A Tale of Two Soldiers — British Columbia Chronicles

Conclusion

I can resist many things but never a good story.

Last week’s Part 1 of A Tale of Two Soldiers was to be a doubleheader, the stories of both Gunner Ratcliffe, the villain, and Private Michael James O’Rourke, VC, MM—war hero, labour activist and, by all measures, an outstanding man.

Michael James ‘Mickey’ O’Rourke’s official portrait, showing him with a stretcher over his shoulder, hangs in the Canadian War Museum in Ottawa. —*www.Hill60.ca*

But, well, I just couldn’t resist going all the way in telling of how Ratcliffe, a career soldier, let his resentment of Corporal Bowlan’s reprimands—things so minor as cleaning up after himself in the kitchen—drive him to the ultimate act of murder.

A crime that appeared to all who knew and liked both men to have been totally out of character for Ratcliffe who’d been popular with his comrades, who loved animals and gardening, who had, in fact, not long before been a friend of the man he shot down in cold blood.

So be it, it’s done, story told. Today, the remarkable career of Private Michael James O’Rourke.

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You’ve already met Private O’Rourke in the recent post on The Battle of Ballantyne Pier. He’s mentioned in passing as having been at the head of the column of strikers who were met at the docks by armed and mounted police.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s start at the beginning with what is known about this amazing gentleman who was christened Michael James but to whom he was known by a legion of friends as Mickey.

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For all that has been written about him over the years, his origins, his childhood, almost everything about him prior to his enlistment in the Canadian Army, is somewhat of a mystery. This, despite the fact that historians have researched him in his native Ireland (he was born in Limerick on Mar. 19, 1879 to James and Catherine (Baker) O’Rourke), in Britain and Canada.

There’s even a three-year discrepancy between the dates given on his birth and death certificates. There’s no question of the date of his death, however: Dec. 6, 1957.

We do know that he had two sisters, likely older, that his father died during his childhood, that his mother followed when he was just 11. Somehow the sisters made it to Canada, to live in separate cities, and at some point Mickey followed. By the time of the First World War he was in his 30’s and it’s not until he enlisted in the Canadian Expeditionary Force that a Canadian paper trail begins.

According to the labour website History Cooperative, there’s mention of military service in the Old Country (seven years in the Royal Munster Regiment), then an unspecified length of service in the B.C. Militia, in Revelstoke. By then he’d acquired the skills of hardrock mining and tunnelling, a hard and dangerous trade that saw him working on the construction of a railway tunnel in Rogers Pass, another for B.C. Electric in Coquitlam, and in the Fernie coal mines.

The famous Connaught Tunnel in Rogers Pass. —*www.flickr.com*

For Mickey O’Rourke, and 10’s of 1000’s of other British Columbia men working in the mines, in the fields, in offices and factories, on the railways and at sea, war meant answering the call to King and Country. Mickey, 10 years older than most of those who willingly enlisted, was no exception.

February 1915 found him in New Westminster, a private in the 47th Battalion, (a replacement battalion that served in France, August 1916 to the end of the war). Four months later, he was attached to the Canadian training base at Shorncliffe, Eng.

The discipline of military life didn’t come easily to a man in his 30’s with a background as a hardrock miner and, one suspects, a lifestyle of hard living. His army record suggests as much, noting reprimands for being drunk and using abusive language. But he’s “in the army now,” and by September, he’s in the trenches of France.

His assignment as a stretcher bearer to the 7th Battalion is in time for the hell that was the Ypres Salient which has been immortalized by the Canadians’ initial encounters with a deadly new weapon known as mustard gas.

This dramatic photo of a wounded soldier being hauled through the mud is from the battle of Passchendaele but captures what Mickey O’Rourke did, day in and day out. —*general-history.com*

One can ask if O’Rourke, an infantryman, served as a stretcher bearer by choice or by command. His work skills were those of a miner and miners were essential to the war effort to drive tunnels and to build railways. Was his being 10 years older than the average soldier a factor? Did he volunteer for this hazardous, non-combative and essential role which involved much more than carrying the wounded?

First aid duties would have been a priority, so we can think of him acting as more like an orderly than simply as a stretcher bearer. He would have assisted with front line surgeries such as bandaging, splinting and, God forbid, amputations. Then the unavoidable paperwork.

Those were the easier duties. During and immediately after a battle he and his comrades—unarmed, remember—would have risked their lives in the open to retrieve the wounded. It’s a matter of record that sometimes even medics were targeted by snipers. The machine gun fire, exploding shrapnel, the barbed wire, the mud, the holes filled with water deep enough to drown a man, defy adequate description.

How many lives were saved by the likes of Private Mickey O’Rourke and those like him, many of them conscientious objectors who were serving their country as non-combatants?

In the trenches of Mount Sorrell. —*www.Canada.ca*

Should we be surprised by or disapprove of his third charge of drunkenness? (While off-duty we must assume.) Having come through the battles of Mount Sorrell, aka the Battle of Hill 62 which went on for all of 11 days and nights, and the Battle of Arras, any man could use a drink. His punishment (flogging was no longer practised) isn’t recorded but likely included hard labour and subsistence-level meals.

