From the late 1950s through the early 1970s it was a summertime routine for our family (father and mother, Michael and Isabel, kids, Brian, Nancy, Kevin, and Patrick), to visit Winnipeg. We would usually drive from wherever we lived at the time (Toronto, and later Minneapolis), and would invariably stay with my grandfather, John (Jack) Slator, and the family (Aunty Di, Aunty Helen, Sandy and Allison), at the house on Horace St. in St. Boniface, Manitoba. In those years my grandfather was a custom shoemaker who operated a business from a workshop in the backyard of the Horace St. address. On various occasions I was able to sit out there with him, watching him work, and sometimes talking with him about the past.

At the time, the early to late 1960s, there was a particular cultural interest in war stories and memorabilia, particularly World War II. That is, there were several primetime television shows on fictionalized wartime themes (Combat!, starring the late Vic Morrow being a particular favorite with my peers), many, many war movies were released during that time, from "The Great Escape" to "Bridge over the River Kwai", there were some silly diversions like Hogan's Heroes, and a wide range of books were published, including "The Wooden Horse" and "Ten Seconds Over Tokyo" (the only book to give me such nightmares that I could never finish reading it). Most of this material was devoted to glorifying war in some regard, and the prepubescent early teens of my age group were devoted to the study of these things. Something like dinosaurs are now, but to a somewhat younger crowd.

On this basis, then, I was able to question my grandfather about his wartime experiences. Looking back, I think he barely tolerated these sessions. He did not regale me with lengthy narratives, but I think my questions did stir certain memories in him, and he did give me a few details beyond the minimum.

According to my recollection of these few conversations, it went like this:

John Slator was an apprentice shoemaker in England, where he had learned to operate every piece of machinery in the shoe factory. But then, the English economy was devastated by the "Great Coal Strike" which led to the closing of many factories. [Note: the "Strike" would have to be a "great" strike, in England, between 1905, when he was 13, and 1914 when WWI started or 1915 by which time he was definitely in the army.]

I understood from the story as it was told that he was actually in Ireland just prior, and that he travelled to England for what I took to be a new job, and that he landed on the exact day the strike began. There were no jobs to be had, and he didn't have enough money to make his way back. I distinctly remember asking "Were you broke?", and his answer "No, but I was very badly bent".

It was in this period, I think, that he joined the army initially, because it was the only way he could get back to Ireland. This last might be confused in my memory, as I also recall the reason for joining the RIC was that Ireland was in turmoil after the Easter Rebellion of 1916, and joining the RIC was the only way for him to get back to Ireland after World War I. At any rate, it's clear he was stationed in Ireland by 1915, as that is when he met and married Mary Nugent. And he was also stationed in Ireland after the war, as a member of the RIC, from 1920 to 1922 when Ireland became independent and the RIC was simultaneously disbanded. It may be the "only way to get back" reasoning was in force for both events.

During World War I, John Slator served with the Inniskilliing Fusiliers, and fought in the trenches in France. Contrary to the records of his release, his highest rank was Chief Warrant Officer, a non-commissioned officer, outranking Sargeant, during a period when he served with the regimental Quartermaster. He was "mentioned in dispatches" on more than one occasion for exemplary service.

He was the victim of a gas attack during this period (and he suffered from emphysema the rest of his life as a consequence).

I distinctly remember him relating how each soldier was issued two gas masks, which were little more than fabric hoods that had been chemically treated to keep out the gas. They were given two because the chemical protection would only last for a short period (15 minutes?), and if the gas attack lasted longer than that, the soldiers were trained to swap masks. There was a technique for this swapping that he pantomimed for me, where the soldier pulled the first mask off with one hand while scooping the second one over his face in one coordinated motion. It was in the course of this procedure that he was actually gassed, as it was a common problem where a little bit of gas would be captured in the second mask, as it was opened, if the gas were thick in the air. He told me he choked and vomited inside the mask, but keeping it on despite that was what saved his life.

He was at the Battle of Ypres, in 1915 (a spooky coincidence, as I see from the monument photo that the the 12th Manitobe Dragoons also fought there). He was either gassed at that battle, or was taken prisoner there. In any case, he was a prisoner of war when the Armistice was declared in November, 1918. However, it wasn't until sometime in 1919 that he was released.

He told me once that he was probably the only person I knew who ever fought a duel. When I asked him to tell the story, it came out more as an instance of hand-to-hand combat which took place because he and a German soldier took refuge in the same artillery crater. They fought, he told me, and at one point he spun the man around and kicked him in the behind. He told the story humorously, and laughed, telling me the duel ended in a draw, because it was broken up by the German soldiers who captured him.

I asked if he ever tried to escape, and he said there was no chance of that. The chief thing he remembered was being always hungry and always cold.

I asked if he ever saw a dogfight (aerial combat), and he said it was very seldom they ever saw an airplane, and never an air battle.

I asked him about the tatoo on his forearm, which I can't remember very well, as it was quite faded by then. He related how it was applied by a man using a needle stuck in a cork. He showed me how he made a fist, and said that the artist would hold him steady by clamping his fist between his knees. I asked when he got it done, and he said "When I was young and foolish".

He showed me the scars on his forehead, which were visible on his (left, I think) temple, but which were more like a series of short, jagged, dark lines than a scar. They were, he said, from a shrapnel wound (not a bullet as one document states).