We had holed up in a local school for the time being, the shelling of buildings commenced once more as we would glance across the street at the tenement the rest of the division had occupied. At this point we'd been cut off from Gen. Marshall and the main thrust of the army. The weather was so cold that even gloves couldn't warm your fingers.
We burnt the desks and even the books for warmth that night, trying to keep the fire low, not wanting to give the Canadian snipers any opportunities. We had to be as quiet as possible, and in the low light every noise made us stiffen slightly, like cats. The room soon began to smell of the crisp scent of urea as we were too worried about the Canadians to go outside.
It went on like this for a week or so. In the distance, we could hear the other divisions, and one morning there was a great cry from across the street. We rushed to the windows, Canadian's be damned, and then looked down into the street.
It was almost impossible to believe our eyes - we'd won the battle and the Canadian 'division' that had kept us pinned here had been flanked and made prisoner by the 14th 'Detroit' Infantry. As we cheered the troops as they marched the 200 odd sad looking Royalists down the street, a shot rang out from nearby. I'm ashamed to say that I ducked and looking at the man next to me, I realised he was dead. His head was blown clean open, brains smeared across the walls in a grizzly and unfitting end.
A second and third shot rang out, the bullets scoring the wall behind the window before a rattle of gunfire from the street put an end to it, seven perhaps eight rifles and one of the captured Canadian Bren Guns was fired by a huge brute of a man, who I later found out was the First Lieutenant leading the division. That was the day we won Vancouver and the day I met Joe Steele.