The Vandoos and don’ts

Exploring for minerals in the sleepy, rural districts of Nova Scotia can sometimes produce trials and tribulations.

In the late 1960s, I wanted to drill just one hole for barite in Sam King’s sheep pasture, and he gave me permission to do so. I was impressed with King because he seemed to be a quiet, pleasant and friendly chap.

My impression would soon change.

The following day I took a drill foreman to the pasture and showed him where to start drilling. I gave some other instructions and told him I’d be in touch the next day.

I had barely got settled in a nearby hotel when I received a frantic phone call from the foreman telling me that King, shotgun in hand, had put the run to him and his crew. He described King as gun-waving lunatic, so I told the foreman to pull the rig off the property and wait for me. But the men were afraid to return for the drill.

I returned as quickly as possible and met King in the kitchen of his farm house. He gave me a steely look and shouted: “Those drillers spoke in French on my property. I hate that language, ’cause it reminds me of Paris and the “Vandoos.” Hearing it gives me nightmares.”

For those readers who have not heard of the Vandoos, the term is a corruption of Vingt-deuxime, the name of the Royal 22nd Regiment of Quebec City. These French Canadian troops fought with valour in the Second World War and had a reputation for using guerrilla warfare against the Nazis. When they went on a mission to punish the Germans, even their own troops gave them a wide berth.

King told me the following story: He was a member of the military police when Paris was liberated from German occupation. One evening he was told to take an aide and investigate a report of several Vandoos whooping it up at a local hotel. Upon entering the room, King and his assistant were grabbed, beaten and tossed out of a 2-storey window. The men wound up in a hospital where everyone spoke French and yet neither man could speak the language. Since the war, King had harboured a hatred for the French.

Familiar with the regiment myself, I thought only a fool would have tried to quell a party of drunken Vandoos with only two men. Nevertheless, I kept my thoughts quiet, noticing the shotgun in the corner. [Editor’s note: The regiment was not even in France at the time.]

I told King that the drill foreman and his crew had reported the incident to the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and the farmer became somewhat more subdued. I then guaranteed King that we would drill the hole as quickly as possible and that no one would speak French on his property. He finally relented but warned of vigilante justice if the men spoke in French.

The crew was scared and refused to return to the drill in King’s field. Most of the crew had not heard of the Vandoos, but they did realize they were dealing with a bigot.

After a great deal of pleading, I coaxed the men back to the drill with the assurance that I would stay and keep King away from the rig.

To this day, I have never seen a faster drilling job for a 300-ft. hole. The removal of the drill from the property went even faster — all without a word of French. I was almost happy we didn’t hit any barite.

When the rig reached the safety of the highway the foreman turned to me and said: “I don’t know who the Vandoos were, but I wish that party had been on the tenth floor.”

— The author is the owner of Truro, N.S.-based Ecum Secum Enterprises.