The lost weapon.

 

We heard explosions far away.

It was a dark and gloomy November morning. We had been up before sunrise and were served a reinforced breakfast, intended to last us all day without any more food until after sunset.

My entire platoon, all 40 of us, was riding on the open truck bed of a camouflage-painted Diesel truck. The driver was skillful, but we still got stuck in the mud, far from the nearest road, a couple of times. Then we had to get off, to lighten the load, and help push the truck forward to where the rear wheels could grip again.

It was scary. We heard more explosions in the distance.

We were a bunch of scrawny 16 – 17-year-olds. Most of us had come straight from the school-bench with a few exceptions, farmer’s sons. They had more muscles than most of us.

None on this truck bed had ever done anything like this before. Some had joined the voluntary militia at age 14, and received some training on how to shoot, and been on the odd overnight tenting-excursion, but only on warm summer nights. Nothing like this.

We were traveling on a special mission with live ammunition.

This morning, we had awoken in circular tents, 20 in each, with our feet touching and the head at the perimeter. The single tent pole, serving double duty as stove, had only heated our feet. They were cozy, the rest of the body was cold.

This was all different. We heard a machine gun rattling in the distance.

The Diesel engine, in front, roared at times, as the rear wheels were spinning. The progress was sporadic but we were, inexorably, moving towards where the explosions were, and now, machine gun fire was heard.

Our dark green military greatcoats were tightly wrapped around us all, as we sat on the flatbed of the truck. What a sight we must have been? A truck loaded with a bunch of green bags with only a helmet and two eyes to identify us as human beings.

I looked sideways at my best friend, Sven. He was a year older than I, as cold as all, and just as uncomfortable.

Our weapons were either tied to our harness, or held tightly, not to fall away or be damaged during any of the wild gyrations of our unstable mode of transportation.

The uniform harness front pockets were bulging with an extra supply of ammunition. This was going to be a day of serious action.

It was still semi dark. The truck following us had no lights on. Don’t waste energy on lights, the fuel is for getting us there, not to power unnecessary electrical loads. This truck, similar to ours, carried our fording boats and boxes and boxes of explosives. It had gotten stuck too, once, but was much harder to push out of the muck. It couldn’t be off-loaded and lightened.

We were getting closer to the sporadic firing and odd explosion.

The trucks were, eventually, parked in between some dark and wet fir-trees.

Time to unload.

Ooh, that hurt, standing up again after so much pummeling on the bumpy truck. My creaky bones sprung to action.

The second truck carried our most ingeniously designed fording boats. Each was made up from two identical half-boat pieces, attached to make a double ended boat.

They were heavy and hard to put together. It may have been simple in training, but we were cold, the moisture made everything slippery, and not every boat got the centre mounted rubber seal in the right place. They would leak, we knew, but probably not leak enough to cause any of the boats to sink during our short 50-metre river crossing.

There were some more explosions from across the river.

The boats were not very stable but would carry ten men at a time.

Sven and I were in the same boat. The centre seal leaked profusely. All ten of us paddled like crazy to get across before we sank. We didn’t quite make it. The water-laden boat drew too much draft and we had to jump into the near-freezing knee-deep water and walk ashore. Once there we could tip the boat, empty out the water and pull it ashore. Or, that was the idea.

During all of this, priority number one was, keep your weapon dry.

Poor Sven, he tripped and got wet all the way over the beltline of his uniform. That meant that he had to be super-cold for the rest of the day. Someone threw a greatcoat on the ground, and we put Sven down, and rolled him inside, to at least suck as much water out of his heavy winter-type woolen uniform as we could.

He looked better when he stood up again.

Our mission, once we had forded, was to attack up the hillside by the river, through a thicket of trees, then cross a front yard to a farmhouse. Once there, enter it and proceed to seek shelter in the basement, without using any stairs.

“Be aware that the house may be booby-trapped.”

We could still hear the odd explosion in the forest, and some single shots too.

All of us were by now cold and had waterlogged boots. Our weapons were tied to our harnesses in a hither dither way, as we carried the boxes with explosives and in separate boxes, the fuses.

The progress was slow. We made it all the way through the dense forest to the little meadow in front of the farmhouse. Nobody had shot at us, so far.

We were crawling, heads down, over the wet ground. There were several enemies visible in the windows. Our sergeant in charge signaled us to be silent.

Don’t make a sound.

Then, on command, we opened up with our 9 mm Karl Gustav model 45 submachine guns at the persons in the windows. None shot back. They all fell down and disappeared from view.

I had emptied the entire 36 bullet magazine of my gun and swiftly replaced it with a full one. The barrel was too hot to touch. Everyone around me put full magazines in too. The guns were put on the safety catch. We were all well trained on that score. Don’t shoot your friend by mistake.

We carefully approached the house, crawling across the yard.

One must always suspect that the doors and windows are booby-trapped. We used our best demolition skills and blasted our way in. First, we blew a hole in the outer wall and crept in. Our enemies were all lying still on the floor. None moved. Then, systematically, we blew our way into all the other rooms in the house, including the kitchen cold storage. Once in, we were met with chaos, as the preserves in glass containers had shattered, spreading preserved cabbage and mustard everywhere. Johnny, one of the boys in my platoon, cut his hand on a piece of glass. He was the first casualty for the day. A medic was summoned.

They met outside and the blood flow was stilled under an impressive-looking bandage.

Our ears were aching from the explosions, all observed from a safe distance, of course.

Next, how to get down to the basement?

Someone made the wrong choice in the setting. Just about the entire inside of the house collapsed when an excessive amount of floor-mounted explosives were set off. We cleared the room from debris, rigged a rope, and the first soldier was hoisted down.

