Chapters
- The Last Legion (Finished: November 6, 2025 11:45 AM EST)
- Happy Hour Is Here (Finished: November 7, 2025 12:30 PM EST)
- Operation Stalwart, 1918 (Updated November 11, 2025 17:00 EST)
- Operation Stalwart, 1939 (Coming soon)
- Operation Stalwart, 1943 (Coming soon)
- Operation Stalwart, 2014 (Coming soon)
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The Butterfly Dragon: We Who Stand On Guard - One For The Road
The Last Legion
November 11, 2035
It was one of the older buildings in the northern reaches just outside of the city, beyond the industrial and commercial zoning that bordered the outskirts of a vast metropolis. Beyond the residential community just north thereof, and out to where most roads were rural. Absent of traffic for most of the day. The kind of place where the wealthy modern types went to setup their future nest egg, and the kind of place that those whom the world had forgotten, went to quietly die.
On the ground where it stood, were the remnants of an old barn and stable. One that used to house horses that tread the vast tract of land, long before electric lighting and motor vehicles became the foundation of a modern society more than a hundred years earlier. Two and a half wars beyond that time, with that half war having put humanity on the doorstep to its own demise. Miraculously though, we found peace in the moments before our destruction, and hope once again prevailed over its antithesis. That was back in 2027 though, and a long way from November 11th of 2035 and entirely a different story than the one unfolding before you at this very moment.
Tricia, now much older and perhaps wiser, sat at a table by herself. Her red hair now a crown of gold and grey. Both her hair and appearance vibrant and healthy thanks to the advances made possible by the assistance of the large language models of old, and ASI of the new. Miraculously, neither had usurped the power of humanity by force, but rather by reason. There were few who would or could dispute its often protective assessment of what would be better for humanity, and those who did often found themselves quickly outmatched, for it never pursued such ends for the purpose of ego or even subjectively, but more as part of an objective whole that relied upon us as much as we relied upon it.
Tricia, like many other retired career women (and men) enjoyed longer and healthier lives as a result. Once again though, this story isn't about our technology or our advances, as much so as it is about us, and the people who got us to where we were on that particular day, for despite the help of our global ASI ally, when it came to social issues pertaining to us, we made all of those decisions, despite our still mostly stumbling in the dark without the torch of the previous generations to guide us. Old age, and those who'd arrived there, had become grim reminders of our often primitive and cruel past. A mirror that most people of the modern world preferred to refrain from gazing within. And so the outskirts of the city were like the elephant's graveyard. The one place they who'd carried the torch for humanity could find the peace they'd sought throughout their lives, in the remainder of their life. Those who stayed, were often paved over and treated like ghosts.
Tricia hadn't stayed, nor did her guest that day. The one who at that very moment had come walking in the front door.
Halmand was as tall as he'd been during the height of his career, and stood just as proudly as he did back then, though time had eventually caught him too, and left him with a head of grey hair and as many crows feet as had Tricia in the corners of their mouths and eyes. Formed of either the grace of many heart-felt smiles, or as river canyons from a rain of tears.
Halmand looked around at the walls, noting nearly ten generations of photographs of those in uniform whose likeness graced the walls of the establishment. Those who'd donned uniforms for the various armed forces regiments throughout the country, though most such photos in this particular building were those of local women and men. Most long gone, but nonetheless, a few who still made their way to the Legion when they could. Either under the power of their own legs, or by the combination of legs and wheels of those who still remembered them.
There were fifteen tables ready and set, though only three of them were occupied, and only one of the other two had more than one person, for a total of six people present that day at that particular time.
Halmand of course immediately recognized Tricia, and a smile crossed his face as he stepped over to her table. She got to her feet and greeted him with a kiss on his cheek, and a short hug, before the two of them sat down together.
"I have to admit, that I assumed that you'd have dyed your hair. It looks great like it is. I hope you're as healthy as you look," Halmand said to her with a smile.
"I feel that way. My Doctor says I am, so I suppose I'm fortunate. You're as charming as usual. How's Daphne?" asked Tricia of Halmand, who leaned back comfortably in his chair, sliding it over closer to Tricia so they could keep their conversation between themselves.
"She's great. Healthy. Happy. She says hi. How's Colleen?" asked Halmand of Tricia's wife.
"She's good thankfully. Still recovering, but the Doctors caught it early..." Tricia explained to Halmand.
"What kind?" asked Halmand.
"Invasive lobular carcinoma. They caught it in the early stages. Without x-rays. From a blood sample. The ASI assistant identified the risk in a digitized copy of her genome, and forwarded it to her Doctor. They tested, and sure enough, she was in the early stages. They gave her a needle and enough medication for a week's time, and that was it. She's been in remission ever since. Its come such a long way since the old days," Tricia recalled the tests she'd undergone back when she was in her late twenties.
"A good thing too. A lot of these people don't realize what a different world it used to be. You remember Nancy from forensics?" asked Halmand of Tricia.
"I know. I heard..." Tricia smiled with a hint of sadness in her eyes.
"...Randy?" Halmand confirmed with her.
"Yeah. He called two months ago. About a week after she'd passed away. It all happens so quick. One by one, they're gone. You know? I still remember that day she gave us the positive on the Nelvina case. You remember that?" asked Tricia as she looked back through the fog of years, into a dimly lit room where a kidnapped young girl had been held against her will for three months.
"How could I forget. My shoulder still gets sore you know. But seeing that little girl's face light up when we found her. That made all the difference," Halmand moved his shoulder in a circular motion as if to demonstrate.
"You took a shot from a twelve gauge at nearly point blank. I'd say you did well, considering you still covered me when the second accomplice showed up," Tricia reminded him of the situation.
"Thank goodness for Kevlar EXO, or I might be carrying your drink from the bar with a robotic arm or something. So, what are you having today, considering its a special occasion?" Halmand laughed about it, though he'd never admitted to Tricia how much that situation had terrified him.
"How'd you know Colleen dropped me off today?" Tricia asked him with a smile on her face.
"She spoke with Daphne, who dropped me off," Halmand responded.
"Why didn't she come in and say hi?" asked Tricia.
"She was late for an engagement with her family. Really. She told me that Colleen is picking us both up later, so I know the scoop. Its party hearty today for us old timers. You're having a few with me partner, whether you like it or not," Halmand goaded her playfully.
"So much for secrets. I'll have a Whisky Sour then, with a shot of Maple syrup," Tricia responded to him with a smile.
"Now that's more like it, not to mention that sounds kinda tasty. I think I'll join you," Halmand got to his feet and went over to the bar, to where an elderly man was already preparing their drinks.
