I joined the Royal Canadian Navy when I was 19. Up until that time I had led a fairly sheltered life. I had received the average amount of pampering from my parents and the usual amount of discipline from my teachers. Then overnight, I became a “new entry seaman,’ no more or less important than thousands of other Canadian boys. I arrived in Halifax one cold, dark, damp November night and was hustled to a gigantic depot where I shared sleeping quarters with over 200 men from all parts of the world. The following morning I was picked up at dawn and taken to the Naval barracks. There I was issued a kit, checked in and out of campus offices, poked in the arm with needles, yelled at, hustled about, inspected and examined until I felt like a side of beef. As is the custom with new recruits, not one single soul treated me as a human being. In just a matter of hours I had lost my name and become number V50531. Late in the afternoon, after I had completed this process known as barracks routine, I was taken to meet the Chief Petty Officer under whose command I would remain for four years. As I entered his office he held out his hand and with a smile on his face, welcome to me. At that moment he made a friend of me forever. Over the years I have kept in touch with this man who is now a permanent radio executive. I shall always remember him as the only man of some 200 who treated me like a human being on November 17, 1942.
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