The Canadian National Newspaper: Canadian Insight: Afghanistan Death Toll linked to Fist Fight for Fat Emma

As 2007 drew to a close another Canadian soldier was killed in Afghanistan. Apart from the immediate cause, a roadside improvised explosive device formerly known as a bomb, perhaps we should speculate as to who might be responsible for his death?

The answer to that may lie in why a Canadian soldier was there in the first place? Well, we know why, don’t we? It was because there were twenty-five Canadians in the Twin Trade Center Towers on 9/11 -- that George Bush immediately declared Osama to be the guilty perpetrator of that evil deed -- bin Laden lived in an Afghanistan cave -- revenge was therefore a necessary reaction. QED, Afghanistan had to pay the price for this allegedly sneak attack on America.

Canada went right along with the obvious logic behind that scenario, and now our peace keeping forces are fighting to bring democracy to the terrorist Muslim Arab fanatics (generically now referred to as ‘insurgents’ in all news reports), who hate our way of life. As a consequence Canadians made a national decision to send Gunner Jon Dion from Val ‘Or, Quebec to Afghanistan to die twenty kilometres west of Kandahar City.

I didn’t know Jon Dion, but I did know another member of the Canadian forces, Bill Rattee from Pasqua, Saskatchewan. He was my best friend a long time ago. Let me tell you how well I knew him:

The kids my age in the village were all girls. Later on we got some guys, but when I was six they were all girls. We got along fine, picking flowers, playing house and stuff like that. And then a new family came to town, named Rattee. The youngest son was my age - I can’t remember now if Billie was a week older or a week younger than I was - it doesn’t matter. Anyway, being the only two boys, we started to play together right off.

“Let’s go picking flowers,” I said that first day. The prairie was loaded with wildflowers in those days when there was lots of prairie left.

“Naw, let’s go killing gophers,” replied Billie. I went with him, but I didn’t like killing gophers much. Not at first anyway. But then I guess you can get used to anything. The gophers never seemed to though.

Every once in a while I tried to revert to my former sissified mode of play and balked at doing what he wanted. Billie would then pick a fight and beat on me instead of the local wildlife. He wasn’t vicious, but you got scratched and dirtied up a lot. To these unwarranted attacks I never put up much resistance. Billie liked fighting. I didn’t and he knew it. I’d go home crying to my mother and she’s comfort me.

With his father owning the only store in the village like he did, it always seemed a simple thing for Billie to get his hands on a couple of chocolate bars. They were only a nickle in the Dirty Thirties, remember. My favourite was one called Fat Emma. A delicious foamy marshmallow dipped in dark chocolate. After a scrap, Billie would always give me one and we’d be friends again. And before long we’d be playing cowboys and Indians together. He’d be the cowboys and pretty soon the plot would call for them to beat up on the Indians, which was me.

Well, my dad soon found out about this scenario - from my mother, I guess, or maybe I came home bawling one time, expecting some milk and sympathy, and he happened to be around the house. Dad took me aside and explained the facts of life to me.

“If you come home one more time, beat-up and bawling, and saying that Billie Rattee cleaned your clock,” he said, “then I am informing you here and now, young man, that the licking you are going to get from me will make your go-arounds with little Billie feel like a Sunday School picnic. Now get your butt down there and don’t come back until you’ve given him a licking.”

I looked up at my father, a guy I really liked, even though he could be a disciplinarian at times. I can still remember the expression on his face. I knew from that look that he was mad and deadly serious. I was frightened as I went down the street to the only crossroads in town, turned the corner and headed for the general store. I knocked on the side door of the residence behind the store. Billy’s mother was always nice to me. When she answered the door, I asked her if Billie could come out to play. He could and he did. I noticed that he had two Fat Emmas in his shirt pocket.

There was a high board fence around the Rattees’ yard. About halfway down one side was a spot where one board was missing and I motioned to Billie to follow me through the opening.

“I’ve got something real good to show you, Billie,” I said.

I was real scared. I wondered if he could see me shaking, as we went into the old weedy vacant lot on the other side of the fence -- the place had begun to look to me like a Roman amphitheatre. This was no flower picking expedition with little Sally Neff.

I turned to face Billie just as he reached into his pocket for the chocolate bars. For a moment I hesitated. Why didn’t I just take that delicious piece of confection and forget about the Christians and the lions bit? I could taste the lovely soft marshmallow and the sweet chocolate -- but I could also see my father’s face and remember his words.

I let Billie have it in the chops with all the force I could muster. I figured that’s what he’d do, get the first punch in. Anyway this was no time for Marquis of Queensbury rules -- too much was at stake. I leapt on top of him as he stumbled backward, bearing him to the ground. In my excited state my arms were flailing like windmills, so that even though there was little sense of direction, I was getting in a lot of blows. It was then and there that I learned the value of the first-strike-sneaky-surprise attack. That and the sheer inner excitement and necessity of emerging the victor won the day. I wasn’t going back to my dad to get the tanning he had promised; I was going to get some praise.

Poor Billie never stood a chance. I think he was as dumbfounded at the suddenness of the onslaught as at its ferocity. He fought for a while, but he was down and he was getting pummeled. This was a new experience for him and he pretty quickly yelled uncle.

That was our last fight and I whomped him good, even though he had won the first half dozen. The spoils of war were not something I knew much about at the time, but victory deserves its reward. I ripped the two Fat Emmas out of Billy’s pocket and took off on the run, back through the fence, down the street and home.

The bars were a little squashed but I gave one to my dad. He looked at it, at my dirt-covered clothes, smiled and thanked me for the Fat Emma.

Billie Rattee was my best friend from that day on. He remained my best friend until we were both twenty-two and he got killed flying a spitfire out of Malta in World War II (WWII). He wasn’t exactly fighting at the time, he was on the runway on the ground, victim of faulty traffic control and another allied plane. Friendly fire as they now call it.

Billie, how come you forgot to watch out for sudden danger when you least expected it? And from your friends yet? I thought I had taught you about that. You never got to be an air ace, but you didn’t have to worry about getting old either, and think about these things sixty-five years later. I wish they still made Fat Emma bars. I owe you two.

And if they still made them I also wish I could give one to Gunner Jon Dion, because he didn’t deserve to die young either, no matter who bears the blame. There are many victims on both sides in any war, and sometimes it is hard to know your friends from your foes. Let us try to prevent victimization by supposedly democratic governments, for if we remain oblivious to their actions we become complicit in the crimes they commit.

About the writer:

Hal Sisson, Q.C., R.C.A.F. armourer in World War II, is a reformed lawyer who practiced law in Peace River, Alberta for thirty-five years and has been resident in Victoria, B.C. since 1985. Author of ten published books including the best sellingCoots, Codgers and Curmudgeons(with his partner Justice Dwayne Rowe); and his latest Modus Operandi 9/11 that exposes the White House lies about 9/11, the machinations of the New World Order and the "War on Terror", and does so featuring salty humour in the form of a novel. International croquet and marble player and collector, his major hobby was stand-up comedy and writing and performing in Western Canada's longest running (25 years) burlesque revue, Sorry 'Bout That. LINK.

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