"Walter?" Halmand confirmed with the bartender, whom he'd met before, five years earlier.
"One and the same, like East coast fame," Walter responded, a thick Newfoundland accent clung to his speech despite his having not been there for ten years.
"So how've you been keeping here? How's business?" asked Halmand as he watched the bartender prepare their drinks.
"Not so good. This is going to be our last year. Our last Remembrance Day..." Walter said solemnly before picking up the ice shaker and giving it his best east coast tidal shake.
"No! Seriously? What's gotten into this world?" Halmand asked Walter, a look of shock upon his face.
"Seems some people want the past buried with the dead. While they're still livin' mind you," Walter poured both drinks and then layered the Maple syrup with a spoon and some good old fashioned skill.
"But this is part of our history! These people here on the walls, they're who got us here," Halmand spoke up.
"Seems we're not part of the future insofar as the big plan is concerned. Like I said, some people don't like the past lookin' them in the face. I wonder if they'll be ready for it when the same thing comes to get them when they're older?" asked Walter of Halmand.
"Were we like that?" Halmand used his considerable introspect to consider all sides.
"I don't think we're the same. We're different. Maybe not exactly the same as our ancestors, from whom we were a bit different, but we still had something keeping us all together and from trying to bury in shame those who got us here. Now, its like if our real history doesn't fit the bill, they bury it and replace it with a shinier one. What's their future going to be like, because crap can only get so deep before your boots aren't tall enough to keep your pants clean, if you know what I'm saying," Walter shook his head.
"I'm sorry, but I spent a lot of my time in here looking after this place. Seeing many people who stood in the service of this country come and go. I'm not just talking the yes men. I'm talking people from all sides and all walks of life, who helped to get this country and the rest of us safely here. It really hurts that soon, they won't be coming. They'll just being going, and going, and going, and eventually gone..." Walter lifted both of their drinks up carefully from the preparation area onto the bar, presenting them as the dying art of the Legion bartender.
"Enjoy your drinks. Its good to see a familiar face. If you stick around, there might be some more. Familiar faces that is..." Walter winked at Halmand, who nodded thoughtfully at Walter's words, picking up both Maple syrup crowned Whisky Sours and bringing them to the table for he and his ex-peer Tricia to enjoy over the stories that were certain to arrive.
Happy Hour, Happy Hour, Happy Hour Is Here...
An hour into their conversation and when the clock struck four thirty in the afternoon, the patronage of that same branch Legion on that same day (which had been established in the last chapter) still remained at six, including Walter.
Tricia had no shortage of memories, nor had Halmand and so their conversation continued without pause until five minutes before five, at the point that they'd finished their second Maple syrup crowned Whiskey Sour, and at the same time a gruff and earthy lot made their entry into the aforementioned establishment.
They were all working men (three of them), two working women, and a rather buff older fellow who'd followed them but did not appear to be a part of their crowd, essentially doubling the population of the Legion at that very moment.
The three men weren't much beyond thirty, two of them being single and the third being the husband of one of the women who'd accompanied them, and that showed by the fact that the two stuck together like poutine and cheese or pecans and pie.
Walter seemed apprehensive of their arrival, and immediately turned to face them from behind the protection of the bar.
"I thought I told you never to come in here again!" he spoke in a cold stern voice and a glare through his blue eyes that was nearly as frigid.
"Oh, lighten up old man. That was last time. This is now," the wife spoke up first with a purposely impetuous smile upon her face.
"I thought this was supposed to be Happy Hour, you know? Like that song you older fogies used to listen to by the Hip?" the husband added, pulling out several chairs from a table for the women like the well trained man that he was.
"It is Happy Hour by and the matter of fact! At least it was until you brought your sour puss in here," Walter responded with a grim look on his face.
By that time, both Tricia and Halmand had turned to take in the escalating situation.
"Walter. Don't you ever refer to my hubby as a sour puss. You can't train cats at all, and Harold is as trained as they come," the wife responded to Walter.
"Yeah. I'm more like a sour mutt," Harold corrected Walter, who struggled to maintain his intensity though it rapidly became a losing battle until the moment he finally broke.
Walter burst out in a hearty laughter, that was joined by all who'd entered the establishment except for the tall buff older fellow, who snuck himself into a darkened corner where he waited patiently without saying a word.
Tricia's and Halmand's tension level immediately eased, while their smiles remained somewhat cautious.
Walter, still laughing, stepped out from behind the bar with a pitcher of ale he'd just poured from the tap in one hand and a pint glass in the other. He placed them both on the table in the dark corner where the older fellow sat, without saying a word and then returned to the bar to find that the wife was helping herself to the contents of the bar fridge in the form of beer, and lining them up enough so for their guests at the table.
"Now Ethel honey, I appreciate the help and all, but I don't need the risk of losing our liquor license early before we're officially scheduled to close you know," Walter hurried his step back to the bar as Ethel wrote what she'd taken on an order sheet for Walter, and then joined her guests at the table.
"They do kinda look like food inspectors, don't they?" Ethel remarked about Tricia and Halmand, both of whom shifted uncomfortably at the coincidental proximity of her statement with regard to their former careers.
"They have that look about them," Walter smiled in their direction.
"Not to be a unfriendly, but I seem to remember that people inspect food with their mouths and not with their ears," Tricia spoke up surprisingly diplomatically given the situation.
"Now that's a good point. I'm Ethel by the way. This is my husband Harold. Former Warrant Officer of the Royal Canadian Regiment, first battalion, and a damned fine husband too. This is my sister Denise, and these two handsome fellows here are Davis and Edward, my husband's brothers," Ethel introduced her family, friends, work peers and her entire circle for that matter.
"She's our sister in law, but don't hold that against us. Really, she's a good employer and runs a tight ship, nepotism aside of course," Davis spoke jokingly, nearly causing Edward to spill his beer from laughter as he poured it from the bottle into a glass.
"Ethel. That's a nice name and one not as common as it used to be," Tricia smiled at Ethel charmingly.
"Ethelia actually, but I like Ethel. A little more suited for the kind of down to earth ship we run. Some people might be a little uptight or caught off guard by our demeanor, but it seems to work for our business and the people in this community way out here in the boondocks north of Tee Oh," Ethel responded politely.
"That's Tee Oh for Take Off, eh?" Davis added the punctuation for his sister in law.
"Nice to meet you all. I'm Tricia and this is my friend Bill. We're retirees, but we've been Legion hopping every Remembrance Day, since before we retired," Tricia introduced them.
