CHAPTER I
A Time for Remembering
The wind snapped the flags to crisp attention while eight uniformed pallbearers carried a flag-draped coffin to the graveside. A soldier, attending the head of the grave, held a blue velvet cushion on which rested a military cap and ten medals. As reporters, photographers and television cameramen jostled for position, a twelve-man squad fired three rifle volleys. After the volleys thundered over the graveyard, a trumpeter, uniformed in bright scarlet, played the Last Post as the coffin of Thomas Prince, Canada's most decorated Indian soldier, was lowered into the ground. The Princess Patricia's Canadian Light Infantry was burying one of its most distinguished members in a windy corner of Brookside cemetery in Winnipeg.
As the trumpeter finished, five young men from Brokenhead Indian Reserve began to chant the melancholy Death of a Warrior song, as drummers beat a sad lament. Everyone stood quietly, the sound of Beryl Prince's weeping the only break in the cold silence. The crowd of over 500 included people from all walks of life: active soldiers, veterans, Manitoba's Lieutenant-Governeor Jobin, Consuls representing France, Italy, and the United States, farmers, fisherman, trappers, businessmen and many others.
It was November 30, 1977. Thomas Prince had died on November 25 in Deer Lodge Hospital. During the interveningfive days the public had learned something new about him from radio, television and the newspapers. Everyone there knew something of this Canadian war hero, but few, if any, knew th efull story of his life.
Memories floated in the air, either brightening or darkening the minds of people who had known him at different times and under dramatically different circumstances.
Joe Roulette of Grand Marais, Manitoba, read about his death in a local paper. He remembered Tommy Prince for they had worked together as lumberjacks north of Pine Falls one winter.
"What a guy! I never knew he was a war hero! He was just a bush man like the rest of us. Mind you, though, Tommy was a different sort of fellow. He wouldn't let anyone beat him at anything. If someone on the gang cut three cords of wood a day, Tommy would get up an hour earlier the next day so that he could cut three and a quarter cords. He was obsessed with being the best."
Joe chuckled as he remembered a trick the bush gang had played on Tommy. The boys decided to beat Prince and, as the cutting progressed one day, each man furtively slipped Joe some of the logs he had cut. Tommy watched Joe's pile grow and worked furiously to keep abreast. At quitting time, Joe recorded four cords of wood, cut and piled. Despite working exceptionally hard Tommy had only recorded three and a half cords. He refused to leave, and worked another two hours until he had cut slightly over four cords. Only then did he return to the bunkhouse to eat and sleep. That Saturday night, while drinking in the local hotel, the gang told Tommy of the trick. He took the joke with good humour, but when the boys offered to buy his beer as an apology, Tom refused. He bought them beer instead.
"That was Tommy," reflected Joe. "He was a good giver but a bad receiver."
John Haslam of Orillia, Onario, read of Thomas Prince's death in a Toronto newspaper and remembered his experiences with him. They had both been privates in the Royal Canadian Engineers -lowly Sappers whose job it was to build bridges, roads and runaways. After two years of training in Canada and England, the boredom was driving Prince mad. Two years in the war and their unit had not seen one bit of action. He remembered Prince as a man who ran up to five miles a day and then spent an hour boxing with anyone available just as a relief from the daily tedium of army life. John Haslam vividly remembered Prince saying, "I joined the army to fight, not to sit around drinking tea." Everyone was pleased when Prince announced that he had been accepted into the First Canadian Parachute Battalion. Almost immediately, he was transferred to the Royal Air Force station at Ringway. Prince had been ecstatic, for the military pararchuting was relatively new in those days and, not only did it sound exciting, but it also held out the promise of getting him into action against the enemy.
To Peter Cottingham of Neepawa, Manitoba, Prince's death also brought memories. Like Prince, he had completed parachute training. Just as training was finished word had come of the formation of the First Special Service Force, a combined unit of Canadian and American soldiers, composed of the toughest fighting men of the two armies. This new force would be used as spearhead troops in the most difficult and dangerous areas of battle. These outstanding soldiers were sent to Montana for highly specialized training.
Cottingham recalled:
On our arrival at Ft. William Henry Harrison, just west of Helena, we were required to take a short refresher parachute course consisting of two jumps from a C-47 airplane. On our first jump fourteen of us went up in the aircraft. When we had bailed out and were drifting towards the ground, it was common practice to look around at the other fellows floating down with you. On this occasion we counted not fourteen but thirteen parachutes. When we got together on the ground we asked who was missing and someone noticed that there was no Tom Prince among us. This was rather odd as Tom had already completed about a dozen or so jumps prior to this, and there was a rule that if someone failed to jump, they would be returned to their previous unit without any further consideration.
At that point our plane made a large circle in the sky and came back over the jump area, and one lone parachutist bailed out. It was Tom. When he arrived on the ground we gathered around to hear what had happened. He had a very sheepish look on his face and his exact words were, "I guess I am a chicken Indian." He had just had a bad moment which he was quick to recover from, and he went on to prove to everyone that he was anything but "a chicken Indian."
