My mother, Grace Attix, was raised by her grandfather, Judge Octavo Barker. The Judge had served in the American Civil War, and had been captured and imprisoned in the terrible Andersonville Prison. He was one of the few that survived.

Mother grew up with stories of the horrors of warfare of that time, where advancing troops had to crawl over their fallen comrades and had to charge into the blasts of the firing guns of the enemy.

When WWII broke out, mother understandably, had no desire to see her boys become “cannon fodder” serving the authorities in high places who were incapable of settling differences without such horrible actions.

My brother Frank (Bud) had broken his arm as a child and was exempt from service but left home to work, I believe, so that I could stay on the farm. During WWII men, even very young men like me could be deemed exempt if they were needed to produce crops. I remember Mother and Pop visiting there friend Colonel Harry Sharp who as well as being principal at North Battleford Colligate was the recruiting officer in the area. I may be wrong but I think at least part of the purpose of that visit was to see that I did not need to go to war.

My brother, George Orin Tatro, being born at the time of the close of the First World War, so was of an age eligible for WWII and with no excuse not to went for his military training in Nova Scotia. We, at home, were advised that he would have embarkation leave before going overseas, but we didn’t know just when that would be, nor how he would get home.

At that time the train station at the little hamlet of Brada, less than 2 miles from our house, was a ‘flag stop,’ where passenger trains stopped only if flagged down, or there was occasion to let off a rare passenger.

Much to our surprise one day, the CNR passenger train stopped where the track passed through our farm only a quarter-mile from our house. As the train pulled away, a flashy young soldier in uniform came walking up the road. It was George. Rather then stopping at Brada, the train conductor, thoughtfully, stopped the train just for George’s benefit.

We were always anxious for the letters received from George from overseas. One in particular, when George was posted in northern Scotland, really amused us. We all had grown up in the company of our Scottish step-grandfather, Davide Strachan, who kept his native accent as long as he lived. In this particular letter George wrote from Scotland that it was so strange to listen to the young boys talk – he thought it was only old men who talked like that!

At the end of the war, George did come home, and shortly after was joined by his new bride and their baby daughter. Having served his country and earning the right of choice he took up the farm and much as I loved farming it was time for me to carry on with my education and move on from the farm.

*This story was first published in The Senior Paper.