It’s at the infamous Battle of the Somme—July 1-November 18, 1916— that O’Rourke first shows his mettle.

In September 1916, at Mon Ouet Farm, he suddenly switches from stretcher bearer to warrior. He leads a counter attack that halts the enemy in its tracks. From his forward position he pelts them with Mills bombs (grenades) until he runs out. He sends for more but both of his runners are killed.

Then he lies in a “hellhole,” as he later described it, sniping. He spots a German doesn’t see him, somehow scrounges another grenade, hurls it with good effect, then strips the body of rifle and ‘potato masher’ grenades which he also puts to good use.

For this, the sometimes drunk and disorderly Private Michael James O’Rourke is awarded the Military Medal. But he hasn’t finished.

Six weeks and two more battles at a cost of 24,000 casualties follow before the bloodied CEF is withdrawn from the Somme and Mickey is granted 10 days’ leave. Come April 1917 and the epochal Battle of Vimy Ridge, he’s part of the 1st Canadian Division, a composite unit consisting of everything from cavalry to cyclists to infantry and artillery, with its own service and medical corps.

At the Battle of Vimy Ridge Mickey O’Rourke returns to his role as a stretcher bearer. —*www.pinterest.com*

There’s yet another memorable battle for the 7th Battalion, Hill 17, which, captured by the Canadians, had to withstand 22 counter attacks with heavy casualties on both sides. For the 7th Battalion, according to one account, Hill 17 was one of its worst actions. Stretcher bearers were forced to make life or death decisions by determining whether to transport a wounded man—or abandon him where he lay as hopeless.

Still wonder why O’Rourke sometimes sought escape in a bottle?

It’s at Hill 17 that he again outdid himself; not taking part in the fighting as he had at Mon Ouet Farm, but doing his job as a stretcher bearer under appalling circumstances. His citation for the Victoria Cross, the Commonwealth’s highest award for gallantry, gives the circumstances of his heroic actions, August 15-18, 1917:

“For three days and nights Mickey O’Rourke...worked unceasingly in bringing in wounded to safety, dressing them and getting them food and water. During the whole period the area he worked was subjected to severe shelling and swept with heavy machine gun fire and rifle fire On several occasions he was knocked down and partially buried by enemy shells.

“Seeing a comrade who had been blinded rambling ahead of the trench, in full view of the enemy who were sniping him, Pte. O’Rourke jumped out of his trench and bought the man back being heavily sniped while doing so. Again he went forward about 50 yards in front of our barrage and under heavy and accurate fire from enemy guns and snipers brought in a comrade...”

As if these acts of astounding courage weren’t enough, he performed a third rescue while “under heavy fire of every description” to bring another wounded man to safety. Hence the Victoria Cross for having shown “throughout an absolute disregard for his own safety going wherever there were wounded...and his magnificent courage and devotion in continuing his rescue work in spite of exhaustion and incessant heavy fire...inspired all ranks and undoubtedly saved many lives.”

His VC was awarded by King George V at Buckingham Palace. Mickey later said he didn’t understand what all the fuss was about; after all, it was his job to bring in the wounded. As for the machine gun and cannon fire, he couldn’t do anything about that, just “keep on going, you know what I mean”.

But he hadn’t escaped Scot free and he was hospitalized with sciatica. As described by the Mayo Clinic, this term describes pain that travels along the path of the sciatic nerve from the lower back through the hips and buttocks and down each leg. It most often results from a herniated disk or an overgrowth of bone that applies pressure to the nerve.

In short, it’s both excruciating and debilitating, and Mickey would be troubled by it for the rest of his life. He’d also been gassed at Ypres and hit in the thigh with shrapnel. Declared to be medically unfit for further front line duties, he was repatriated to England then sent home to Canada in January 1918.

The Great War had 10 horrendous months to go but, for Mickey O’Rourke, after more than two and a-half hellish years at the front, it was over. Until his discharge six months later, he participated in a Victory Bond drive in the U.S., describing his war experiences to 1000’s in his rich Irish brogue.

His war wounds continued to haunt him; like sciatica, bronchial pneumonia would prove to be a life sentence.

Worse, his nerves were shot; he couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t settle down, hated crowds, couldn’t get back to his old trade, mining. And he was drinking heavily. Symptoms of what we now call Post Traumatic Stress Disorder? But PTSD wasn’t recognized in those days and Mickey was turned down for even a small medical disability pension.

In 1920 an appeal board awarded him the magnificent sum of $10 per month—but only after Governor General J.H.G. Byng personally interceded on his behalf.

Field Marshall Julian Hedworth George Byng, 1st Viscount Byng of Vimy, Commander of the Canadian Corps from 1915 to 1917 and Governor General of Canada from 1921 to 1926. —*thecanadianencyclopedia.ca*

Mickey took to the road, working at various trades in California and B.C., including commercial fishing and stevedoring while earning a reputation for his good heart, generosity and his drinking. His health continued to deteriorate, the grain dust from working on the docks aggravating his bronchitis. In 1926, he was granted a further $1.15 per month.

