Lieutenant on the bridge. He looked straight up into the sky above the ship, and then peered again towards the source of the steady humming. “Fog’s getting thinner, sir,” he said. “Whatever it is, it seems to be dead ahead.” McNeill resisted a light-headed temptation to say, “Wish it were dead, ahead,” and at that moment the Leading Seaman stiffened and pointed. Right over the ramp at the bows McNeil could make out a darker blur of fog. “Oh for a gun, a real gun,” he thought, and then swung towards the killick. “Lower the ramp,” he ordered, and threw himself down the ladder and made for the sergeant in charge of the forward tank, leaving the killick wondering if the Lieutenant had gone crazy. FOR MONTHS of the tank gunner's training he had been prepared to deal with various beach defences. Now as the ramp before him ponderously swayed outwards and sloped away to a level position he saw, framed in the gap, the silhouette of a submarine against the receding fog. “Gaw’ love me,” he muttered, spinning wheels efficiently, “join the Army and see the world." Figures rushed to the sub’s gun and it swung towards the landing barge. The tank gunner fired and as the barge shuddered at the shock there was a great splash close to the sub’s conning-tower. A shell from the sub screamed over the barge, carrying away the wireless mast. “Get his gun, blast you!” yelled McNeil in the general direction of the tank. He was back on the bridge and on either side of him the machine-guns were chattering ineffectually, for the sub’s gunners were protected by a gunshield. He afterwards thought that, though his words were inaudible in the surrounding bedlam, he had been rather rude to the tank gunner who, after all, was performing somewhat in the capacity of a guest artist. The tank’s second shell was over, but its third took the sub’s gun fair and square, and that was that. The figures on the sub's conning-tower disappeared and slowly her deck became awash — she was submerging. “Red, one-four-five, a ship, sir,” called the Leading Seaman. "Destroyer - one of the Hunt class, sir.” McNeil gave it a brief glance and then went on watching the disappearing conning tower. The sub had moved forward and was no longer ahead of the barge – the tank gunner could no longer see his target. IN A MATTER of seconds the destroyer plowed through the swirl left by the U-boat and let go a pattern of depth-charges. “That ought to fix 'em,” muttered the killick. Apparently the destroyer thought so too, for she paid no further attention to the sub but swung in a wide arc and steamed past fifty yards from the landing barge. MacNeil could see a figure in the wing of her bridge, and a megaphone pointed in his direction. “Quite a fighting ship you have there,” came the voice. “Good luck!” and the destroyer melted into the remnants of the fog, bent on her own urgent affairs. As an engine room artificer stepped up to MacNeil and said, “All set now, sir,” far to the southeast all hell broke loose. “The Sitting Duck” hauled up her ramp and set off towards it. The End Surprise Party Published in "The Standard" (date unknown, $20.00!) By Lewis Evans ILLUSTRATED BY ROY DYER HIS SUBMARINE idling at periscope depth in the cold waters of the Gulf of St. Lawrence, Ober- leutnant Seidel watched the plume of smoke climb over the horizon. It was still too early to figure the ship’s course and manoeuvre into effective range, and far too early to identify the type of ship. “Well,” he thought to himself, “at least she is no Banks fishing schooner—not with that plume of smoke.” He still regretted the expenditure of his last but one torpedo on that fisherman two nights ago. She had been running under auxiliary power, and with her stump masts he had mistaken her size in the gathering darkness. An investigation of her wreckage with the sub's searchlight had revealed several broken-backed dories and a mess of cleaned and salted codfish, and his second in command had looked for a moment as though he wanted to laugh. Ah, well, the destroyed schooner didn’t look so badly in the sub's logbook as “motor-driven coastal cargo ship.” Oberleutnant took another long look at the approaching vessel. She was no destroyer, anyway—her slow speed and broad beam told him that. He made out derricks on her foremast—that ruled out a corvette. She was steaming almost at right angles to his bows, and would pass about two miles ahead of him. He decided to close in, and grated an order to his second. The order echoed from man to man in the steel hull, and the sub began to move. Five minutes passed, and then Seidel slipped off his stool. “What do you make of her?” he asked his second in command, motioning him towards the eyepiece. That officer peered for a minute. “Flushdecked,” he muttered, “A tanker, sir but . . .” He hesitated, still peering. “But what?” “Her engines are amidships, sir. Unusual for a tanker.” Seidel took up his position at the periscope again and had another look. Then he lowered the periscope below the surface, ordered half-speed, and turned a superior smile on his puzzled second. No wonder the fellow was puzzled, thought Seidel—the ship