The sun was invisible above the grey skies, but we could feel that we were nearing the end of the day.

End of mission.

Our day of live ammunition exercise had ended.

Only one recruit had been injured, Johnny. He had a cut in his hand.

The forest got eerily quiet all around us. The other platoons, which had practiced explosion-management and machine gun firing at the nearby firing range, were done too.

We all lined up in the yard in front of the, by now, very sad-looking long-abandoned farmhouse.

“You did well, my boys”, said Lieutenant Hermansson.

He was, as usual, in his perfectly pressed uniform. The two lieutenant’s stars on each of his shoulder lapels were, as always, newly polished and the only light spots on this cold, gloomy, and humid day.

His 1954 model year, always newly washed Ford Prefect officer’s car, painted in camouflage green, was parked in the driveway some 100 metres away. 

Our two trucks had been moved to the same driveway.

Time to wrap up.

That was hard work. Our young bodies suffered from a full day in wet boots, without food, and for Sven, in wet uniform pants.

First, we had to carefully collect the cardboard ‘enemy’ figures that had stood in the windows and doorways. They were full of holes that we put tape over. The spring-charged fall-down-trigger mechanism was reset, and all had to be put in protective bags, ready for the next live ammunition exercise.

No explosives could be returned to storage, once taken out. The unused explosives were put in one impressive-looking pile some distance away. Only one detonator was used to set it off. It was connected with about 150 m of explosive fuse that ran at 7 600 m/sec. It was, in reality, a narrow bead of explosive too.

We had to lie down, far away, to watch. The explosion was impressive, and made one huge hole, at least three metres in diameter and a metre deep. Some pine needles blew off the nearby trees. Otherwise, all looked the same. Sound, alone, leaves no lasting impression.

The boats had to be separated into their original two pieces, stacked, and put back on the truck bed. It was harder to lift the boats up on the truck than to slide them down earlier.

This is when Sven lost his weapon, his bayonet.

Finally, Lieutenant Hermansson bade goodbye,

“See you at the regiment,”

… and fired up his officer’s car. His uniform was dry and clean.  The cloth seats didn’t get sullied.

The truck ride back to the regiment was not as bumpy. We rode on regular roads all the way.

As soon as the trucks, carrying the four platoons in our company, were back it was inspection time. We, hungry, wet, cold, and truly miserable by now, had to stand in perfect regimental order for an inspection. Johnny, with a large bandage on his hand, stood there too.

He was singled out and told:

“You did well but stay away from broken glass in the future.”

The medic, with his wetted first-aid bundle, was complimented as well.

“You stayed near the fighting boys. That is where a medic should be.”

Then, a catastrophic event:

Sven had tried to cover his empty bayonet holder with his jacket, but the officer still noticed that something was missing.

“Where is your weapon, Soldier 925 Rosenqvist?”

He had lost his bayonet, the one for our 6.5 mm Mauser model 1896 rifle.

It was dark by now. This is terrible. After dismissal, some in our platoon gathered around and asked:

“When did you see it last, Sven?”

“When we loaded the boats.”

We changed clothes and went to dinner. It was late. The kitchen supervisor, a gruff lady, was not pleased.

“Why can’t you boys ever finish your exercises on time? You were supposed to be here at 18:00. Do you realize that I now have to pay overtime for the kitchen staff?”

It had been a good day with plenty of interesting stories to share.

Sven was deeply troubled. To lose a weapon would mean that he not only had to pay for it, but also risked time in the slammer, the regimental jail.

My Italian-made Parilla scooter may not have had the best light in the world, but it worked.

“Sven, let’s go back and see if we can find it.”

We had to return by 22:00, or our troubles would be unfathomable.

I drove fast. It was only a few kilometres to the riverside. Once there, I puttered my scooter around, on idle, and shone the light everywhere. Then I left it, still running with the light on, as Sven and I scoured the ground with our military issue map-reading lights until the batteries gave out.

No bayonet.

We barely made it back a minute before 22:00, as the guard on duty prepared to close the barrier to the only entrance to the regimental grounds.

That was a close call.

No bayonet, though.

Military justice is swift and immutable.

One week later, the military court assembled. The entire regiment was seated in the gym. It had seats put up for the 1 000 young soldiers there that year of 1957.

Sven Rosenqvist was called to the stand.

“Did you lose a weapon?”

“Yes sir.”

“That will be punished by seven nights in the regimental jail. On workdays, you report to jail at 18:00 and will be released at 06:00 the next morning. Saturday and Sunday will be served in the jail.

The value of the weapon will be deducted from your pay.” (Four weeks worth.)

Sven went to jail at 18:00. As it happened, our company was on guard duty that Saturday. Sven was liked by many. We gave him cigarettes to smoke in his cell. No other favours could be offered.

The commanding officer came for inspection once. Someone saw him crossing the exercise grounds.

No smoking allowed.

The off-duty crowd opened all doors and windows to vent the tobacco smoke. It was a minus 20 Celsius day, and the whole guard house was freezing cold by the time the officer entered.

“It’s cold in here.”

“We are practicing for being outside, sir.”

“Carry on.”

A few weeks later, Sven was called to the commanding officer.

“Your bayonet has been found. It was wedged into the locking mechanism in one of the fording boats. It has been identified as yours by the serial number.

You will receive a credit for what was deducted from your pay.”

Sure enough, on the next payday, Sven received five times the normal amount.

We, all ten of us in our group, went to a bar, one that isn’t all that particular about age, etc. We all got drunk, or at least very happy. Still, all walked straight enough to make it through the guard house before 22:00 that night.

Sven, eventually, gave up smoking, became an officer in the Swedish army, and retired as a Colonel about 35 years later.

