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The large expanse of Kingston’s wharf and dockyards bustled with activity. Rail cars lined the train tracks that dominated the harbour front along the city’s southeast shores. Two new steamships were almost unloaded, as evident by their exposed rusted bellies. The harbour workers, laboured in the baking, mid summer sun at the greatest pace they could muster. Labour and toil at the dockyard was not easy, but it was a paying job and jobs were not easily found for Canadians during the summer of 1914.
William Dawson unfolded a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his face. He checked his watch: 5:45 pm. The day was finally coming to an end. It was Saturday, the end of another workweek.
He watched Jacob Turner fighting with straps on a crate, just lowered from one of the recently moored ships. As one of the foremen, Dawson thought it was best to show his fortitude and dragged himself to his feet. He easily tossed his athletic frame up on the car and joined Turner working to unhook the crate from the crane’s cable. The cable was taut. The strap couldn't be slipped off.
“Thanks, Bill.” Turner shook droplets of sweat off his face. “Have ya seen such heat?”
“Sure…yesterday.” He waved to the crane operator. “Loosen the cable a little!” The cable jolted a couple times. They grabbed at the strap to pull it lose. “We’re in business.”
Turner unhooked the crate and the strapping fell off. He signalled the crane operator and the cable whirled up out of the way.
“You coming for a beer?”
Beer sounded good to Dawson, especially if it was in copious amounts. “You bet.”
The end of their workday was also the end of another workweek. They headed away from the dockyard; their pockets were full of hard earned money, at least for a while. They stepped over the railway tracks and headed east down Ontario Street, quickly filling with tough men who, for one night, were wealthy and full of bravado, searching for alcohol and companionship.
Dawson peeled away from his friends to grab a Kingston Daily Standard off a newspaper stand. The front page headline caught his attention:
“Germany Declares War on Russia”
“Leave it, Willie! We’ve no time for readin’.”
Dawson waved Turner off. “Jesus…did you know there’s a damned war in Europe?”
“They’ve bin talkin’ about it for over a month.” Turner glanced over Dawson’s shoulder at the paper. “It’s got to do with those assassinations.”
Dawson recollected. “That mess in the Balkans? What the blazes has that got to do with Russia or Germany?”
“Fook-all, that’s what.” Turner pushed Dawson’s newspaper down. “So let’s not worry about some poor Russian on the other side of the world, eh? Let’s get a God-damned drink!”
“Old Bill was a General or some such thing.” Alfred Hazen, the site supervisor informed them. “What was it, Bill? A General or…”
“Corporal.” Dawson tried to read the paper as he walked with his friends. “And I’m not old. I’m younger than you for Jesus’ sake.”
An atmosphere of frivolity enveloped the Prince George Hotel, one of the main watering holes for the shipyard workers in Kingston. The hotel owners in Kingston’s east end reaped the rewards of the hot steamy evening and the freshly paid workers. Patrons spilled out every door and window of the historic building. Empty liquor and beer bottles rolled about the street, carelessly dropped or thrown from drunken hands. Laughter and gaiety echoed around the intersection of Clarence Street and Ontario Street.
Dawson slipped away from his inebriated friends later in the evening before the beer also mastered him. He managed to keep his faculties and limited his intake because his thoughts were drawn back to the headlines of the newspaper he’d purchased. Dawson needed to learn more about the drama unfolding in Europe. He stepped out of the hotel and into the hot night.
“The fookin’ Brits’ll get dragged into a war and expect us Irish to join ‘em!” An Irishman was drawing a crowd on the boardwalk out front of the hotel. He paused to take a swig from his glass. “But the Brits can kiss me skinny Irish arse!”
Predictably, there were mixed reviews to the comment.
“They’ll expect ‘ouse to fight and to serve the King!” He took another drink.
“Shut-up ya damn Mick!” A voice roared.
The Irishman ignored the outburst. “King George can kiss me skinny Irish arse too!”
“You’re Irish arse is none-too-skinny!” Another voice shouted.
“England would be foolish to try and intervene.” The crowd turned from the spunky little Irishman to a man speaking with a European accent standing across Market Street. “Europe is Germany’s for the taking. They can walk into Russia and France anytime they wish. England would be wise to stay out of this fight.”
"It was a German immigrant. He walked with an air of an aristocrat across the street. “The English are old and weak. Their time is…”
The Irishman hauled off and punched the man in the mouth.
The German looked shocked by the attack. “What the ‘ell did you do…”
The Irishman punched him in the mouth again, this time knocking him to the ground. “I can say what I want about the English, laddie! But no bloody foreigners!”
Dawson passed through the shouting crowd to the open boardwalk in front of City Hall. He sat on the huge front steps, a sanctuary from the chaos up the street. Dawson read the newspaper in the flickering, dim light of the street lamps.
The news from Europe gave rise to the possibility of another war on the horizon. Should the call come, Dawson wasn’t sure he’d volunteer. He had nothing to prove; as a veteran of the South African war he had already served for King and Empire.