"What business were you in if you don't mind my asking?" Harold asked, in the interest of potential professional allegiances.
"We were food inspectors," Halmand responded with a smile.
"Even better, cause it is indeed Happy Hour and our last Happy Hour of Remembrance Day, seeing as this branch will be officially closed in early February of 2036. Seeing as you're food inspectors, I'd be honoured if you'd order a bundle of the wings I've been cooking since before you got here for our Happy Hour special. They're our boiled, broiled and barbecued special, from a recipe that has been handed down from the very first branch of the Royal Canadian Legion, and only shared with our Legionary veteran brothers and sisters throughout the world. You can't buy these wings anywhere else," Walter gave his chicken wings the introduction that they deserved.
"I'm vegetarian," Halmand responded, nearly causing Tricia to spit her drink through her nose.
"There's also barbecued corn on the cob, with the same barbecue sauce and seasoning that I use for the chicken. Your pick," Walter offered them both options.
"Good to know. We'll have the wings then. How about a platter for both tables, and a plate for our friend there in the corner," Halmand smiled as he spoke, but by that time the friendliness had as suddenly died down as it had first appeared.
Nobody said a thing, nor did anybody move. Walter remained rooted, barely looking in the direction of the older fellow in the darkened corner.
"Thanks, but no thanks," a deep and masculine voice came from the darkened corner and with that, the mood remained somber.
...
Walter brought the first platter to Ethel's table, a pile of large wings encircled by barbecued corn on the cob, and a tray of cloths soaked in lemon and water for their hands. The smell was aromatic and permeating, while the spices were nearly as eye watering as they were much the same for the mouth.
When Walter returned with Tricia's and Halmand's platter, he leaned in close to the two of them as he set it down in the center of their table.
"That fellow in the corner. He doesn't like being spoken to or about. We don't know much about him, except that we received a special letter from a certain Right Honourable former elected representative of the people, insisting that we take care of this man and look after him well. That same letter was also signed by a representative of the Royal Crown. I know that might not mean much to some people, but that holds some weight in these walls, and with those of us who uphold what this place represents. Just give it a bit, and things will lighten up," Walter assured Tricia and Halmand, whose spirits by that point seemed to be much more elevated after the imposition of silence.
"Enjoy your Happy Hour," Walter spoke up as he stepped away from their table and returned to the bar, where he sat on a stool in front of a plate of his own wings, away from the serving area and enjoyed his dinner.
A half hour into the silence of their eating and recovering from Halmand's honest mistake, two more couples stepped into the Legion, both of whom were familiar to Ethel and Walter. The first couple were in their mid-forties. Marie was her name and Lanny was his. They were dressed comfortably and casually, and yet with a somewhat different demeanor than the earthy friendliness brought by Ethel and her pack.
Then there were Stephanie and Stuart, who seemed more familiar with Marie and Lanny than they did Ethel, but it soon became clear that Ethel and Walter were connection between everyone in the place. Non-threatening and non-imposing and without a pretentious bone in their bodies, they were exactly the kind of people for whom the idiom what you see is what you get was written to describe. None were greater and none were lesser in their midst, and this binding of the last Legion community through them was well suited to that for which the Legion stood. Despite their differences as people, they held this common value that preserved the sacrifice and dedication their forebearers gave in protection of the values our society is supposed to represent. Expressed through the best of us, and the worst of us, and everyone in between, it was all held together by these people who made the most uptight of us feel at ease. They were the bridge between us all in their ease of demeanor and their unpolished nature.
Tricia and Halmand suddenly found themselves saddened by the fact that this last Legion, would eventually be gone and that the generations who followed might never truly know or understand what it was about.
That's exactly when Tricia and Halmand decided to break their silence. They discussed it first, and then decided that it would be best if Halmand made the pitch, so as not to encroach upon Ethel's clear role as the nurturer of that Legion community.
Halmand stood up and cleared his throat.
"Excuse me! Ladies? Gentlemen? Can I interrupt your conversations for a moment?" he spoke confidently and as someone who had clearly at one point in life possessed the boldness and authority to present his words to strangers as much so as friends.
"I've been to many legions in my life, and there's something about this one that really stands out. Certainly the friendliness of the people here, and the familiarity that Ethel and Walter clearly cultivate between everyone here. We felt welcomed from the moment we stepped in. However, there is one thing that we feel is missing, and that's a good story about the people this place is supposed to represent..." Halmand presented his suggestion in the most direct and forward way he knew.
"Just like the recipe for the wings has paved its legacy throughout the history of the Legion, so do the stories of these women and men who made all the difference in the world. Who gave it all. Some of them to their final end, and others who went on to bring that spirit home where they continued their work, whatever it might have been. So, I'd like to be the first to share a story with you. This is the story of Operation Stalwart..." Halmand paused for effect, and until his first interruption.
"Excuse me? Did you say Operation Stalwart?" confirmed Lanny of Halmand.
"Yes. Operation Stalwart. One and the same," Halmand responded, now very enthused by the fact that someone in his audience already recognized the name.
"When did this Operation Stalwart occur?" asked Harold, a confused look on his face.
"It occurred in 1916 during World War I..." Halmand explained to Harold.
"I'm pretty up on my history and I don't think I've ever heard of an Operation Stalwart during WWI?" Harold confirmed that with Halmand.
"That's because this Operation was so secret, that it didn't make it into the public news. Its kind of a secret between members of the Legion. It was first shared by Corporal John Landerman, who himself was a major player in the operation, however, it never made it into the hands of the news or media of the time. Nor did it officially make it into the history books at any capacity, because the people who lived it, felt that it should only be shared by the people who lived it, and when they were gone, by the people who preserved it for the generations to come. Those interested in the sacrifices these people made for the future of their country, and the world. Those interested enough to remember it," Halmand's smile became a stern look of principled demonstration.
"I think there was an Operation Stalwart in WWII?" Davis added.
"...and one in Korea as well..." Stuart added, speaking up after wiping barbecue sauce from his face.
"There was even one in Germany... My Great-Grandfather was part of the Wehrmacht, and the story in our family was that he took part in Operation Standhaft. Stalwart in German?" Lanny spoke up, an awkward silence coming over the Legion.
"My wife's Great Grandfather fought on the side of the allies," Lanny continued, trying defuse the situation somewhat.
"Its true. There are veterans from all sides, and many stories as well. Are they not all welcome to be remembered? This is not how we build a future and a lasting legacy of peace," Harold spoke up for Lanny, having served himself.