I left the army, a lot wiser, after my mandatory two years. I have never touched a gun or anything explosive since. I retired after a 40-year career as a mechanical engineer.

Sven and I, both over 80 now, are still friends.

No oil change, no charge

 

Have you ever caught a mechanic lying about a repair they claimed to have done to your car? What happened?

Ben Jones

, studied Engineering

Answered Aug 19, 2020

No oil change, no charge.

I brought my front wheel drive Austin 1100 in for an oil change in Toronto in 1966.

When I came back to pay, I asked if they were really sure that the oil filter fitting didn’t leak. It was prone to do so if not fitted straight.

“I did the job right”, said the owner.

“See here.”

He went to the car and started tugging at the trunk lock.

“Damned hood, locked now.”

“It is the trunk, this car has the engine up front. You didn’t do any oil change at all, did you?”, I said.

There was a policeman in uniform there too, picking up his car.

He looked at the owner. “Are you charging for a job you didn’t do?”

The service station owner took my bill off the desk, crumpled it up and threw it in the waste basket.

NO OIL CHANGE for my car that day.

Thank you for being there, Mr. unknown police officer.

My camp leader who fucked me

In late July, I was 13, I went to the three-week-long gymnastics camp, by the coast of the sea, for the first time.

We were in army barracks, not too well aired out since their usage last year. The boys were in theirs and the girls in other barracks. Each room, with 24 boys or girls had a leader, most commonly an army NCO for the boys or an army nurse for the girls.

The gymnastics program started on day one.

At first, I was out of shape but soon it dawned on me, I am quite agile.

As the days progressed, I became more and more at ease with the routines. I was soon selected for the elite team and we did so much more. 

Sure, I did fall occasionally. Once I tripped off a high beam, about two metres from the ground. I grabbed hold on one of the support poles and slid all the way down.

The skin on my chest took quite a scrape. I bled a bit and the local nurse was called in to patch me up.

To my embarrassment or pride, I performed with a white bandage around my chest on the last, final show-the-parents day.

Being in the gym team was great. Half of the participants were girls. I quite enjoyed looking at them. I was probably quite a voyageur.

I had a pair of very tight one-size-too small swim-trunks to wear under my gym shorts so I wouldn't be showing any immoral parts when watching the girls on the field. My sometimes rising penis was squeezed up and held tightly against my stomach.

I was back at summer gymnastics again the next year, when 14.

The camp looked the same, but we had some new leaders.

My lodging had a new supervisor, one I hadn’t met before. He liked us, the boys, more than the one we had last year, and spent a lot of time with us in the lodging.

Sometimes he would sit with a boy, reading a newspaper. I noticed that some of the boys moved away as he came close but thought nothing of it.

Then, one evening, he came and sat close to me, with the proverbial newspaper in his hands.

I noticed how his free hand moved and started to fondle my testicles. We were interrupted when someone came in. I moved away.

The next night, he was back again. This time, covered by the newspaper, he fondled me more deliberately. 

I didn’t suffer and didn’t object. After all, my testicles had been fondled by girls the preceding winter and I had learned to like the feeling. It even gave me an erect penis. 

More hands? No real problem.

I became apprehensive when he, being a lot heavier than little skinny me, the gymnast, lifted me enough to reach my anus. There he put his finger inside. 

To have something in your anus was not an altogether unique experience. In those days the only way to take the temperature was to use a rectal thermometer, and they were made thick and solid so they wouldn't break in use.

I didn’t react at first and he did the same thing the next night.

This was all done on the quiet, usually when we were alone. I noticed that his hand smelled of vaseline soap. 

That must have been the lubricant.

The next evening he invited me to move even closer and sit on his lap. It was a warm summer and we all wore loose gym shorts.

My anus was a bit softened up from repeated visits by his finger the days before and I could feel how the tip of his hard dick would seek its way in. We were still covered by the newspaper so none of the few boys in the cabin would notice.

I could feel how his dick throbbed as he ejaculated inside me the first time. I had to visit the toilet afterward to dispose of the "white stuff".

I didn't find the experience unpleasant and liked the attention that I got from this leader during day time. 

He liked to have me sit on his penis again, slowly rocking in and out, a little deeper each evening. We did that many times when we were alone in the dormitory.

With time, I learned to like the feeling. It became quite pleasant, and I was looking forward to receiving his penis.

Sometime later he pushed too hard. He entered me too deeply and that hurt.

I instantly stood up and walked out.

From that day we never exchanged a single word between us. I focused on girl watching and totally forgot what had happened, these events were of absolutely no significance in my life to come.

Why get educated

 The boy who grew up

 

The fall season was on us.

My broken foot prevented me from any more work. I was released, and sent home.

This made for one more interrupted career path. There would be many more interruptions until I grew up.

The fist thing I wanted to do on my return was to restore my mobility by car.

It had been standing outside all summer, in clear view. It had been broken into and I found a used condom in the rear seat. Nothing was broken, but the battery was totally discharged. I was glad that I’d had the wisdom to remove the distributor rotor and put it in a drawer in my room.

How to start it? The concept of using a booster cable was not a good one, as I knew of no person that may have had one.

Let’s do a push start. My uncle pitched in as did a stranger we met in the street.

What are the necessary actions to start a dead car?

First, push the car fast enough that I could jump in, put it in second gear and pop the clutch. We did this time and again. The engine turned a few revolutions and then the momentum was used up.

One more push, harder than ever.

The cast around my broken foot had a metal bar to walk on.

I felt how the metal bar got dislodged and dug itself into my leg, but the car was rolling faster than ever. A few chugs, and the engine started.

I sat there, in the driver’s seat, carefully tending to the accelerator and the choke and – then I felt it – my foot was getting warm-wet. Blood.