Wellington Simon (Bill) Johnson, a veteran and retired miner living in Vancouver, read in a local paper of Tom Prince's death. He had served with Prince in the Italian campaign and remembered several times when Tom had been assigned the job of a sniper where the safety of many soldiers would depend upon his accurate sharp shooting. Prince's disregard for his own safety was both appreciated and deprecated by his fellow soldiers. Once, noted Bill, he remembered seeing Tommy head out on a patrol and hearing one soldier disparagingly remark, "There goes Prince trying to win another medal to prove he is brave."
In Toronto, Lieutenant-Colonel Tom Gilday (retired), Prince's Battalion Commander during the Anzio Beach campaign, heard of the funeral on the radio. He offered a silent salute to a great warrior as he recollected how Tom Prince's actions had won him one of the army's most coveted decorations, the Military Medal. On that one day Prince had saved the lives of hundreds of Canadian and American soldiers.
In his office in Winnipeg, Lawrence Whitehead, President of the Manitoba Indian Brotherhood, reflected upon the life on Tom Prince. After Prince left the army in 1945, he was asked to be Chairman of the Manitoba Indian Association. Reluctantly, Prince accepted the task and prepared a brief for presentation to the Federal Government asking for a revision of the Indian Act. In June 1947. Prince eloquently argued before the Royal Commission in Ottawa, about the need for better educational facilities on reserves, improved housing, economic development, and the protection of the rights of the Indians to hunt, trap and fish.
"The same battles are still being fought," mused Whitehead, "but we made significant progress. Do we appreciate," he wondered, "how much our progress has been helped by the pioneer efforts of men like Prince, who helped create a public awareness of our plight?"
In a senior citizens' home an elderly lady, Miss Edith Carnwarther, watched the television coverage of the funeral on the 6: o'clock news. In 1929, she had been a teacher in the Elkhorn Residential School and vividly remembered Tommy Prince. "Poor Tommy," she thought, "I knew you were unhappy during those years. You always talked about being an engineer but didn't realize how important it was that you become good in arithmetic and science. You had a great dream but somehow the immediate desire to hunt and shoot interfered with it. You were a good boy but kept too much to yourself. You didn't really want to have anything to do with the other students."
As the coffin was lowered into the ground, Beryl and Beverly Prince, Tommy's daughters, shed tears. When the officer in charge presented Beverly with the Canadian flag which had been draped over the coffin, the flow of tears increased. Who were all these strangers, both military and civilian, honouring her father with apparent sadness and great respect? Where had they been these past years when her father, crippled from machine gun wounds, was forced to work at menial jobs to keep alive? Were honour and respect given to a man only after his death? Did these people really care or was this just a colourful pageant performed by white people for entertainment?
In Holiday Haven Nursing Home in Charleswood, Gilbert Hooper fretted and wished he wasn't in a wheel-chair. It would have been nice to attend the funeral. Gilbert had been the gardener at Winnipeg City Hall for 25 years before he retired, and saw Tommy often after his return from the Korean war.
What a fine man Prince was. I enjoyed hearing him talk about his war exploits, showing me his medals. Maybe I had a different perspective because I had been in the Air Force for five years during the Second World War. Still, it didn't seem right that others avoided him because they felt his war stories were boring. Is there no respect for the people who kept our country free? Mind you, too often after the war, Tom Prince got drunk with other fellows on Main Street. But he never caused any trouble when he was drinking. And when he was sober he was a loner - wanting to have nothing to do with nobody. Most nights he'd just buy a jug of wine and go home to drink alone. Just the same, it's sad that nobody helped him and he ended up in a room in the Salvation Army. People should help heros when they get old. Whenever I found Tommy drunk on City Hall property, I didn't call the police. I just sobered him up and helped him get home. It was the least I could do for a war hero.
Ed Higham of St. Tital reflected upon his war experiences with Prince as the final notes of the Last Post echoed among the tombstones.
How do you judge a man like Prince? He was a glory seeker who, although admirable in so many ways, was also a danger to everyone else. Men feared patrol work with Prince, for he took too many chances and unduly endangered their lives. It was obvious that even the battalion leaders were restraining Tom at times, much to his resentment. Yet, most of the men admired that very daring - as long as Tom didn't demand the same disregard of personal safety from them.
Ed, as a former constable in the Winnipeg Police Force, was aware that the police were well acquainted with Prince. He rarely caused any trouble, but often got so drunk that he couldn't walk. Prince never ended up in the "drunk tank." Out of respect, he was always driven home, where he would thank the police and reward them with a rather tipsy salute. He was, as one policeman said, "an amiable drunk."
Memories such as these, revived by news media coverage of the funeral, made the contradictions very obvious. What was this man really like? What drove him to do the things he did? Was he a true hero or an unhappy man who risked death, hoping to escape from a complicated world he could neither understand or be happy in? What drove him to risk his life and perform such heroic deeds? Did he do these things because he loved his fellow man or because he sought personal glory?
The answer to these questions might be found in the story of Tommy's heritage and his early years growing up on the Reserve.
Previous Page Next Page