That forgotten war changed him. The images and experiences still clashed with his innocent upbringing in Brockville, Ontario, but the news of war still drew him, like some kind of magnetism. Dawson hadn’t worn a uniform since 1903, but he still felt like a soldier.
The next morning, a cool breeze rolled in off Lake Ontario. It gave relief from the oppressive heat and humidity. Dawson pulled the blankets up from the bottom of his bed for the first time all night, pleased to be cool for a change and even more happy he didn’t have to get up for work.
He heard music from outside his opened apartment window. Dawson crawled from bed and poked his head out. Marching past Market Square on King St, headed toward St George’s Cathedral, was a small military band with an assortment of soldiers following behind. The sight of the soldiers and the marching music stirred his blood.
He pulled on his pants and shirt and joined the small, enthusiastic crowd that formed a spontaneous procession. Dawson followed the parade heading south on King Street. The soldiers lined up in front of the County Court House overlooking Sir John A. MacDonald Park. A crowd milled about, admiring the soldiers and listening to the military band.
The community was polarized by events taking place in Europe. Watching their soldiers provided relief from the trepidation as war clouds built overseas. It was unfamiliar territory for the young nation and its populace. Two days ago, the thought Great Britain might be forced down that long path to war wasn’t a consideration. Now it was a real possibility.
“Bill!”
Dawson turned and spied Alfred Hazen pushing his way through the crowd.
“Mornin’, Alf.”
“I’d have thought a soldier boy like you would be out there with those lads.”
“That’s a long time ago, Alf.”
“Long time ago? Jesus, Bill, you’re still a tough young man and a soldier to boot.”
“Was a soldier,” Dawson corrected him.
“They could use someone with your experience.”
“I’ve done my time,” Dawson said flatly.
Dawson headed back to his small bachelor apartment, leaving the singing and cheering behind. People came from all over the community as renditions of patriotic songs like ‘Maple Leaf Forever’ and ‘Oh Canada’ echoed from the park. The potential onset of war brought excitement to the dreary, uncertain summer days. But unlike his naive neighbours and friends, Dawson was no longer an innocent to war and was aware of its true import. War was to be endured, not celebrated.
On Tuesday, news quickly traveled throughout the dockyard that Germany had invaded Belgium. Great Britain gave the Kaiser an ultimatum to remove his armies, but no one expected compliance. Great Britain finally staked its flag, and it was beside France and Russia.
Dawson heard several German immigrants who worked at the dockyards being pestered repeatedly the morning the news of Great Britain’s stance was made public.
“Hey, Cummer! Ya got any cousins we should watch out for when we’re kicking their arses, eh?” One of the workers said to them.
Dawson quickly intervened. “Get back to work, the lot of you!”
“I’m just havin’ ‘em on, is all.” The youthful worker offered.
“I ‘aven’t seen da family in twenty years.” Cummer shouted back. “But if you’re all they ‘ave ta worry ‘bout…they’ll win the war!”
Cummer and his German companion laughed.
“Hey…fook-ya, ya fookin’ kraut!” The young man began to rush over to the German men. “I’ll show you how Canadians fight if ya…”
Dawson grabbed the young man by the ear and twisted with all his might.
“Ahhhh! Jesus Christ, it hurts, Bill!”
“A twist of an ear hurts does it? Try a bullet, or a bayonet, or a piece of shrapnel! You have no idea about soldiering. No idea about war! So shut-the-fuck-up and get back to work!” Dawson pushed the whimpering young man back toward his friends.
“Jesus!” The victim of his assault still whimpered off to the side. “Ya almost tore me ear off!”
Dawson noted dozen’s of eyes were on him, curious as to his sudden outburst. “Get back to work!”
“Come on, Bill!” Turner was behind a stack of crates. “War’s brewing.”
“War might be brewing, but none of you are in the army yet.”
“You gonna join, Bill?” One of the workers asked.
“And have to fight with you lot? Not likely.”
The dockyard workers were kept busy with great difficulty. Dawson was also having trouble keeping his mind on the job at hand. His eyes drifted east toward the limestone buildings of the Royal Military College and across the Cataraqui River to Fort Henry up on the hill. Both important military establishments, at opposite ends of history, one thriving and still building the foundations of Canada’s present day military, the other, important in its day, now aged and defunct. He wondered what the new chapter in Canada’s military history might entail.
At the completion of another workday, Ontario Street undulated with people waiting for the final word on Great Britain’s position. Union Jacks and the Canadian Ensigns hung from windows or were waved about by persons caught up in the patriotic fever.
Britain’s deadline came and passed. Young and old men alike spoke with an audacity about the impending war and how it should be fought or how it would turn out. Dawson sat in with his friends quietly listening to their conversation. He did his best to avoid taking part, keeping his opinions private.
The following morning, line-ups at the newsstands greeted Dawson as he strolled to work. Even with the extra newspaper boys standing about; it was still not enough to stem the flood of customers wanting to see the Kingston Daily Standard. The headlines were clear to him as he walked past the frenzy.
“Britain and Germany at War”
The wondering was over. War had come to the Empire.
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