I knew it, the metal bar had come lose and cut my leg, inside the plaster cast.

What first, get the car going on its own power or tend to my bleeding leg?

The car won.

I drove it around for a while, making sure that the charging meter always was in the positive position. As the blood pooled on the floor, I made up my mind, I need professional help.

I drove to the hospital emergency clinic. I parked the car, left it to idle and I asked for help to get in.

By now there was quite a puddle of blood on the floor by the driver’s seat. My cast was, of course, broken and useless.

My home town hospital didn’t have any idea of what was inside that cast, so I was X-rayed, again.

The decision was made – take the cast off.

It was done, and the source of the bleeding was found and quickly sealed, a nasty cut on my skin.

A couple of hours later I hobbled outside to my still idling car, with a huge white wrapping on one leg.

The car was running, I said that, but also surrounded by a cloud of stem. The radiator was boiling.

Now I had to trust the battery. This engine must be shut down.

There I was. My life was no better. I stood outside the hospital in quite a bit of pain from my now unsupported foot and with a sick car.

One of the hospital caretakers saw me in my despair with the still steaming car and brought out a bucket of water. A little later, the engine had cooled enough that I could add to the radiator – and start the car.

That was worth it, I am now a man with wheels again.

Fortunately, not enough water had boiled off to do any damage to the engine, it was still as wheezy and powerless at always, but without any new clicking sounds from burned out internals.

Home again, boredom soon set in. And an abject lack of funds, of course.

This summer of 1959 had been the warmest anyone could remember, the grounds were burned brown, and many leaves had fallen early. I had seen nothing of it, being away all summer.

I took my mother for one last beach visit of the year, in my car, of course.

Then summer ended, early.

What to do? My friends were, mostly, in school or away, somewhere.

I soon learned to walk in such away that the break in my foot wasn’t too aggravated. Perhaps I limped, but I really tried not to.

I, as always read all the newspapers I could lay hands on, especially the job ads.

“Volvo needs welders for their local factory. Union wages.”

It was probably the word “wages” that got me thinking. I can do that, for wages.

I went to the plant office, located in a long-abandoned sugar mill in the harbour. As I walked in, I could see and remember some of the sugar handling equipment from my earlier visits, much of it still in place but very dusty by now.

I passed muster at the interview and was hired.

“My job?”

To run a spot-welding operation on the rear door frame of the Volvo Duett station wagon.

First, I was taught to weld properly in the back room. Easy, just clamp two pieces of metal together and then squeeze the trigger.

This released the current that would melt the metal and make a huge squirt of sparks fly.

I like this. You can certainly see and feel what you are doing.

This job was done with heavy leather gloves and a full cover clear plastic face mask, to keep your eyes safe.

This was the introduction to welding, all done before lunch-time.

Did you bring your lunch? Noooo, should I?

A couple of guys took pity on me and shared some of their sandwiches with me.

Now, the production line. My moment was almost at the end of the assembly of the clear metal, still unpainted bodies.

The car body was suspended from the ceiling and moved by to a holding place. I had to push a button to make the next come to my location. Once at rest there, I had to pick up a rather flimsy frame and fit it in the right place at the rear end of the open body.

I didn’t quite get it right the first times, but my supervisor stood nearby and quickly ground off my first weld.

”Do it again.”

At this time the pace became furious, I had spent too much time welding and cutting off again.

Next. I got that one affixed and could continue with the 20-some welding operations.

I’m good at this.

All the production workers were paid per piece made. The system was set up to encourage you to work faster, finish more activities and earn more.

The union had exactly the opposite idea; Make as few cars as you possibly can and get as much money as possible.

How was the piece rate set?

A “time-keeper” came from the office and stood behind for a while you as you worked away. He would then establish a going rate. That would be your salary per piece.

Now – big conflict.

I was, obviously for the union members, working far too fast. I didn’t smoke and I didn’t take any smoke breaks.

The union boss came and told me, “you must take breaks, sit down and eat an apple”.

Our garden had lots of pear trees and they fall in the fall.

I brought a bag of pears the next day and took my “smoke-breaks”, eating a juicy pear.

We seem to be at peace here; I am not too fast for the union, but still good enough for the production supervisor.

A few days went by in peace. I knew some of my coworkers, we were all locals. I brought sandwiches, made by mother, and life seemed good.

But – what am I doing here, in the dungeons of a dark, noisy, and smelly car factory? Am I making any impression on the world at all?

No, I am not. I just anonymously put a piece on the car, which disappears out of my view, only to show up in the street as a brand new car in a few weeks, or so.

How can I ever recognize that cars that I helped make?

I know, mark it.

One of my 20ish weld spots would be on the side, cutting a half moon out of the metal. That would certainly identify which cars I have made. I would be able to walk down the street, for years to come, look at the rear loading door and see my cut-out.

MY CAR.

Not so fast.

A few days later I had a personal visit by one of the Quality Control supervisors;

“Some of the bodies you welded on have too many welding mistakes. They are very expensive to fix in the paint shop. You must learn to make fewer mistakes.”

And so ended my career as a unionized auto worker. The pay was good, though.

Home again. The darkness of winter closed in.

I had nothing real to do and the city was continually enveloped in the fogs of winter.

I did the laundry, I washed the floors, I took out the garbage and … not much more.

One day, I tried to stay in bed. It was dark and gloomy outside and very quiet in my room, facing the backyard.

I slept on and off all day.

After dinner, I decided to go to bed for the night.

That didn’t work. I couldn’t sleep any more. My body was already as rested as it could be.

The next day, a bit groggy from my sleepless night I decided, this cannot go on.

I am not making any impression on the world.

I went for a long walk in town, looking at all the store fronts. Could I work there? Would they take me?