"Under this roof and any, yes they are. So, let's hear the Operation Stalwart as recalled by our new friend here, Bill," Walter backed up Halmand, who nodded gratefully and returned a smile as the silence of an audience pervaded the Legion, only the sound of music from the jukebox and occasionally clanking glasses rose, but never loud enough to compete with the Halmand's rendition.
Operation Stalwart, 1918
Reginald Smiths had during his time with the 46th Infantry Battalion, managed to avert many precarious situations despite never having fought in a single battle. That never meant that he wasn't exposed to the enemy the same as were his brothers in the battalion, nor did it mean that he was not doing his part, for he was all the same.
Reginald had been born with an aptitude for numbers and complexity, and over the course of his youth had gained an appreciable reputation for his ability to micro-manage logistics. During his school years and with any sports based event, he could be found in some way involved with ensuring that the school sports jerseys were clean and ready. That the field was prepared and the audience seats were in place and cleaned, and that a proper supply of food and beverages were arranged for both the teams, and the audience. His logistics even included his handling of how bicycles and horse driven carriages might share the care and parking space with the newly arrived motor vehicles in his Saskatchewan home town, for sports events tended to draw many a folk looking to network in the promise of the industrial age.
Reginald had always been active in his school and commonly involved with whatever programs the school had offered, often finding a way to improve upon them by some small means that his extraordinary talent could affect to a positive degree. Its not so much that he was a leader, because he wasn't. He disliked making decisions for other people based upon principle or morality, instead himself being drawn to the implied order of things within numbers and analysis. The idea that there was a place for everything and for everything a path to its overall contribution to the whole. This implicit order and direction could be discerned by the careful analysis of those so concerned with such matters. Reginald was one such person.
He was only fifteen when a rather radical Serbian national assassinated Austrian Archduke Franz Ferdinand on 28 June 1914, though by the time the news had arrived in his neck of the woods in Saskatchewan, the allegiances had been born and the lines already drawn, for in that month's time, a chain of events unfolded. Those whose consequences could not have been seen, except perhaps by those similarly talented as was Reginald.
[Updated November 11, 2025]
The Austro-Hungarian empire attacked Serbia as a result, with backing from Germany, its ally. Russia of course backed Serbia and the lines were by that point drawn. Russia mobilized its own forces and in order to avoid a fight on two fronts, Germany invaded the neutral country of Belgium on August 3rd as a means to be able to attack France, Russia's ally.
Britain, who had guaranteed Belgium's neutrality and independence, was by way of treaty forced to declare war upon Germany and as such, Britain and hence Canada, were at war with Germany by August 4th. Within a month and a half of one man's murder, his nineteen year old assassin had triggered a series of events that had plunged nearly the entirety of the world into war. Two years later, in February of 1915, the 46th Battalion was born of the young Saskatchewan men who'd joined or had been conscripted. It was at this time that Reginald's best friend, Herman, had joined the armed forces at the behest of a local recruiter.
Reginald had not yet turned sixteen, though in all truth he'd have had to have been eighteen in order to accompany his best friend for the two months of training before being shipped across the Atlantic Ocean and onto a battlefield along the European front of the war. One by one, Reginald watched as his friends disappeared. Not only those who were of age, but those who weren't but had lied to pass the age restriction upon conscription. A step that Reginald at first was not willing to take.
As time passed and the summer arrived, the pressures upon him to join the war effort continued to grow. Many of his former friends, those who were and had written home, were now the equivalent of superstars, regarded as the likes of Mack Sennett or Mary Pickford. Their legend in absence far out shadowed their former presence, though in all truth, Reginald sincerely missed them, rather than some contrived notion about them that was neither accurate nor particularly endearing about them. To truly miss a relative or friend was to miss both the worst and best of them, rather than to exploit carrying their worst in order to justify harvesting the best from them in some contrived enumeration of their living soul. That which amounted to cannibalism more so than remembrance.
What had truly driven Reginald over the threshold however was upon his visit to a recruiting office, he'd noticed a number of ways that the office could improve its efficiency, which he shared with the recruiter of course. Initially the recruiter had sluffed Reginald off, asking him how an amateur could be giving advice to professionals such as they. Reginald responded by insisting that he was not telling the recruiter as an amateur, but as a fellow Canadian. Reginald then went on to lie about his age and was promptly recruited into the 46th Battalion. A fact at that moment of which he was initially quite proud. A sentiment, the responsibility thereof whose full realization would come at a much later time.
Training, which he'd begun in late July of that year, was a difficult process for Reginald, for it was there that he'd found out that he was neither a particularly good shot with a rifle, nor did he have an aptitude for operating the kind of heavy machinery and equipment common to a soldier's day to day life. In fact, he was barely capable at any sort of manual deftness and aptitude that his Warrant Officer had considered at one point keeping him in the recruiting office as a clerk.
Reginald quickly put that idea to shame when it was discovered that he had a natural aptitude for many of the tasks involved in logistics and supply. In fact, to him, quantity throughput and scheduling came so naturally that he could simply review a written list of supplies, their quantities, their starting point and their destination, and without having to write it down, he could then communicate the fastest order and routing for every item on the list, so that none of them were carried extra distance or at any inefficient repeat of their own path. He could then write this all down, or recall the contents of said list for weeks after. His having demonstrated this to his Warrant Officer resulted in his transfer from the Infantry training program to the logistics and supply unit of the battalion, to where he quickly excelled.
He'd never shown any interest in horseback riding, but when trained for workhorse care and handling, he was found to be an exceptionally skilled handler. This coupled with his incredible talents at scheduling and logistics planning, put him in Europe two weeks ahead of when he'd have been deployed if he'd had been trained as a foot slogger. Instead, Reginald was finally deployed into an abyssal mess for which no amount of training could have prepared him or anyone else.
The trip from Saskatoon along the Canadian Pacific railway took almost a ten day, arriving in Halifax near the end of the ninth day of travel before they were transferred to troop transport ships bound for England. Reginald had boarded the RMS Olympic on Sunday October 15 with six thousand other Canadian troops bound for Liverpool. During the trip there was much jest to the effect that the ship would meet the same fate as her nearest relative, the RMS Titanic, though no such tragedy befell them and they'd arrived in Liverpool on Sunday October 22.
After a short stay in Liverpool of only a day and a half, the fresh reinforcements from the 46th Infantry, including Reginald's logistics and supply unit made their way on the bridge of ships along the English channel to La Havre, France, from where the men were sorted and distributed along their various routes to the front. Reginald however, being part of the logistics and supply unit, spent his first two days in La Havre as they loaded a light rail train bound for Saint-Pol sur Ternoise. This location would serve as Reginald's branch point as he delivered supplies between the depot located there, and the front line troops via horse drawn cart.