Yes, you read that right--$1.15! (My grandfather who came home from the First World War with a bullet through the knee leaving one leg shorter than the other, and his lungs twice burned, drew $26 per month through the Depression for a family of five. I never did know what my dad’s dad got for losing an eye.)

Veterans who received any form of pension were denied relief payments throughout the Depression and, despite Mickey’s acclaim as a war hero, for the rest of his life he lived in shabby hotel rooms. His medals, which would be worth a fortune today, were stolen.

The Roaring 1920’s which, thanks to movies and The Great Gatsby appear to us to have been glamorous, were anything but for many North Americans. Then came 1929, the stock market crash and the Great Depression. For an aging Mickey O’Rourke and 10’s of 1000’s of other disabled war veterans, just more hardships and living on the edge.

For him and fellow Victoria Cross winners there was one brief highlight, a special 10th anniversary ceremony at Buckingham Palace to mark the end of the Great War. Even the federal government, so stingy in its pensions to disabled veterans, anted up money towards travel expenses to London for Mickey, Canada’s second most decorated veteran, and fellow Canadian VC’s.

Fast-forward to June 1935 and he’s back in the news. Not as a war hero this time but as a labour sympathizer, one of the alleged ringleaders of the Vancouver longshoreman strike that erupted in what has become known as the Battle of Ballantyne Pier.

Mickey rarely spoke of his wartime experiences but he became a spokesman for the Vancouver and District Waterfront Workers Association and was frequently quoted in the press. The Shipping Federation of B.C. as the employers called themselves, came to see him as an enemy—a traitor to the capitalist system.

The march to Ballantyne Pier begins with Mickey O’Rourke carrying the Union Jack. —*Vancouver City Archives*

That’s where I introduced you to Mickey O’Rourke last month: “On June 18, 1935, crowds of families, friends and supporters gathered at the Heatley Street entrance to the Ballantyne Pier where ships were being unloaded by non-union workers.

“Zero Hour was set for 1:00 p.m. and they were there to watch and cheer as an estimated 1000 workers and allies flying Union Jacks marched to the docks to ‘talk to’ strikebreakers. At their head was First World War Victoria Cross winner Pte. [Mickey] James O’Rourke, and several union leaders known to be members of the Canadian Communist Party...”

What followed was little short of chaos: “At 1:00 p.m., from the union headquarters on East Hastings Street, behind the flag-carrying O’Rourke, VC, in columns four across, some of them wearing their war medals, some singing, and none of them in the mood for conciliation or interference, the cavalcade of dock workers and supporters marched towards the docks.”

Vancouver Chief Constable Major-General William Wasbrough Foster, CMG, DSO, VD, ordered them to halt. Shoved aside in a hail of rocks, he raised and dropped his hand. Tear gas was fired, horses charged, clubs flailed. Gasping, choking and dodging, the marchers fell back, to be ridden down and truncheoned.

Soon they and spectators were in full retreat with clubs and riding crops swishing at their heads and shoulders. In those first confusing moments Mickey had stood his ground. Witnesses said he’d have been ridden or knocked down had not a police sergeant physically (and we must suspect, deferentially( pulled him from harm’s way.

He later claimed that he finally “beat it”—but only after he threw a brick at a Mountie’s head.

The years passed with a steady decline in Mickey’s health, his Board of Pension Commission (forerunner to today’s Veteran Affairs) exams listing further ailments attributable to his wartime service and lifestyle. Besides chronic bronchitis and the state of his nerves, he now suffered from emphysema, cholecycitus (inflammation of the gall bladder) and gastritis.

He was reduced to menial jobs, often in the worst of weather conditions. When, in 1953, he and other VC winners were invited to meet Princess Elizabeth and the Duke of Edinburgh during their visit to Vancouver, he declined. For this perceived snub he was roundly criticized; only his friends knew he couldn’t take the crowds and that he was afraid that his legs would fail him.

By this time his pension and VC ‘gratuity’—the latter, all of $4 a month!—totalled $60 monthly from which he had to deduct $20 for his slum hotel room. By all outward appearances he’d become a down-and-outer, someone to be shunned other than by those like him.

Arrested for public drunkenness, he was admitted to Shaughnessey Hospital then transferred under the Mental Health Act to a Veterans Affairs facility in Burnaby where he was diagnosed with senility and arteriosclerosis.

There was one last hurrah, another invitation to attend a Victoria Cross ceremony in 1956. This time he agreed to attend. Upon his death the following year, he was widely lauded in the press for his courage, other contradictory tributes declaring him to have been modest and generous, tough and hard-bitten.

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There you have it, the second of two Chronicles on two very different soldiers—one who died a murderer and suicide, the other a celebrated war hero who died in pain and poverty. Both ended their lives in sorrowful circumstances. But their legacies couldn’t be more unalike.

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Acknowledgement: I accessed several sources for this Chronicle, in particular “Our Mickey,” The Story of Private James O’Rourke, VC, MM (CEF), 1879-1957 by the History Cooperative.