was unusual, all right, but he knew what she was. Just before the war he had been on a training cruise and had put in at Bergen, and there he had seen a vessel with a peculiar stern like that. “She’s a whale factory,” he said, and laughed at the expression on the other’s face. “The Norwegians had such ships before the war — South Atlantic, mostly. There is a great ramp in the stern, and they used to pull a whale’s carcass aboard whole and do all the work of a whaling station while keeping up with the trawlers that did the actual harpooning. Our friends must be very short of ships if they’re using that tub for cargo-carrying.” He took another sight at the ship. He could see her ensign flying from a gaff on her mainmast, but it was either too dirty or too distant for him to tell whether it was Norwegian or British. His thoughts went to the single torpedo in the forward tubes, and to the long trip home. Then he looked at the expressionless face of his second in command and made his decision. He didn't want it said that he had expended his last two torpedoes on a fishing schooner and a whale factory, of all things. “We’ll surface and attack by gunfire,” he said. Bells rang and the gun crew got ready for their dash to action stations. The sub lifted towards the surface. ABOARD the ex-Norwegian whale-factory Odda a lookout had reported a periscope off the starboard bow, distant the best part of a mile. Gongs had clanged for action stations, and the ship held her course. The R.C.N.V.R. lieutenant on her bridge was pleased. “Not forty miles from where the Coastal Patrol plane reported wreckage of that schooner yesterday,” he thought. He glanced astern over his strange command and saw the men who handled the smoke-pots at their stations right aft. He could not see the old whale-ramp because of the superstructure amidships, but he could imagine the scene there . . . the fifty foot motor-launch in her sliding crib, her bow towards the Odda’s stern, her high-powered, specially cooled engines warmed and idling, her crew tense and watching the great steel flap which cut off the after end of the ramp from the sea, the rows of depth charges on the launch’s after deck. “Sub on starboard beam!" Two lookouts dead-heated on the shout. There she was, white water pouring from her decks, about half a mile off. As her gun crew swarmed on deck a machine-gun from the Odda started an intermittent chattering, and a gun crew staged a well-rehearsed rush for their antiquated weapon mounted on a bridge-like structure over the ramp astern. When their first shot eventually got away it raised a spout of foam just where they wanted it—three hundred yards wide of the sub and a little short. The first shell from the sub screamed over the Odda’s bows. The second hulled her forward, at the waterline. The lieutenant on the bridge thought of the watertight bulkheads and the whale-oil tanks now crammed with buoyant lumber, and grinned. His quartermaster, according to plan, swung the ship towards the sub to close the distance, and the sub altered course to port to evade any ramming action by the Odda . Another shell from the sub crossed the Odda’s bows and a fourth burst on the superstructure abaft her funnel. The whale-factory’s machine-gun fell silent, but it had not been hit. The smoke-pots astern burst into acrid life and their contents billowed over and around the Odda’s stern. The lieutenant snapped an order and a clang from far astern told him that the great flap had been lifted, and he could imagine the released crib sliding smoothly aft with its load. "Surprise, surprise!” he murmured happily to nobody in particular. The motor-launch’s heavily guarded screws were already turning as she took the water, and then she was out of the smoke and roaring for the sub, a heavy machine-gun on her bow searching for the gun crew, and echoed by renewed fire from the Odda’s guns. OBERLEUTNANT SEIDEL knew all about the “Q-ships” of the last war. He was not to be fooled by them, but this was different. He took one more amazed look at the grey shape bouncing towards him, ordered a crash dive, and threw himself down the conning-tower hatch. His gun crew, less three men who had been hit, scuttled for safety. As the sea foamed over the submerging U-boat the launch roared past parallel to her, not twenty feet away, and two ash-cans set for eight fathoms plopped into her seething wake. The Oberleutnant’s thoughts at this moment, freely translated into English, would have been “Let’s get to hell out of here,” which is precisely where he got. The End Down To Heaven (Published in “The Standard” Montreal, September 27, 1941, $12.50!) By L. EVANS He dropped to Earth and thought he was in heaven HIS packed parachute bumped clumsily against the back of his thighs as he crossed the dark field towards the sound of the idling motors. He tried to make himself believe that this was just another practice, that he was still in training, but the horrible emptiness in his middle gave him the lie. He was scared, and he was thankful that the darkness hid his face. He and his companions groped their way into the big transport and sat