All the errand boy jobs I had done in younger years had told me a lot about retailing, it is boring and repetitive.

This was the year when our area would, finally get Swedish television. A new TV-tower was erected some 100 km away and would start transmitting this fall.

The city was in a TV-craze. It seemed as if everyone was buying a TV.

That’s new and exciting. What can I do?

“Sure, we need a TV-antenna installer, you are hired. How soon can you start? Tomorrow?”

Yes, I did. I was assigned to work with an experienced installer. He had at one time been a chimney sweep and knew about roofs.

We would assemble all the components, and carry it all to the attic where it was all laid down.

Now, find the roof-hatch and climb out on the roof. The antenna is to be attached to the chimney. The down-lead goes, properly supported across the roof, down the side of the building. When you get to the right window, you take the cord, drill a hole in the wall and stick it through.

That sounded easy.

Nobody had mentioned that it rained some days, making the brick-roofs unbelievably slippery…

… and …

Nobody knew anything about safety harnesses or how to stay on the roof, safely.

Ohh, did the adrenaline run through my veins, standing unsupported on the roof, holding onto the chimney with one hand and a screwdriver with the other, sometimes five stories above ground.

Getting the supports screwed in at the side of the buildings was no easy task,eithere. We would have a ladder, almost three stores tall. Get up there and do your job.

A couple of weeks in, on the first page of our local newspaper.

“TV antenna installer fallen to his death.”

This had happened in the next city block from where we had worked that day. Sure, we had heard the ambulance but had no idea.

My mother stepped in, raised her voice, called the store owner, a childhood friend of hers and – my antenna-installer career ended.

The department of labour visited all the TV-stores in town. All installation work was temporarily halted until all suitable persons had received safety training and been equipped with ropes and harnesses.

The costs went up, but no young man had to die for the joy of watching Swedish TV programs after that. (Actually “program”, there was only one channel.)

For quite obvious reasons, I didn’t volunteer for any more installation jobs, my life was too precious for that.

This didn’t make me unemployed. My next job for the company was to deliver TVs. The owner bought a brand new VW van, painted white with a prominent TV antenna sign on each front door.

This sign was designed by my younger sister, she was, after all, the artist in my family.

Anyone who has ever driven one of those VW vans know how pleasant they are to drive. You sit far up, see well and the steering wheel is almost horizontal in your lap. The abject lack of brute engine power doesn’t matter in town.

I liked to drive that van.

The town is small, but I used to arrange my deliveries to maximize the driving distance, start in the east end, then deliver in the west part of town, etc.

A couple of weeks of this and my joy was curtailed. The owner had a list of where I had been and read the odometer.

“Why did you drive so far, Bengt?”

All future delivery drives were much shorter.

But my military driver training was still of some use, I could back into the most narrow driveways without scratching the van, or could I?

One day I scratched the bumper. The van came in blue from the factory, the white was painted on at the dealer.

I returned with a blue streak on the edge of the bumper.

“You are not allowed to back in anywhere. Just carry the TVs a little farther.

This job became a bit of a routine.

One day we, me and a helper, were going out of town. This were long before the days of seat belts, speed limits, or stop signs. Our day was going well and the load lightened as the hours went by.

Then, in an intersection, it happened. A man came at an incredible speed, could barely slow down and hit the rear of my van.

We swung around, the two of us were unhurt, but the van was in the ditch, badly dented.

The other drivers stepped out, full of remorse.

“This isn’t may car, I have borrowed it for the day and was just testing it to see how fast it would go.”

Obviously far too fast for him to see the road ahead of him. It had spun around and was a total loss, steam spewing from the radiator and gasoline running out the other end, from the broken fuel tank.

The fire department came. They sprayed water over it all, the engine, the inside of the car and the rear end, for good measure.

My assistant was a man of very shady character, I knew that. He stepped out of the van, found out that all were well and – laid down in the middle of the road.

“I am injured, call an ambulance.”

The ambulance came and the attendants put his limp body on a stretcher.

I had to stay with our van and safeguard the remaining TVs, some were dented, and await the owner.

He said nothing to me. We transferred the TVs, I handed the keys to the tow-truck and proceed home.

That evening, the phone rang.

It was my “injured” friend. He wanted to see me at the local beer-pub.

He showed no signs of his injuries of a few hours ago but told me that I would be sued for everything I had for “life altering injuries”.

The police called me in for an interview and said, in passing, that my colleague had been arrested at his home early that morning. He was wanted for a break-and-entry but had avoided them until he showed up at the hospital.

Coming in as a victim of a traffic accident, with no identifiable injuries of any kind, he had been identified and told to stay at home for the night. He hadn’t stayed home, for sure.

My interview at the police station confirmed that I was not at guilt. The other driver had to got to court and pay 25 daily fines of 2 kronor for his speedy drive.

I wonder what the owner of the car said, it was not insured.

Now, my career in the TV industry had ended, for good. The owner got the van repaired and hired another young man to drive it. Apparently, he must have driven better, that van stayed in town for many years, and looked neither dented nor scratched.

Home again, without any hope or future. What impact on the world have I made?

Next?

By now, I was quite happy to have a little money to spend. I after all had my trusty Russian car to look after. That requires funds for gas and since it was soon winter, antifreeze for the radiator. It never boiled again.

So what came next?

The harbour. This was an important export port for Swedish cut lumber, shipped all over Europe on coastal carriers.

I got hired by a stevedore firm, not to do any stevedoring but even better, to stamp the shipper’s name on the ends of every single plank before it was loaded for export.

This was not a job for the lazy. I started long before sunrise and, equipped with an industrial size inkpad and a stamp, stamped planks.

Everyone had to be stamped, leave none.