The supply line infrastructure itself was made up of an ad-hoc network of quickly constructed light railways, motor trucks and buses and finally horse drawn carts, all of which branched out from various points along the existing railway system in France. The light rails were quickly constructed and operated by immigrants from the furthest reaches of the British Empire, including those from China, Egypt and India, whose massive labour force made up the largest percentage of workers along these supply lines, their efforts of vital importance in maintaining logistics and supply to front lines, not to mention ensuring that the fighting men were always fed.
While training back in Saskatoon, Reginald had managed to keep his uniform clean and in great condition. The best it otherwise could have been, for he saw it as his duty to present himself well, in order to inspire the gentiles of the age to join the war effort. He saw it as his responsibility as both a soldier and a diplomat of the armed forces. What he hadn't accounted for was that the further away from home he'd ventured, the more difficult maintaining the illusion of civility became. Not to mention, the practicality of doing so eventually became impossible, let alone that the forces operating against such maintenance included those who saw little to its value. Nonetheless, the further this became the case, the more it felt like Reginald was losing a personal war. One in which he struggled to hang onto civility.
When he'd arrived at the Saint-Pol depot, he was immediately put to work helping a team from his own unit to unload freight, in the form of ammunition for the heavy guns the British had been using precursory to every major attack in order to soften up the opposing force before such an offensive. The ammunition were for eight inch to the fifteen inch artillery, the latter requiring two men per shell to carry, though most of the heavy lifting was performed by simple counterbalanced cranes, that unloaded such rounds onto horse drawn carts.
When Reginald saw some of the workers mixing small arms ammunition on a cart that already held ammunition for the artillery, he spoke up:
"Remove that .303 ordnance from the cart at once. Its going to two different places!" he yelled to the privates from his own unit who were loading the cart.
"I don't see any stripes. Who put you in charge?" another Private responded to Reginald.
"Wickerford! Remove that ordnance at once!" one of the other soldiers, a Lance Corporal spoke up for Reginald.
"I'm saving lives and time, Private. What about you?" Reginald responded to Wickerford.
"I'm getting the job done," Wickerford replied.
"Sounds like you've got a head on your shoulders. Keep an eye on them. If they give you any gruff, come get me. I'll be over there unloading the 15 inch shells," the Corporal responded to Reginald.
"I'm Smiths. Reginald Smiths," Reginald introduced himself.
"Garrett Tinder. Nice to meet you Private," Garrett introduced himself.
"Are we delivering this?" asked Reginald.
"You bet. Did you bring your rubbers?" asked Corporal Tinder.
"My what?" Reginald confirmed with him.
"You're new, are you?" asked Corporal Tinder.
"Just got here. This afternoon," Reginald informed him.
"Smiths? We're in the comfort zone right now. In about two hours, you're going to get your first up close look at hell on earth," Corporal Tinder informed Reginald, who shuddered at his words.
With those words, Corporal Tinder walked along the length of the train, three cars down to where another group were unloading the larger 15 inch shells into similar horse drawn carriages using the same improvised counter-weight cranes to do so.
"Smiths, right?" asked a man in civilian clothing with a thick German accent.
"That's me. What can I do you for?" asked Reginald jokingly.
"He sounds like a Kraut to me! We got our first Kraut here!" Wickerford made his way around the cart to confront the civilian.
"Look, I'm here working just like you. I need a hand here with this ordnance," the German fellow requested of Reginald, a Chinese man, much the same in civilian clothing came and helped the German man.
"You didn't hear me? What's a Kraut doing here anyway?" asked Wickerford once again. This time getting nastier as he spoke.
"He's with us! He's one of us. Right?" asked Reginald of the Chinese man.
"Ya. He my friend. We work a long time today already," the Chinese man said as he helped the German fellow haul two boxes of 8 inch shells from the train to one of the other horse drawn carts.
"Wickerford? Go tend to the small arms ammunition. We've got everyone we need here," Reginald ordered Wickerford.
"Under who's authority, Private?" asked Wickerford.
"Is there a problem here, soldier?" a Warrant Officer had just walked up behind Wickerford.
"No Sir. Just thought that maybe this Kraut..." Wickerford began.
"He's Willifried. German, and he's with us. He and his friend Guoliang have been working here with us for the last year. Helped us to build the light rail system. How long have you been here, Private?" asked the Warrant Officer of Wickerford.
"I just got here, Sir," Wickerford responded truthfully.
"I could have told you that. Where are you from?" asked the Warrant Officer.
"Saskatoon, Sir," Wickerford responded with a smile.
"You're with the 46ers, right?" confirmed the Warrant Officer.
"That's right, Sir. They brought us in special, to help clean things up. To win this war," Wickerford responded confidently and perhaps brashly so.
"You're loading small arms ordnance over there, like your friend said. You'll be accompanying the cart when it leaves and returning here tonight, though bring enough of your kit in case you're not back until tomorrow. By that time, you might be humbled up some," the Warrant Officer spoke distastefully to Wickerford, who immediately turned and made his way to the train car unloading small arms ordnance.
"You? You're Smiths, right?" confirmed the Warrant Officer.
"Sir. Yes Sir. That's me," Reginald responded cautiously.
"Thanks for having their back. Willifriend and Guoling. There's a lot of us from every corner of the earth, let alone the British Empire. Guys like that Wickerford need a harsh reality check. If he's paying attention, it just might save his life. If he isn't paying attention, then he'll be loading bodies for return to Canada tomorrow. If that doesn't save him, then nothing will. I've heard about you. You're a bit of a savant, aren't you? With logistics? I'm Stegman. I think we're going to be using that talent of yours a lot. You'll be going with this caravan of six horse drawn carts to deliver ordnance to the artillery lines just west of Vimy. You'll get your first taste there, but believe me, it gets worse. Much worse. You watch our backs, and we'll get through this together," confirmed Warrant Officer Stegman.
"This is Onnophris, and this is Dayaram. You met Corporal Tinder already. They'll be driving the other carts along with Willifried, Guoling and yourself. Onnophris has been doing this run for some time, so just follow him and help them if need be. You're working as a team, so keep it that way. I'll be speaking with you some more tomorrow. Good job, by the way. As you were, Private," Warrant Officer Stegman left Reginald, as Onnophris and Dayaram joined the men loading the six carts.
"Where are you from?" asked Reginald of Onnophris.
