First of all I am going to apologize to all my old army buddies that subscribe to or read my blog. You have heard the story below more times than you can count, and yes, you will have to suffer through it one more time 🙂
In the mid-late eighties I was attached to a kilted militia infantry regiment in Windsor Ont called the Essex and Kent Scottish. Although this regiment has a fine war record, I was not altogether thrilled with this tasking. This is the story of the the very first time I attended a formal event with this regiment, and I met the Honorary Colonel.
The day started off a little roughly with me getting up on the wrong side of the bed. I also wasn’t thrilled with the fit of my new scarlet tunic..it seemed tight where it should be loose and loose where it should be tight. I was also having an issue with my sgian-dubh not staying put in my hose (small dagger that is tucked into your sock with that uniform). All told, it wasn’t the best of mornings.
I got down to the parking lot and looked at my car, then at my motorcycle which I had JUST bought maybe a week before. It was a lovely day, so on the motorcycle I climbed. I looked down at my kilt, and realized that Houston, we have a problem. Ok, I stood a bit and tucked my kilt underneath me (both front and back). HAH! Problem solved. Off I go on my way to work, collecting all KINDS of stares…a guy on a motorcycle in a bright red coat, in a kilt, with bare legs. At a stop light I noticed a police car beside me with the occupants staring. I wasn’t keen on the way they were staring at me, and I must have fidgeted, because when the light turned green, and I accelerated away…my kilt had come loose, and flew up to my chest flapping in the wind.
Now, you have to understand, that with an army kilt, there is nothing worn under it ( it’s all in *perfect* working condition <old kilt joke>), so the cops got a great eyeful as my one hand was quickly trying to grab my kilt and tuck it back underneath me. They didn’t even move! As I looked in my rear view mirror they were still stationary at the green light, mouths open, looking utterly gobsmacked.
This day was just getting better and better….
Next came the event. I can’t actually remember what it was for, but I remember standing there being bored, and just wanting it all to be over. The Honorary Colonel got up to make a speech. Honorary Colonels are positions in an infantry regiment held by a special person to the regiment. Sometimes it is a former officer, or NCO, sometimes it is a member of the Royal Family. Sometimes it is someone with absolutely no military background. This one was introduced but I didn’t really pay attention, because I was focused on something else. It was a formal parade, with the entire regiment in their dress ceremonial kilted uniforms, and a group of invited dignitaries all in suits. This old fart though? He was in Truis (pronounced Trews).These are trousers in the same tartan pattern that the regiments kilt uses.
For some obscure reason this offended me. Maybe it was because I was already in a fairly foul mood. It seemed to me that If this stodgy wrinkled old prune was going to stand up there and pontificate at me, the VERY least he could do was wear a frickin’ kilt. I don’t care who he thinks he is, or that he is apparently 150 years old, or if he has ugly wrinkly knees….he should be wearing a kilt like the rest of us! Where the heck was his pride??
It was an absolutely asinine thing to get upset about, but there you go. I was. Afterwards, I was invited in to the officers mess for the meet and greet, and to meet “The Colonel”. I was introduced to him and he was an extremely gracious old fellow. He asked me about my record, where I had been, and what I had done, and seemed genuinely interested in my responses. This of course pissed me off more. I started to use something that is known in the military as silent contempt. It is a way to express your contempt to someone, without ever saying a negative word. It has to do with tone, and body language, and mostly the expression of your eyes. The more I was rude to the old fellow, the more he seemed to be entertained! This of course pissed me off more. For the next oh….15 minutes there was a continually escalating scene were I was becoming more and more overt in my expression of contempt for the old man, and he being more and more jovial and amused….he was having a grand old time.
Then came a point where he was talking to someone else, and I did something I should have done sooner. Just like dogs sniff each other back ends, soldiers read each other “racks”. This is the row of ribbons or medals worn on the chest. Someones rack may tell you very little if they only have 1 or 2 (or no) medals, or it may tell you quite a tale. I can’t speak for everyone, but I always read a rack right to left, as I am looking at it. This means I read from the least important to the most important. Here, is The Colonels’ actual rack
I saw the CD which is for 12 years of undetected crime, and the volunteers medal, the 39-45 medal, which meant he was a WW2 vet, I saw the Northwest Europe Star, so he had seen combat. I saw the Order of St John, and beside that just one more. It was plain, and purple, and unadorned by other colours or stripes in the ribbon. It took a moment for my brain to process exactly what I was seeing. It didn’t seem to make sense.
Have you ever watched a movie where in the last few seconds of the characters life they see their entire life in a series of flashes…like snapshots? That is exactly what happened to me. In the space of two, maybe three seconds, my brain pieced it all together.
Purple Ribbon….Essex Scottish….WW2….What is his name, I heard it at least twice today….ww2…no kilt…VICTORIA CROSS!!!!…..Tilson, that’s his name….(then my brain truly clicked in to high gear, accessing my knowledge of Canadian history)….Fredrick A Tilson,Major, Essex Scottish…he is wearing Truis because he has no effin’ legs!!!…lost em in the Hochwald, earning the VC…HOLY CRAP!!
What came out of my mouth at that moment though was not the highest example of my conversational ability, and was not even remotely a shining example of couth, respect, or forethought. What I said was:
Jesus F**kin’ Christ!! That’s the Victoria F**kin” Cross!! You’re Fred Tilson, and you’ve got no legs!!
Dead silence reigned throughout the mess. I had just used foul language in front of a revered war hero, one of the only three living (at that time) VC holders in the entire country. More than that, I had been entirely disrespectful. You could have heard a pin drop.