It was dark, I mentioned that, fully exposed to the rain and sleet of the season, very cold and, worst of all, a totally lonesome job. There was nobody to talk to except during our tree short breaks for, morning coffee, lunch, and afternoon coffee. I didn’t drink coffee but carried hot cocoa instead.

There is no way for me to recall how long that lasted. Weeks, months, years or eons?

Finally, this shipment of wood had all been labeled and went onto, or into, a few cargo ships. My job ended, for now.

“We start again in a week.”

Do I have to?

Yes, I want money, don’t I?

A friend of mine, the son of the chief editor of the local newspaper mentioned about how hard it was for him to edit the local telephone directory, issued once a year.

You could do that for me this year, Bengt

Sure, I did.

We were two, taking turns, reading the names and numbers out loud, and checking for accuracy on the printed proof-sheet.

This was inside, in an office with warm, free coffee or tea, surrounded by pretty young things. Paradise?

Yes, it soon was. I soon dated one of the girls in the office. We knew each other from High School and got along swimmingly.

She was the cause for me almost setting our home on fire.

Yes, it was close. We were only saved from that disaster when my mother came home and found the melting aluminum pot on the red-hot electric stove. The painted wall near was smoking.

This girl had come to my room for a cup of tea. The tea water on the stove was soon forgotten as we engaged in other, more urgent personal matters. We were just getting out of bed again when my mother came home.

I may have learned about priorities then. First, tend to the pot on the hot stove, then…

Don’t laugh, it wasn’t funny even if it felt good.

The editing job wasn’t forever. Next, I was offered to deliver newspapers.

This certainly offered none of the pervious benefits, there weren’t even any pretty girls, this was run by an old, retired newsprint type setter.

I had to wake up at 04:00 to be standing, ready to get my cargo in the office at 4:45 am.

At first I use my scooter, but it soon died and wouldn’t run well. After that I had only my bicycle with a wooden box.

There were about 125 newspapers on my run, all to be delivered before 06:30 am.

Sure, I ran fast up and down the stairs, very few buildings had elevators. Oh, the characters you meet at that early hour.

Some were shift workers that had to have clocked in at 07:00. One or two would stand inside the front door and literally tear the paper out of my hand and stick it under their tunic as they rushed to jump on their mopeds and drive to work, leaving a huge blue cloud of exhaust behind them.

There were two building managers, both too cheap to pay for their own subscriptions. They would expect me to put an extra, unpaid for, newspaper in their mailbox.

“I cannot do that.”

The next morning the main entrance was locked, with the caretaker in view. I had to bang long and hard until he, slowly, turned his head towards the door, and very slowly unlocked it from the inside.

“No hard words, but you must understand that it is worth something for you that the door is unlocked at this early hour.”

I understood and put a paper in his apartment door mailbox, as did all the other newspaper boys too. There were three daily newspapers in this 12,000-inhabitant town, and three separate early morning delivery systems, like mine.

Am I making an impression on the world now?

How about my scooter that gave up its breath? It really worried me. I hadn’t driven it much since I got the car, but still.

When it got a little lighter, I attempted to take the muffler off. It was so full of carbonated soot that it took a long time to chisel it out. Driving a two-stroke engine short distances in the winter will condense part of the exhaust inside the muffler. Lesson learned.

Keep it hot.

I soon had to, because I traded my much-loved Russian beauty for a used VW, and that cost more than I could afford. Bad move on my part.

The dealer took the VW back. I now rode my scooter enough to keep it hot.

Our V-1 Pulse jet engine adventure.

Why don't planes use pulsejets?

I know why now..

We learned from our failed pulse jet. (True story.)

This is the same type of engine that powered the V1 bombs over London in 1939.

We made one in our mechanical laboratory, after hours, at my mechanical engineering university in Sweden in 1962. (Name withheld, there may still be angry neighbours around looking for us.)

We started with a 25 mm diametre round steel bar, drilled it out and machined the conical areas. It was only two pieces with the round single flapper valve on a stem with a spring in between.

We got full marks for our excellent machining and creating perfect threads.

The spark plug and magneto ignition system came from a “retired” 50 cc moped engine. We took the piston out and put the engine output shaft on an electric drill, held in a vice. It vibrated badly for the lack of the rod and piston but spun freely.

We secured the pulse engine in a bench vice, pointing into the open space.

The fuel was kerosene and we started it by wiggling a compressed air hose in front, held by a hand with an asbestos glove (Who knew about Asbestos then?)

It eventually started, ran with deafening noise and almost blew out the window at the other end of the room, about ten metres away. The room filled with kerosene exhaust.

All windows were open for all runs after the first one.

We run it several times in succession, but only for a few seconds each time. The running problem was to get a steady fuel flow. We never had a chance to correct that little fuel system engineering flaw.

(I wear hearing aids now. Was my hearing loss initiated then?)

We were all infused with kerosene smell and black soot.

This was done long after dark. The building caretaker came and started screaming at us.

We had to come back, wash down the walls, pay for our own paint, and make the walls look better a few days later.

Kerosene made black soot, but you knew that?

We never checked for thrust then, and never had a chance again. It did blow out a lot of black air, though.

I’m sure that one of my colleagues still have the engine, sans ignition system, somewhere.

The question in our department was, should we be punished or congratulated on our “initiative”.

Nobody of authority said anything harsh and we all graduated a year later

For new immigrants to Canada to know

Posted on Quora by Koyel Ranu on 2021-02-15

For new immigrants to Canada with no previous family, friends, or job there (actual immigrants, not students/visitors), how did they decide where to move to within Canada? What factors did they consider? What do they wish they knew before moving?