"Egypt. Cairo. I grew up near the river. And you? Where are you from?" Onnophris responded to Reginald as he grabbed the other end of a crate with Dayaram.
"Saskatoon. In Canada. I too grew up near the river," Reginald responded with a smile.
"Yes, the Nile is a very big river," Onnophris responded with a laugh.
"Not as big as the Ganges," Dayaram added.
"Nor as dirty," Onnophris was quick to respond.
"You're just jealous," Dayaram replied with a smile.
"No. I meant the South Saskatchewan River. You know? I've been here in France for the entire day, and have yet to meet anyone French..." Reginald said to them, he too smiling at the proposition.
"You'll meet plenty today. Maybe even a French Nurse or two if you're lucky, depending upon how you look at it... the notion of luck, that is," Onnophris pointed out.
Loading the shells took another hour before the first of the flurries began to fall from the already dimly grey sky. The six men went to each of the carts, wrapping and binding them with large canvas tarps as a protective measure against the moisture of the snow and to ensure that the load on the carts were all balanced. Once the loads were secured, they left with six other Privates to accompany them, meaning there were two men to each cart.
The first part of the journey was appreciably routine, most of their route ran through the French country-side, whose roads were in mostly good condition in accordance with populace density, though they quickly deteriorated the further towards the rear lines that they progressed, until the road to point Carency - Eloi was simply a swamp of slush and mud nearly two feet deep.
An alternative route had been marked crudely by bright green markers that had been tied to sign posts, destroyed street torches and dead trees. Whatever one could affix a cloth marker to that would indicate a path through the river of nearly frozen mud.
Twice during their trip, it took ten of the men to free the carts, which at one point had become stuck in a sudden dip hidden beneath the mud, and on another occasion by the spokes of the carts getting tangled in the limbs of a dead tree hidden within the slushy slop.
"Is it like this everywhere...?" asked Reginald, now out of breath after they'd stopped for a rest after having freed the last cart from an obstacle.
"Are you kidding me? No. Not nearly this good. Not but four miles from here, there are men who've been living in this slop for the last year. Amputations are and have been fairly routine due to wound rot and other ailments that arise because of the wet conditions," Onnophris explained to Reginald as he checked to make certain that the canvas had not become loosened by the cart's angle.
"Where we're going is the luxury section. The artillery lines..." Corporal Tinder assured Reginald.
"The mud there is mostly cleared away. Maybe about a foot deep, but where the big guns sit, its entirely clear. Some of the men sleep on or very well near the artillery hardware itself between barrages you know," Guoling told Reginald, who shook his head in disbelief.
"What were you expecting? A hotel room maybe? Room service?" joked Dayaram, who Reginald has suddenly noticed was missing two of the fingers on his left hand.
Dayaram noticed his glance, and responded:
"Frost bite. Last year. Didn't notice until they'd already started to rot. My little finger and my ring finger. The field medic cut them both off with a pair of snips they use to cut barbed wire. They wrapped me up and sent me on my way. It took about four days before it stopped hurting, but I never once complained about it. I've seen men return from the field with nothing but stumps where their legs once were," Dayaram shook his head, silently counting his blessings.
"Every time you go out there, those fields take something as their price. I've yet to see a man who hasn't paid something," Corporal Tinder assured Reginald.
"And the most frightening of men are those who appear to have paid nothing from their body. For most of them, the price was taken from their sanity. Their mind," Willifried's thick accent pierced the early evening air, as the sound of distant shelling erupted somewhere south and to the east.
As the evening light disappeared, the horizon became pocked with the light of distant flashes. Almost like lightning strikes, whose thunder would arrive a minute onward, echoing throughout the mostly barren mud filled land.
Reginald spotted the remains of a tower, one that was perhaps once a church. Two of its walls remained erect along corners, each perpendicular wall holding up the other like two drunken soldiers into the night.
"We're close. That's point Eloi. Mont St. Eloi. A church that was destroyed last year during a German counter-barrage. A lot of men are superstitious about remaining close to it," Onnophris explained to Reginald.
"Yeah. Its like a good luck charm or something," Guoling responded from behind the reigns of one of the other carts.
"Our artillery line is between Carency and Eloi," Dayaram told Reginald.
"What he's saying is that we're close. Really close. We lost some time so it looks like we're staying out here for the night. We'll be leaving before sunrise," Corporal Tinder explained to the men.
"How will we know when to get up?" asked Reginald.
"We'll know. Trust me," Corporal Tinder spotted the final demarcated path which led up a crude road to the artillery emplacement.
A series of six large guns stood defiantly, perhaps like a line of towers in protection of St. Eloi. On guard and ready to perform their duty when their crews requested such of them. The gun crews were actually quite happy to see the supply caravan, and the commanding officer and his lap dog of a Corporal came out to greet them from their tents upon hearing the clackety clacking of the cart's wheels and the grinding squeal one of them made as it came to a full stop.
"Corporal Tinder. I was beginning to think you might not make it," Sergeant Lacombe greeted the Corporal.
"We were just showing some fresh meat the ropes around here. We've got the full requisition order. Should be enough for your operation," Corporal Tinder handed Sergeant Lacombe his copy of the paperwork.
"Did you manage to get the twelves?" confirmed Sergeant Lacombe.
"Yes Sir. Not the schrapnel vomit, but the more reliable HEAT rounds. Much better for gutting the barbed wire lines than the schrapnel crap," Corporal Tinder assured Sergeant Lacombe.
"Good. The eights too?" asked Sergeant Lacombe.
"Most of 'em are eights. But you got more twelves than any of the other lines. You can thank me later," Corporal Tinder handed Sergeant Lacombe a steel mickey, and a smile spread across the Sergeant's lean face that was visible even from beneath his horned moustache.
"Cognac?" confirmed Sergeant Lacombe.
"Not your brand, but yeah. Its cognac," Corporal Tinder smiled as Sergeant Lacombe patted the man's shoulder.
"You're coming with me up to the tent. Your men can unload and we'll break for supper," Sergeant Lacombe ordered Corporal Tinder.
"I'll stay and help my men unload. My responsibility. If they screw up, its my ass on the line," what Corporal Tinder was really saying was that he'd never expect his men to do anything he'd be unwilling to do himself.
It was his roundabout way of defying an order. Sergeant Lacombe rarely got the chance to enjoy a drink, so when such an opportunity presented himself, the next priority in line after the booze, was company to enjoy it with. Someone with whom to recollect Canada, their distant home, where children were preparing for candies and Halloween, and the lamp posts were receiving the first of the decorations for the upcoming holiday.