Smiling slightly and with a twinkle in his eye…he said to me:
Why yes, Corporal…it is, and yes…I am.
There was nothing for it my friends, I was in deep, and when you are in THAT deep, thoroughly and utterly humiliated by your own stupidity, all you can do is what I did next.
I snapped to attention, in the most perfectly rigid attention I had ever performed, with the heels of my mirror shined parade boots clicking together in a perfect Prussian snap and said:
Major! Sir! ……….Can I buy you a f**kin’ drink?
He smiled broadly and said that would be very nice.
The moment broke at that point, and people went back to their drinks and conversations. For the rest of that evening I was at the Honorary Colonels elbow, his unofficial adjutant (His rank was Major, Honorary Colonel is an appointment), making sure his glass was never empty, he had a plate of nibbles available for when he got peckish, and any other need he could conceivable have were met.
I was privileged to spend other times with Major Tilson, and I was always respectful of this great man. Although most people called him Colonel in acknowledgement of his position, and that accomplishment, I always called him Major..to honour the man, who on that day in 1945 did the impossible, and lived, and through his actions kept men alive that surely would have died without him being there. I like to think he knew why I did, and approved.
So what is the big deal about the medal that Major Tilson wore?
In all of history, only 94 Victoria Crosses have been awarded to Canadians, including 1 on the day the VC came in to existence during the Charge of the Light Brigade in the Crimean war against Russia in 1854, before confederation. (A Canadian was part of that charge) It is a medal which is not merely given for extreme acts of bravery and valour, but for actions that if you saw them in a movie you would loudly cry out that they are impossible. To put this in a little better context for you, we have awarded this medal 94 times to Canadians….the Americans have awarded their Medal of Honor 3468 times. You decide which is the more rare and precious medal.
Major Tilson passed away in 1992. There are no VC holders still alive in Canada today.
Included below is a copy of the official Citation for Major Tilsons Victoria Cross: (When you read about his “third wound” his leg was actually blown off)
“The 2nd Canadian Division had been given the task of breaking through the strongly fortified Hochwald Forest defence line which covered Xanten the last German bastion West of the Rhine protecting the vital Wesel Bridge escape route.
The Essex Scottish Regiment was ordered to breach the defence line North-east of Udem and to clear the Northern half of the forest, through which the balance of the Brigade would pass.
At 0715 hours on 1st March, 1945, the attack was launched but due to the softness of the ground it was found impossible to support the attack by tanks as had been planned.
Across approximately 500 yards of flat open country, in face of intense enemy fire, Major Tilston personally led his Company in the attack, keeping dangerously close to our own bursting shells in order to get the maximum cover from the barrage. Though wounded in the head he continued to lead his men forward, through a belt of wire ten feet in depth to the enemy trenches shouting orders and encouragement and using his Sten gun with great effect. When the platoon on the left came under heavy fire from an enemy machine gun post he dashed forward personally and silenced it with a grenade; he was first to reach the enemy position and took the first prisoner.
Determined to maintain the momentum of the attack he ordered the reserve platoon to mop up these positions and with outstanding gallantry, pressed on with his main force to the second line of enemy defences which were on the edge of the woods.
As he approached the woods he was severely wounded in the hip and fell to the ground. Shouting to his men to carry on without him and urging them to get into the wood, he struggled to his feet and rejoined them as they reached the trenches on their objective. Here an elaborate system of underground dugouts and trenches was manned in considerable strength and vicious hand-to-hand fighting followed. Despite his wounds, Major Tilston’s unyielding will to close with the enemy was a magnificent inspiration to his men as he led them in, systematically clearing the trenches of the fiercely resisting enemy. In this fighting two German Company Headquarters were overrun and many casualties were inflicted on the fanatical defenders.
Such had been the grimness of the fighting and so savage the enemy resistance that the Company was now reduced to only 26 men, one quarter of its original strength. Before consolidation could be completed the enemy counter-attacked repeatedly, supported by a hail of [sic] mortar and machine gun fire from the open flank. Major Tilston moved in the open from platoon to platoon quickly organising their defence and directing fire against the advancing enemy. The enemy attacks penetrated so close to the positions that grenades were thrown into the trenches held by his troops, but this officer by personal contact, unshakeable confidence and unquenchable enthusiasm so inspired his men that they held firm against great odds.
When the supply of ammunition became a serious problem he repeatedly crossed the bullet swept ground to the Company on his right flank to carry grenades, rifle and Bren ammunition to his troops and replace a damaged wireless set to re-establish communications with Battalion Headquarters. He made at least six of these hazardous trips, each time crossing a road which was dominated by intense fire from numerous, well-sited enemy machine gun posts.
On his last trip he was wounded for the third time, this time in the leg. He was found in a shell crater beside the road. Although very seriously wounded and barely conscious, he would not submit to medical attention until he had given complete instructions as to the defence plan, had emphasised the absolute necessity of holding the position, and had ordered his one remaining officer to take over.
By his calm courage, gallant conduct and total disregard for his own safety, he fired his men with grim determination and their firm stand enabled the Regiment to accomplish its object of furnishing the Brigade with a solid base through which to launch further successful attacks to clear the forest, thus enabling the Division to accomplish its task.”
(London Gazette, no.37086, 22 May 1945)
To those of you who think Canada has no real military tradition, or that doubt that we are the VERY best in the world…I wish you could have met this man, and some of the other giants I have been privileged to know.
Bandoliers and Bunnies 