Written by Quora member 

Koyel Ranu | কোয়েল রানু

and posted on 2021-02-25

I didn’t immigrate to Canada (I went there to study), but since my doctoral research involved immigrants to Canada, I can answer this question based on what I found in my research.

My research involved mapping social participation and formation of social capital. In my interviews, I’d ask questions that explored the kind of networks an immigrant has, identify the nodal points where those networks would start forming, and how those affected their decision-making process in their move to Canada and further down the settlement process, among other questions.

This answer, however, applies only to South Asian immigrants (people from India, Pakistan, Sri Lanka, Bangladesh, Nepal, Bhutan, Afghanistan).

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THE Person

For South Asian immigrants, a particularly important factor that impacts their decision-making in where to move, and where to settle, and what factors to consider even in this whole process – is the person of their first contact, with regards to immigration.

This person of first contact could be a very weak tie—some friend of a colleague’s cousin, an ex-boss, someone the immigrant had met in a travel agency in their sending country. Before moving to Canada, South Asian immigrants usually find this particular someone, in order to anchor their following settlement process in Canada.

Hereafter, this person guides them in choosing not only the city but also the neighbourhood, where the new immigrant family should settle.

More often than not, it is a predominantly South Asian neighbourhood, with the only exceptions to this rule being immigrants who belong to a high household income (who had an existing job offer or have a household income in the range of $110 k - $ 400 k).

Immigrants with a high household income would often choose to settle in a “more mainstream” neighbourhood (i.e. less “ethnic”), while immigrants with no job offers and meagre savings, and immigrants with some modest savings (but no job offer) would often go for settling in ethnic neighbourhoods, because of assumed support from their ethnic group on a rainy day. This part was based on a commonly-found, instinctive logic of homophily: “People who appear to be similar like me, are more likely to help me, than people who look different to me and whom I don’t know and can’t trust.”

This Person of first contact, therefore, is elevated on a very trustworthy level of bankable dependence, because of the common ethnic background, and common experience of being an immigrant in a “white, western country”.

In the majority of the cases, a South Asian immigrant retains this selection criterion of living in an “ethnic neighbourhood” even later, even when they have got to know the city better. The person of first contact impacts not only the new immigrant’s first apartment/house in Canada but also the subsequent networks they would be a part of – ethnic and/or non-ethnic.

Generally speaking, almost all recent immigrants spoke of how they feel isolated from being stripped of their past friend circles and networks. Consequently, they felt that they had to depend on this first person of contact for information and access to groups and networks, getting around to know the city, procuring things in the new country, and obtaining general knowledge on people and things in the new country.

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Where do I go?

In the decision-making process of which city to move on, South Asian immigrants usually avoid French Canada. Most of them are told that a working knowledge of French –the language they don’t know—is essential to survive and live in Quebec. Therefore, they tend to look for big cities other than Montreal; big cities, because those ones possess good public transport, which is important for immigrants since most of them do not plan on buying a car upon arrival, or might not know driving/might not have an international driving license. Big cities also tend to possess more job opportunities.

In this context, Toronto and Vancouver are popular choices than Edmonton for example, because of their milder weather (than rest of Canada, which matter for people from tropical countries) and the existence of a low-cost consumer market, even though living in these cities could be expensive (higher rent + transport cost, etc).

However, more fixer-upper alternatives exist in these cities, than in those belonging to the Prairie, where the oil and gas industry could pay well, but then, the consumer services are also more geared towards the rich. It’s not easy to be a poor immigrant in Calgary, for example, as compared to surviving as a poor/working-class immigrant in Toronto.

Immigrants also assume (or expect) that the large immigrant presence in these two cities would lead to a less alienated feeling upon arrival and a more multicultural experience –the word they keep hearing, right from the moment they think about immigrating to Canada.

Moreover, ethnic neighbourhoods usually have lower rents than more white/mainstream neighbourhoods.

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Where do I move next?

With increasing length of residence and better knowledge about the city, immigrants move out of their first neighbourhood to fulfill their more relevant and emergent needs, such as:

• greater convenience and access to places,
• easier access to health services,
• close to the workplace,
• safer areas,
• closer to better commuting areas, and
• to stay close to their co-ethnic group.

In their initial decision-making process, the above-mentioned factors do not matter, as much as the word of The Person of First Contact matters to them.

For many South Asian immigrants, they don’t even know that they need to think about the above-mentioned factors. In South Asian countries, convenience to places such as a clinics, shops, entertainment centres, pharmacy, grocery stores are a given, often existing within walking distances.

Neighbourhoods in South Asian countries are not residential units with just houses and some corner store where you can only get milk, bread and canned goods. Lower rents of particular neighbourhoods in South Asian countries also do not automatically entail a significant qualitative difference in safety issues.

So, these are the things that immigrants often have to learn to think about after their arrival to Canada.

Ethnic Networks

South Asian immigrants prefer to live and engage in their co-ethnic networks.

Ethnic networks complement the lack of ability to spend and invest in social participation in more mainstream/dominant networks, which were mentioned as:

• Inability to drink and socialize in a bar due to religious and/or cultural constraints,
• Financial priorities,
• Investment in specific kind of dressing in order to socialize in “western manner”,
• Invest in buying extra food and other accessories (e.g., silverware) to socialize with guests and such other accompaniments required for modes of socializing and social participation in Canada.

More often than not, immigrants coming to Canada have to grapple with issues of getting their degrees and credentials recognized. As a result, many of them find themselves with little choice, but to accept the kind of jobs they don’t belief to be commensurate with their skills and educational backgrounds.

The consequent lower economic status is often survived upon by reliance on emotional, financial and material support from their neighbours and friends in ethnic neighbourhoods.