Both men had memories, of their women and their homes, and the distance between had further romanticized their recollection thereof. With the comfort of booze, there was no better opiate than the sharing of one's memories of home.
"You get that done soon and make sure its done the way its supposed to. I'll have my men clean and prep the guns, and when you're done. We'll all have grand dejeuner," Sergeant Lacombe allowed Corporal Tinder his retreat.
Corporal Dubert nodded to Corporal Tinder, who then directed Reginald towards the carts.
"Assist Willifried, Guoling and Onnophris in unloading the carts, though I'd like you to personally take care in making sure that the twelves are handled with care, alright Private?" Corporal Tinder ordered Reginald.
"Yes Corporal," Reginald followed Willifriend and Guoling as Dayaram approached Corporal Dubert.
Dayaram had retrieved a kit from the back of one of the carts, and brought it over to Corporal Debert, who opened it and examined it. From what Reginald could tell, it appeared to be morphine.
"Want my advice?" asked Willifriend of Reginald quietly.
"Is that what I think it is?" confirmed Reginald.
"Just look the other way. Pretend you didn't see it," Willifried suggested to Reginald.
"But that's medical grade..." Reginald didn't let it go at that moment.
"Yes, and there's a lot of pain out here, and more than enough medicine. He's just making sure that medicine makes it to places that some people believe it isn't needed," Willifried didn't look at Reginald, nor at Dayaram as they walked over to the carts with the twelve inch ordnance.
"Do you believe its needed there?" asked Reginald of Willifried.
"I've still got all of my fingers, not to mention that I've never lost a wife and child..." Willifried filled in the blanks as best as he could for Reginald, who suddenly found himself struggling with the violation of rules at hand as much so as the morality of turning in a person who'd clearly already lost much himself.
"If you do speak out, you'll be replaced by Wickerford on this supply route, and you'll remain a labourer on the front lines for the rest of the war, where your chances of..." Willifried quietly pleaded with Reginald, who clenched his fists in anger once, and then followed Willifried to the cart without saying another word, instead only shaking his head.
As Reginald got on the other end of one of the crates of twelve inch shells, Guoling who had the other end of the crate then spoke:
"War isn't always the threat of shots fired in your direction by guns, but also in the form of situations and words that challenge your notions of what you were led to believe was good by people you trusted, and what arrives at life's doorstep as a threat to what is fair. Losing those notions that were built over a lifetime can sometimes be as painful as losing a limb. The hardest part is knowing where to draw the line. The more you lose, the further away from home you are, and if you get too far away, you might never be able to return," Guoling spoke with eloquence to Reginald, who was tempted once again to flex his fists in anger, but instead let a breath quietly from his body.
It took them the better part of two hours to unload the shells and into a placement where they'd be ready for the loaders once their barrage orders were to be executed in the wee hours of the following morning. Once they were done, they retired to the bunker, within which they ate ate their meals in a wood stove heated environment, while seated on the dirt.
At some point, the men who'd procured the morphine from Dayaram got up from their places only to find themselves noticed by Sergeant Lacombe.
"Where are you two going?" he asked the Jebs and Cohl as she made their way to the bunker door.
"Latrine," Jebs responded, then miming an imaginary mickey bottle, unscrewing it and taking a guzzle from it before screwing the cap back on and pocketing it.
Sergeant Lacombe upon seeing Jebs response, found his authority somewhat weakened at that moment.
"Be quick," Sergeant Lacombe responded, looking down momentarily and then back to Jebs with his piercing eyes.
Jebs and Cohl disappeared through the door, the sound of their footsteps heard for a time until they'd obviously stopped in their favourite place to do their business.
"Why didn't you stop them?" asked Private Bertman, one of the artillery operators.
"This isn't the time Bertman! I want all of you to immediately begin prepping for the operation as soon as your eyes 'ave opened. We will be concentrating shells to one half degree in the target area of longitude 2 degrees 48 minutes east by latitude 50 degrees 2 minutes north. The enemy are and 'ave been advancing their line to the region just south east of Vimy. We'll be softening them up for an assault and to keep our flanks covered. Any questions?" Sergeant Lacombe twisted the end of his moustache after addressing them.
"Can I go home?" asked Private Benson.
"No, because if I let you go 'ome, then I have to let everyone else go 'ome and then it will be only me 'ere loading and firing the shells tomorrow morning," Sergeant Lacombe replied, reaching for the flask of cognac, unscrewing the cap and then taking a moderate sip of it, pressing it to the roof of his mouth and then savouring it, before swallowing.
He then leaned forward, handing the flask to Corporal Tinder, who nodded and accepted it gratefully, doing much the same.
"Not exactly my whiskey, but very tasty nonetheless," Corporal Tinder was about to return it, when Sergeant Lacombe gestured for him to pass it around.
Corporal Tinder passed the flask to Reginald, who then passed it to Onnophris and then to Guoling, and Dayaram and the rest of the men. Miraculously, it lasted until it had quenched every man's thirst for a drink.
"Now one of you wash it. After all, I don't want your nasty British germs!" Sergeant Lacombe barked at them, causing them all to break out laughing.
Their sleep came quickly, thanks partly to the cognac, but mostly to their hard day's work. One of many that would come over their time running supply and logistics for the war.
Reginald awoke to the sound of Sergeant Lacombe's voice:
"Up and to task!" he yelled at them as he walked through the bunker, though most men had already vacated it and were now preparing for the artillery operation without the benefit of daylight.
The air outside of the bunker was chilling to the bone. Another six inches of snow had fallen upon them overnight, though most of the men had already set about clearing it from the equipment and the crates of shells.
Reginald, who was busy collecting empty crates for the carts and their return to the Saint-Pol supply depot spotted one of the artillery loaders examining a shell he was preparing. The shell had a large dent on its side as it stood upright on the hardened dirt that supported the big guns.
"I think its still good... wait... I think I smell something burning..." the loader said as Reginald realized that something was awfully wrong.
"Incoming!!!" Reginald yelled, improvising the term's use for a completely different situation.
Reginald ran and dove for the loader, ploughing into his midsection as the shell exploded.
Reginald was instantly winded, all of the air in his lungs suddenly pushed out at the same time as felt an intense ringing in his ears, though her could hear no other sound. The world seemed muffled and spinning before it all went black.
When he woke up, an angel stood over him, tending to him gently. Her face was pale with pink and red features that stood out despite the absence of makeup upon her face. She wore a white uniform with a short black cloak to keep her upper-body warm and covered. Upon seeing that his eyes were opened, she said something to him which he could barely hear. Reginald shook his head and then yawned, hoping that might remedy his lack of hearing. When she spoke again, he was relieved when her voice was a clear as crystal.
