Because he was a driver, Papa spent a lot of time waiting around on bases. Early on, he was based in England.
None of the troops were allowed off the base without a signed pass. They certainly weren't allowed off just for fun and you can utterly forget about going down to London at any time of day signed pass or not.
So of course, that's what Papa and a friend decided they would do.
They were headed to Leicester Square. Maybe some dinner, maybe dancing, maybe a movie - Gone With the Wind had been playing for over a year, and everyone was always saying Papa looked like Clarke Gable. Somehow, they'd managed to convince their commander to sign a pass, but they still had to sneak out of the barracks in their hobnailed boots.
Papa would always pause the story here to make as much racket as possible drumming his fingernails against the table.
'And that was just standing still.'
(As a child I wondered why they couldn't simply remove the boots, but having some vague idea that hobnailed boots were nailed to your feet, I didn't ask. )
The two Canadians snuck out the front gate of the base and walked down the road to the train station.
'But you can't just walk in those boots. There's no give. You gotta march. So we marched all the way to the station. It was a very small parade,' he'd say with a smile.
Servicemen weren't supposed to be on the trains any more than they were supposed to be off the base - so every time one of them saw a ticket inspector they had to move to the next car along. Luckily the train was busy and it took the inspector a long time to get from one car to the next. (These days I think he probably saw them, but as long as they stayed out of his way he didn't have to 'officially' notice them or kick them off the train).
They made it to London and got on the Underground to take them to Leicester Square. Arriving at their destination, they picked their way through the people filling the platforms, past dozens of Londoners ready to withstand another night of bombing, and headed up to street level.
'Those boots on the tiles! It was quite the racket,' again he would hammer his nails against the table top. Then the staccato beat would be cut off and he would look at us seriously.
'We got to the top of the stairs and you know what? The warden standing outside said ; Sorry boys. Air Raid. You'll have to go back down.'
They'd scammed their way off the base, suck past the dorm guard in their noisy boots, marched all the way to the station, and evaded notice on the train into London, only to be beaten at the final hurdle. But only an idiot would ignore an Air Raid in those days. So they turned around, started back down the stairs.
'We got the the bottom and the bomb hit. I don't know what happened to the guy at the top of the stairs.'
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My grandfather lived through the war unscathed. He came back to his family, which over the next 70 years grew to include another son (my father), five granddaughters and three great-grandchildren.
While the past eleven days have been purposely scheduled to coincide with Armistice Day, this isn't the only time of year that I think about Papa and the things he did for me. I'm not talking about the war. I mean all the little stories and lies that are now a part of me and always will be.
I'm so lucky to have had him.
** if anyone has a link to Canadian or American Poppy appeal sites, please let me know. I can't find one that makes it easy to donate.
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