her eye; anyone who has been part of the military knows that if you seek common sense, you’ll not find it there. The military bureaucracy has more rules and regulations than a dog has fleas, and anyone who is prone to do as she pleases and follow the sensible dictates of her own intelligence will quickly find she is in the wrong place.
Frances spent four weeks in HMCS Conestoga, undergoing the standard drills and lectures. From there, sixty Wrens were sent to the Canadian Signal School in Saint-Hyacinthe, Quebec, to become visual signallers. Twenty of these, including Frances, then transferred to become TSOs (Telegrapher Special Operator).
During Frances’s time in the navy, she was in Intelligence, specifically monitoring Japanese ships and submarines. But she didn’t know she was working for the secret service until she was discharged. “We were getting an extra seventy-five cents a day,” she said, “and couldn’t figure out why.” But in 1945, six-bits was six-bits, so you didn’t ask questions.
Once, when monitoring a particular frequency, Frances heard a strange and continuous beeping. She and the other Wrens tracked it right across the prairies. They couldn’t understand what it was. Eventually they learned it was a weather balloon; one came down over central Canada and the authorities were able to identify it and determine its use. It was Japanese, and had apparently been sent over to test air currents. Some, according to Frances, were armed with small bombs, and all had transmitters and were sending back weather patterns to Japan. “The theory was,” said Frances, “they were going to send more powerful bombs and release them in the right place at the right time. Which they didn’t, thank goodness!” Frances estimated the balloons were thirty feet in diameter and made of rice paper. “Must have been quite an engineering feat,” she said. “I imagine it had ribs and stuff made of bamboo. It seemed beyond belief: a rice paper balloon, borne on air currents, making its way across the Pacific Ocean!”
For the remainder of 1944, until the middle of March 1945, the Wrens’ days were an unending series of studies and lectures. There was a rumour that the top fifteen in the upcoming exams would be going to the west coast. The rumour proved true, and Frances was one of the fifteen. They left for Vancouver on May 3, 1945. Frances arrived there on VE Day, then boarded the boat to Victoria — her first “sea” voyage. After five days at HMCS Givenchy in Esquimalt, she and her fellow Wrens were sent south to Seattle — Bainbridge Island — on loan to the American navy.
As a child, Frances got into a lot of trouble doing what she wanted to do. As a Wren, not much changed. She was an attractive, blond, twenty-year-old woman, and so was her friend Marnie. American sailors were no slower than Canadian sailors, so, within two days of joining the Canadian Wrens’ school in Seattle, she and her friend were invited by an American sailor to tour one of the large warships moored near the navy yard.
When it came time to leave the vessel, the two Wrens stepped ashore in the navy yard — and were promptly arrested. A marine officer seized them and dragged them off to the station.
“How the hell did you get in?” cried the American officer. “A colonel in the U.S. Army can’t get into this place without a pass!”
And then he phoned the FBI.
Frances and Marnie looked at each other, at a loss to understand. They had just walked in with their friend, the American sailor, casual as you please, and been given the Grand Tour of the USS Bunker Hill. And here they were, with the officer talking to the FBI guy on the phone.
“Their stories check …” and “Their number on file …” and “At the time they were apprehended …” Frances swallowed. Apprehended?!
Finally, another officer came in and said, “How did you people get in?”
Frances, by now more irritated than frightened, looked him coldly in the eye. “We swam in — from Canada.”
The officer, Frances thought, appeared to have had “a couple of jars” with his lunch. In any event, he took her response without offence, escorted them to the gate, and let them go.
On July 5, 1945, Frances’s group returned to Canada.
In August 1945, the Japanese surrendered, bringing the Second World War to an end, and with the cessation of hostilities, Frances’s thoughts turned to the future. Get out or stay in?
A week after the war ended, she celebrated her twenty-first birthday. Her friends gave her a party, and among her gifts were a sketch pad, a pencil, and a portfolio — a subtle hint of things to come. Throughout her time in the navy she had been sketching regularly. She found she had a facility and could capture a likeness easily and quickly.
At this point, her inclination was to leave the navy and take advantage of what was for many servicemen and women the opportunity of a lifetime: A university education, paid for by the Department of Veterans’ Affairs.
By mid-September she had made her decision, and submitted her name to the RCN depot, her formal “resignation” from the navy. It was not without the usual advice from many quarters. “Lieutenant Cassidy advised me to take art, but to stay in for awhile,” she said. “And after the Victory Loan Show, where I sang, Lieutenant Berlin wanted me to become a torch singer.” She laughed, but was thoughtful, too. “Might have been interesting.”
Above all, though, was the university education. But in what field? Medical? Her love of animals was strong, and veterinary medicine had its appeal. Music? She was already a competent violinist, she had a good voice, and music had always been in her nature. Art? Her sketching led her to consider drawing or painting; she thought she might become a good portrait artist.
In mid-October she sang at the Givenchy dance. “Dark Eyes” and “Night and Day” went over very well, and once again she saw herself draped over a piano, provocative off-the-shoulder dress, her husky voice lamenting a lost love, with Cole Porter at the keyboard, gazing up at her with a smile as he played the romantic hits of the day: Frances Gage, torch singer.
A long leave allowed Frances to return to home and family for the first time in seven months. Unfortunately, while her time in the navy had opened Frances’s mind to the exciting opportunities the world had to offer, nothing much had changed at home. She found that her mother and sister Barbara still didn’t get along. “Never did,” said Frances. Barbara was the youngest of the family, neglected at best, more often roughly ordered about, to which she responded with the stubbornness inherited from her mother.
“For heaven’s sake, girl, haven’t you folded those shirts yet?”
“I’ll fold them when I get around to it.”
“Do it now.” (A hard edge to the voice.)
“Later. Can’t you see I’m busy?” (Equally hard.)
“Don’t you give me that tone, my girl!”
Barbara would respond in kind, and any tranquility the day might have had was lost forever.
“There was the same unyielding nature in both of them,” said Frances. “Like a couple of mules. The best thing in the world would have been for Barbara to get away from home. Good for Mother, too.” Barbara, barely twenty, was already showing the signs of alcohol addiction, the demon that would torment her for the rest of her life.
On February 27, 1946, though she was technically still a Wren, Frances began a new job. She was hired to work on the development of a new Canadian flag. “I was still in the navy, but I had been doing a lot of drawing and sketching for the past two years, and had shown some of my work to Alan Beddoes,