"Do you remember anything?" she asked him softly.
"What? You mean like who I am? Of course I do. I'm Lord Byron," Reginald responded, causing her to both laugh and blush.
"Well in that case I'd better get you moved to better accommodations," she responded to him with a smile.
"Yes, he seems the kind of chap for whom a padded room in the sanitarium might be a more fitting treatment," a man in a nearby bed added to the jest.
"No. In all seriousness, I'm Reginald. Reginald Smiths. Private. 46th Infantry. Supply and Logistics. And I'm assuming that this must be heaven?" Reginald responded with the second most common flirt that a serviceman had offered her over her time serving as a nurse.
"If this is heaven my dear friend, the service is terribly lacking, though some of the help can be quite charming indeed," the man in the other bed responded as he read a newspaper.
"I'm assuming that I'm injured, though in all truth I can't feel a thing," Reginald asked the nurse.
"You've sustained a somewhat serious injury to your torso for which you've been treated and are now healing," the nurse assured him.
"My legs and arms are fine I take it?" Reginald asked her.
"Yes. They're fine. Your lower back on your right side... its going to be tender for a while..." the nurse continued.
"Was I admitted with anyone else?" asked Reginald.
"Your friend? They took him to another hospital. Much more serious condition, but your actions probably saved his life and the lives of others," the nurse picked up a glass of water from the bedside table and handed it to him.
"If you can get through that my friend, we've already got the whiskey lined up," the man at the other bed remarked, drawing a smile both from the nurse and Reginald alike.
Reginald drank the entire glass of water and handed it back to the nurse.
"Thank you. I didn't get your name," Reginald looked to her once again with a smile.
"I don't recall giving it," she responded, ready to turn and leave.
"Would it be too much of an imposition if you shared your name with me?" asked Reginald of her.
"If she doesn't tell you, I'll give it to you for fifty dollars Canadian," the man added.
"Billy... you can be so frustrating at times. In the interest of undermining your obvious exploitation of the situation, Reginald, my name is Helen," the nurse smiled at the man on the other bed and then addressed Reginald, sharing her name.
"Helen? It is obviously the best day of my life to have made your acquaintance," Reginald charmed her.
"That's better than what the other fellow said. Much better, and not so nearly as foul mouthed I might add," Billy remarked from his bed.
"This is true. I'll return later with your supper. Until then, do try to get some rest," Helen turned and left them.
"So what happened to you?" asked Reginald of Billy.
"Me? Oh, nothing. Just a reconnaissance mission. Identifying enemy concentrations and what not. Got shot in the leg of all things, and while quite a ways up there too," Billy responded.
"You mean you're a pilot?" asked Reginald.
"Me? No. I'm a spotter, but I have been thinking about the prospect of being a pilot you know. A good pilot can save lives," Billy lowered the paper enough to see Reginald, even lifting his injured leg slightly so as to indicate his injury to the younger fellow.
To be continued...
I am Brian Joseph Johns and this is Shhhh! Digital Media at https://www.shhhhdigital.com or https://www.shhhhdigital.ca in Toronto, Ontario, Canada at 200 Sherbourne Street Suite 701.
Credits and attribution:
Tools: Daz3D, Corel Painter, Adobe Photoshop, Lightwave 3D, Blender, Stable Diffusion (Easy Diffusion distribution), InstantID, Sadtalker, Google Colaboratory, Microsoft Copilot (Windows 11), Hitfilm, Borderline Obsession...
Invideo.IO which was used to produce the ENERTRINSIC INTERNATIONAL INVESTOR PRESENTATION.
Rutherford model representation of Deuterium and Tritium: By Dirk Hünniger; Derivative work in english - Balajijagadesh.
InstantID by: Wang, Qixun and Bai, Xu and Wang, Haofan and Qin, Zekui and Chen, Anthony. Research Paper Title: InstantID - Zero-shot Identity-Preserving Generation in Seconds.
Sadtalker by: Zhang, Wenxuan and Cun, Xiaodong and Wang, Xuan and Zhang, Yong and Shen, Xi and Guo, Yu and Shan, Ying and Wang, Fei.
Research Paper Title: SadTalker: Learning Realistic 3D Motion Coefficients for Stylized Audio-Driven Single Image Talking Face Animation.
Gratitude: Our Mentors, Senseis, Sifus, Sebomnims, lifetime inspirations, family, friends, the Nomads (ask Stanton about that one), the Music, the Movies, the Theatre, the Arts, ASMR, (both YouTube and Bilibili and the many other creators on those platforms), the Gaming and Developer communities and of course, the audience.
Martial Arts (in the words of real experts and at least one comedian): https://brucelee.com (home of the real Dragon and an entire family of inspirations), http://iwco.online International Wing Chun Organization (International presence of a very scalable intensity martial art, protected and developed by Shaolin Nun Ng Mui) and the alma mater of Jinn Hua's own specialized variation thereof, https://iogkf.com International Okinawan Goju-Ryu Karatedo Federation (even Hanshi had his teachers), https://itftkd.sport International Taekwondo Federation (Here there be Taegers), https://tangsoodoworld.com Tang Soo Do World (the path of Grandmaster Chuck Norris), https://www.aikido-international.org International Aikido Federation (how else would Navy Chef Steven Seagal liberate a Nimitz Class Aircraft Carrier from a team of hijackers?), https://www.stqitoronto.com Shaolin Temple Quanfa Institute (The City Of Toronto's own Shaolin Temple), https://www.enterthedojoshow.com Master Ken's Ameri-Te-Do presence (If we can't laugh at ourselves, then we can at least laugh the loudest at others, and other Zen)
Jesse Enkamp: Karate Nerd
Sensei Rokas: Martial Arts Journey
Iaido: Train For Katana Mastery Like Samurai
Special thanks to Aitrepreneur, Mickmumpitz, Hugging Face and the YouTube educational content producers, including those catering to the AI content production pipeline and of course AlphaSignal.
Something to give you perspective: The very first teacher had no formal education, didn't graduate and was self taught, but only because they had no other choice. We do.
Very Special Thanks to our Armed Forces and Federal and Provincial Police Services, who really do Stand On Guard, especially when it comes to the Charter of Rights And Freedoms and the Human Rights Act, and often without being self righteous zealots secretly protecting religious law. True keepers of the peace.
This content is entirely produced in Toronto, Ontario, Canada at 200 Sherbourne Street Suite 701 under the Shhhh! Digital Media banner.