down. A dim light forward showed them the pilot and navigator, their heads bent over a map. Helmut stared at them fixedly, hoping that concentration of his mind would prevent him from being sick — sick with fear. Their job was simple, he thought. They just had to fly high to certain points, dump their living cargo, and fly home. Compared with his job theirs seemed easy, safe, comfortable. IT was the unknown that frightened a man thought Helmut. The plane crew knew what to expect in the way of danger - attack by fighter planes, anti-aircraft fire, or forced landing on land or sea. But he - Helmut - how could he know what was in store for him? Death, probably; death or capture certainly. But how? Before or after he had done his job on the power plant? How? A sentry’s rifle? A night watchman’s baton? A farmer’s pitchfork? Helmut shuddered and closed his eyes. The plane took off, climbed gradually, and steadied on its course. There’s the difference, thought Helmut suddenly. The plane crew’s brightest hope is return, and my brightest hope is capture. The very best I can expect is capture and internment. A fine thing my life is, when prison seems like heaven! The plane droned on through the black night, flying very high and very steadily. The parachutists began fidgeting with their equipment. They’re scared too, thought Helmut, but the younger ones, anyway, are partly afraid of failing in their task. They know only this stern life, and they are efficient. So am I, or I wouldn’t be here, but I am older. I can remember another way of life. The navigator made a signal, and two men moved towards the door. Another signal, and they were gone. The plane altered course, and in a few moments the navigator’s gloved hand reappeared. Two more men dived into darkness. MY objective is the third we come to thought Helmut, and the waiting is over. I am not afraid of the jump - I know all about that part of the job. I fear only the unknown future. The glove moved and Helmut flung himself into the blackness and cold. The opening ’chute jerked him savagely, and gradually his dizzy swinging slowed down. As he drifted downwards he tried to figure the direction and force of the wind, if any. That was the first thing - to fix his own position, and then to find the power plant. The little fear he felt about landing was lost in the great fear of the unknown future, and he felt little relief when he dropped on open ground, though it might have been a wood or a power line. His, efficient training showed as he quickly got rid of his parachute. He did not have to think - his hands busied themselves and the complicated tangle of ropes and material was stowed under a stunted bush. Luminous compass in hand, Helmut crouched, listening. The silence terrified him. He felt the whole hostile countryside of England round him, deadly still, but ready at any moment to extinguish this lone enemy by some unknown unpredictable action. Helmut forced himself to read the compass, putting it on the ground and getting as far from it as sight permitted, so that the metal in his equipment would not affect the needle. He was supposed to have been dropped two miles south of his objective; so he started to move northwards. If he did not find it in the first half hour he would start circling east and west. He crept on across the field, surprised that it took him so long to reach its boundary. He expected a hedge - England was covered with hedges, they said. HE encountered no hedge - he came to wire. A fine seven foot barbed wire fence, and on each side a barbed wire apron, arranged with ingenuity. Helmut stared at it in amazement. According to his instructions the power plant was the only important point in the district, and therefore the only one likely to be so protected. Could he have hit upon it already? He could cut his way through the fence, but those aprons would take time. He decided to move along the fence to the west, and perhaps he would find a spot where the aprons were less formidable. A hundred and fifty yards to the west he stopped. The fence made a right-angle turn - to the south. Helmut was inside the angle. His training made him turn east, retrace his steps, and he moved faster than before, with less regard for stealth. Two hundred yards or so, and another angle - turning south. His stomach cold as ice, Helmut threw one look over his shoulder and started cutting the wire. Whether he was inside the defenses of the plant or not he would need some means of exit. He would make a passage through the wire, and then find out what lay to the south. He cut rapidly and the apron gradually yielded a passage. Suddenly he paused. Someone was coming - a sentry? A flashlight flicked on and off. Helmut’s training sent his hand towards his gun. A cut end of wire scraped on the shears in his left hand. The flashlight’s beam cut the darkness, wavered, and then fixed on him. Helmut froze. A safety catch clicked. So this was the unknown. “Don’t move,” commanded the advancing voice. Then - “Wot the ’ell! It’s a ruddy parashooter! Come out of that, Jerry, you’re home. You’ve landed inside an internment camp." The End NEXT PAGE