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Stages of Getting Settled:

• In the first stage of getting settled down, new immigrants are concerned with more immediate and pressing needs such as food, shelter, orientation to the city, language interpretation, and language instruction.
• In the intermediate stage, immigrants’ needs comprise of access to various Canadian systems and institutions, such as municipal services, legal services, long-term housing, health services and employment-specific language instruction.
• In the last stage, assuming the immigrant has adapted to the new country, immigrants strive to become equal participants in Canada’s economic, cultural, social, and political life.

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Expectations

A. Alienation and a sense of heightened individualism in a new country were prime factors that almost all immigrant respondents, except the ones with high household income, were found to be struggling with. The change in social conditions, along with infrastructural changes such as weather, workplace activities, and traffic, accentuated the idea of Canada being a “different” setting. Many immigrants expressed how they did not expect the “feeling of exclusion” which became a part of their newly adopted country of living.

The general expectation of surviving without as much support from friends, family, and neighbours as in the immigrant’s country of origin, receiving polite behaviour, but not the customary care and support as s/he would receive in their country of origin, were found to be overwhelming contrasts that new immigrants tried to make sense of, based on their expected norms formed “back home”.

B. The levels of being overwhelmed and abilities to cope with different customs of social interaction were seen to differ with varying degrees of education, socio-economic status, and familiarity with the western discourse in general.

As an example, this is what a 50 year old, married, South Asian male immigrant (from India, with an annual income of $35,000- $40,000) said, with respect to interacting and forming friendship/bonds with “mainstream” Canadians:

I have tried mixing in with the people over here. I have tried going at bars, trying to watch ice hockey. But I don’t understand these things… It’s not something that I’m familiar with, or that I have seen from the childhood and it’s not possible for me to start drinking at this age or be passionate about ice hockey at this age.

Source: My research interviews

C. Cultural Differences:

Immigrants would also differ in the levels of expected formality and etiquette, which affect their levels of being comfortable in doing things together with mainstream Canadians.

When an immigrant lacks the ease of interaction with mainstream Canadians, this affects further inter-ethnic communication, as the immigrant chooses to dissociate her/himself from such areas of social participation. Many immigrants didn’t expect that they would have to learn a new discourse of interaction because they expected they would know it anyway since they were already well-conversant in English.

This is what a 41 year old female immigrant from Sri Lanka (with a household income of $250,000) and who was convent school educated in Sri Lanka (schools offering a more western way of education; respondent was familiar with discourses of English literature and colloquial customs) had to say:

It was little things that strike…like getting the right pronunciation. Like people would say “few-el” (fuel) and I would say “foo-al” (Fuel), or this …and was….and little things like that…and that here in Canada you constantly talk about the weather. It was such a thing to say….and I was surprised at the weather too. And just the way you greet people…like “hi…how are you”… you really don’t need to explain how you really are. You are just expected to say I’m fine and how are you and pass on, right? ... and how long are you supposed to work and so…I was anxious about whether I would be up-to-date with things.

Source: My research interviews

Immigrants who could be well-conversant in English and the western way of life, would not expect about the “little things” like pronunciation that sets them apart, to the category of being a “visible minority”. They might think they know the process of settling in, in this age of Information being so widely and readily available, but then, there are some organic differences to really doing it, as the above-mentioned respondent went on to say:

Sri Lanka’s society is actually structured differently. There are neighbours available to do different things. So you won’t necessarily have to…like kids here actually go to an old age home or senior citizens home and actually spend time with them and talk with the people. That is not so much…….that is not done so much that way there.

If you want to talk you could do it voluntarily, but you don’t need to make an effort. Like spending time with people, you have to do it here. I suppose that’s what I do too. I have been told, that if you have a pet then you get to know your neighbours better with the dog running and all that. And I don’t have kids either. So those are the key things that help you to know your neighbours better and all that.

Source: My research interviews

Many South Asian immigrants expressed how they didn’t expect that social relationships (intrinsic to their settlement and integration process to the Canadian society) could not be presupposed to get cemented with time. They didn’t expect that relationships would require an active investment to build.

Cultural differences, by themselves, do not create walls between ethnic groups. But perceived levels of difference play a key role.

There are cultural differences within Indians, among people from Bangladesh, Pakistan and Sri Lanka but they are more akin to be friends with each other than with, individuals from Europe or even Eastern Asia. The medium of language between a Sri Lankan and an Indian remains English, as it would remain between a white, British lineage Canadian and a South Asian immigrant.

However, the commonality of a shared understanding in food, habits, and customs creates a bond that excludes possibilities of bonding and networks with other ethnic groups. A common culture does not necessarily bring people to develop a liking for each other or get into social relationships, but it does rule out steps to second guess gestures and meaning. It provides a common framework where expectations are clearer and behavioural references are easily understood.

D. Many immigrants had no idea that volunteering and networking formed an important ingredient of finding jobs and expressed the wish that they had known it earlier.

E. For a significant proportion of immigrants, they wish they had known about the frustration which colours their immigrant life: non-recognition of their educational credentials in Canada, in spite of those being recognized when being granted the status of being an immigrant.

F. Finding a job is an important precondition of getting settled in Canada. Finding a job also puts the idea of the “worth” of an immigrant/newcomer to test. In this process of finding a job, and gaining equivalent status in the new country, perceived discrimination and exclusion from the labour market, further the feeling of alienation one can encounter in a new country. Before their new identity—the Canadian identity—is crystallized, immigrants often encounter the difference between their own culture and the mainstream/dominant culture in antagonistic, binary perspectives.

G. Immigrants also expressed how they had to learn to dress in accordance with the Canadian weather. Most of them had to go through strong trials and errors of what “layered clothing” means and why and how it works, and why and how wearing a jumbo jacket might not work.