Remembering Lucien
By: James Milks
Tags: Royal Canadian Navy, World War II, Remembrance Day, Canada, Military History

Remembering Lucien

Lucien in the center, with his brother René at left and his brother-in-law Fernand Pichette, photographed in Europe in 1945. (Photographer unknown, family collection)

My grandfather Lucien, or “Lou” as many people called him, was the eldest of nine children born to Sylvio Isabelle and Juliette Morin in Hull, Quebec.

Following the completion of grade 8 and then a 2 year commercial Pressman course, he worked over the next 4 years as an apprentice and then assistant until finally reaching master status at T.C. Miller in Hull, for the princely sum of $30 per week.

In June of 1939 , Lou joined the Governor General’s Foot Guard (GGFG) in Ottawa shortly before the regiment was placed on active service for local protection duties after Canada’s declaration of war on Germany.

Perhaps his earlier experience with the GGFG led to his decision to make his way to Ottawa on on July 31, 1942, to volunteer for the Royal Canadian Naval Volunteer Reserve (RCNVR), later entering active service on January 8, 1943, as a Stoker, 2nd class — an antiquated term for what was essentially a person who keeps the boat powered and afloat. The following year would see him do extensive training in Canada and then in Scotland and England at HMCS Niobe and HMS Attack, earning a promotion to Stoker, 1st class.

The completion of his training coincided with the formation of two flotillas of Motor Torpedo Boats (MTB) — the 29th and 65th — manned entirely by Canadians using British vessels. Lou was assigned to MTB 727 of the 65th, captained by Les McLernon of Montreal on February 23, 1944.

MTB 727 (Source)

MTB 727 a was a heavily armed 110 foot long boat made of wood powered by 4 Packard engines which produced 5000 horsepower, making it a highly effective high-speed raider ship for hit-and-run missions.

The MTB flotillas were tasked with escort, coastal defence, anti-submarine, minesweeping, search and rescue duties as well as simply “looking for trouble”, which was rarely hard to come by in the English Channel.

The crew of MTB 727. Lucien is third from the left in the front row. (source)

Life on the boats of the 65th wasn’t easy. Most of the work was done under the cover of darkness, with boats setting sail just before sundown as not to be spotted by German air force patrols, returning to port shortly before sunrise.

Some nights were boring, spent floating waiting for enemy convoys or listening for activity below the surface by the dreaded U-boats. Other outings were adrenaline fueled full speed attacks resulting in boats limping back to dock with bullet riddled hulls and blood soaked decks .

The fatality rate was a staggering 38%, with many sailors deemed as missing in action because while on deck they “didn’t hang on at the right moment” as boats swerved dodging enemy fire and crafts.

As they say, there are no atheists in the foxholes, and to paraphrase that, there were no atheists in the MTBs either. Malcolm Knox — Former CO of MTB 743

My grandfather, like many veterans, rarely discussed his time spent overseas during the war. One of the few memories he shared was about a time he went above deck following an attack. “There was blood everywhere…we lost some good fellows that night…”, seemingly not finishing what he was going to say and wiping a tear from his eye as he moved the conversation onto another subject.

Life below deck for stokers was also challenging. The fumes from the 5200 gallon fuel reservoirs made breathing a challenge, and the four Packard 12 cylinder engines generated a deafening sound so loud that sailors used hand signals to communicate. Imagine that as your office all while speeding through rolling seas avoid enemy fire.

Adding to the misery was the fact that the crew of up to thirty men lived on the boats, making sleeping during the day almost impossible as that was when the boats were repaired and maintained. Mental health also suffered, as men could never escape their conditions, pushing one sailor to pull the pin on a grenade and jump overboard while gripping the explosive.

On D-Day, the 65th flotilla was responsible for preventing German warships from attacking Allied vessels on the western flank as they ferried troops and equipment across the English Channel to Normandy.

Lucien and other Ottawa area men featured in the Ottawa Citizen of June 17, 1944.

By the summer of 1944, the small boat flotillas had deservedly earned the respect of naval forces. Ian Davidson who was assigned to MTB 748 wrote in his memoirs “To belong to this flotilla was one of the most sought after positions in the navy. Everyone was a volunteer — the flotilla was seen as exciting, dangerous and rather glamorous.”

To belong to this flotilla was one of the most sought after positions in the navy. Everyone was a volunteer — the flotilla was seen as exciting, dangerous and rather glamorous. ~ Ian J. Davidson

A clip from the Winnipeg Tribune , June 17, 1944.

After the decommissioning of the 65th MTB Flotilla, Lou was sent back to Niobe on May 16, 1945. But unlike many sailors who volunteered for service, he didn’t receive a discharge and was instead sent to HMCS Naden (CFB Esquimalt) in British Columbia, arriving on July 28, 1945.

While there are no indications in his service records as to why this was the case, I can only conclude that he was to be assigned to a flotilla being formed to “go after the Japanese” as was indicated by Ron Rhine of MTB 748 in his Veterans Voices interview, which had not yet surrendered. The surrender would come on August 14, 1945, and Lou’s discharge came shortly thereafter.

Following the war, life resumed much the same way it likely would have had he not served. Lucien married my grandmother Yolande upon returning to Hull, and started a family.

Despite expressing that he would like to have become an engineer in his discharge interview, Lou returned to his pre-war career and took a government job with the National Printing Bureau, where we would work for some 30 years.

After his retirement from government, he started “Lou’s Sharpening” — a saw and knife sharpening business in Chelsea, Quebec, while also working as a Commissionaire. Somewhat impulsively, he decided to get his pilot’s license and purchased a Cessna float plane which he docked at Kirks Ferry on the Gatineau river, but never moved forward with starting a charter business.

A Joe Flemming hand painted sign which was at Lou’s drop-off depot at Harky’s Garage

In the late 1970s or early 1980s he was diagnosed with lung cancer and underwent successful surgery to remove a lung, beating the odds and fully recovering. The only lasting effect was a medical exemption permitting him to drive without wearing a seatbelt (he claimed it hurt his scar). Seatbelt usage was being heavily enforced at the time by way of police checkpoints. He relished in being stopped and presenting his exemption form, usually adding “I went to war for this country”, implying that that should have been enough to be exempt.

He was very active with the Hull branch of the Canadian Legion, where he helped with fundraising and played darts while he reminisced with others who could relate in a way the rest of us couldn’t.

On the night of March 22, 1991, while on his way home from the Legion he was killed instantly when his car left the highway only a few kilometres from his house.

Despite spending nearly 15 months at sea in one of the Navy’s most dangerous units and surviving cancer, he lost his life in a VW on a quiet country road at age 69. Funny how life can be.