RE:  VERNON HUDGIN       (Dad was only 23 years old at the time)

 

Several months after returning home from the Hastings Pees trip to Sicily in September 2005, Dad was 85. We were house cleaning andI found an old photo of Dad in his HPE uniform and placed on his night stand.  I noticed the photo seemed to be crooked in the frame so we took the back off to straighten it.  Behind the backing was a letter he had written to his parents in 1943 while on transit to Sicily. Dad thinks his mother must have put the note behind the picture all those years but he didn't know it was there.

 

My Dearest Mother and Father;

 

Before I write very much I don’t want you to shed any tears over this letter.  As I write I am somewhere in the Atlantic and this is my last chance to write before we go into action. The time has come when the Canadians must see action and a lot of us will have to give our lives and if I am among those, dearest parents, I don’t want you to worry or weep because it will be God’s will and not ours.  I am not afraid to die because I know it will be for a good cause.  You will probably see in the paper or hear over the radio where this raid will be. 

You will never know how hard it is to write this letter for I don’t know what to write but I love you both better than life itself.  There have probably been times when you thought I was against you, but never.  I’ll never forget when I told you I was on draft for overseas.  You don’t know what it cost me to tell you that.  I don’t want you to give up hope even if you hear I am among the missing.  You must remember there are fathers and mothers all over the world mourning over their sons.  Don’t give up hope until you are positive I am dead.

Well, dearest father and mother it’s costing me a lot (emotionally) to write this letter but you must always remember God’s Will is His Will and if I am spared you’ll never see a happier son coming home than me.

Well, I will close now leaving the matter in God’s hands.

 

Ever your loving son.

 

Vernon XX

 

Well, Dad did come home but not uninjured. I think he lived a full and happy life. It makes me cry everytime I read this letter thinking of that young 23 year old man.

The Cremation of Sam McGee

By Robert W. Service 1874–1958

There are strange things done in the midnight sun       By the men who moil for gold; The Arctic trails have their secret tales       That would make your blood run cold; The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,       But the queerest they ever did see Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge       I cremated Sam McGee.
Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows. Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows. He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell; Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell."
On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail. Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail. If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see; It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.
And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow, And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe, He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess; And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."
Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan: "It's the cursèd cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone. Yet 'tain't being dead—it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains; So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."
A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail; And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale. He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee; And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.
There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven, With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given; It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains, But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."
Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code. In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load. In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring, Howled out their woes to the homeless snows— O God! how I loathed the thing.
And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow; And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low; The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in; And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.
Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay; It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May." And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum; Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."
Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire; Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher; The flames just soared, and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see; And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.
Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so; And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow. It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why; And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.
I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear; But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near; I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside. I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; ... then the door I opened wide.
And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar; And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door. It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm— Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."
There are strange things done in the midnight sun       By the men who moil for gold; The Arctic trails have their secret tales       That would make your blood run cold; The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,       But the queerest they ever did see Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge       I cremated Sam McGee.