WWII Letters to Agassiz, British Columbia (1944)
Corporal Chris Tricker and Agassiz, British Columbia
Christopher Tricker was born in Saskatchewan, Canada to his parents Edward and Marie in 1911. He was the first child of ten in the family. He completed high school in Saskatchewan, and in 1937 moved to British Columbia to work in Agassiz. By trade Christopher was a printer, carpenter, and a farmer and met the McCallum family when he was working on a nearby farm in Agassiz, British Columbia.
You can read the previous letters from Christ Tricker’s here.
Agassiz From Half a World Away
Officer Tricker longs for Mount Cheam which is covered with snow along with rain clouds hanging low over the mountains. Meanwhile he is in Ceylon where his reality is strikingly different. He is in the oppressive heat where getting cool is a top priority after simply surviving the day.
Agassiz and Mount Cheam are located in the Fraser Valley in British Columbia, Canada. The Fraser Valley is known for being surrounded my snow-topped mountains, mild weather, and long rainy season. No wonder he is longing for home.
British Columbians Overseas During World Wars
For many British Columbians, the First and Second World Wars meant travelling farther from home than they ever had before. Men and women from communities across the province found themselves serving thousands of kilometres away in Europe, Asia, Africa, and other parts of the world. Letters provided an important connection between those serving overseas and the families and friends they had left behind.
These letters also brought the wider world back to British Columbia. Servicemen and women wrote about unfamiliar landscapes, cultures, climates, and their experiences of military life, while letters from home carried news of family, friends, and familiar places.
Letter
Christopher’s Letter to Jeannie McCallum – May 13, 1944
(CAN.) R-97944,
CPL. Tricker, C.W.
R.A.F. Section 4,
CeylonMay 13, 1944
Dear Jeannie:
Your letter of March 6 has arrived, all water-stained and singed about the edges with words “Salvaged, From Air Crash” stamped across the front. Ever word of it, however, it readable. That is the important thing, isn’t it? It would be interesting to hear the stories it might tell if it could only speak. An airgraph from a sister at home was evidently in the same batch, as it too shows sign of flood and fire.It is always a treat to have a letter from you folks, as I must do my best to merit more of them. Things in Agassiz always interests me, and you and Mrs. Kelly are my only correspondents there now. In this oppressive heat it is pleasant to be reminded now and again of such places as the Fraser Valley – Old Cheam, snow-covered and cool-looking, and rain clouds hanging low over the mountains. Would that I were there now!
I do, however, expect to have a bit of a change in a few days’ time. I and a friend are going to spend a two weeks’ leave in the Nigiri Hills- southern India’s most noted holiday place. The attitude of the place we hope to visit is some eight thousand feet; and the climate is said to be very pleasant. People who regularly go there, to whom I’ve spoken, claim that it is even more scenic than England’s “Lake-land” – a think if it is difficult for me to visualize about any place in south India. I am really looking forward to the change; it will be my first leave since coming out here. I should have plenty to write about upon my return. I should have much preferred going up to Kashmir or Darjeeling, or visiting such places as Delhi and Agra (the Taj Mahal) but all of them are too far way. Perhaps I shall have the opportunity of seeing one or more of those parts later.
My time during the past few months has been divided between two places, this station and another one situated a few hundred miles away. The moving about that is entailed in living first at one and then the other seems to make time go very quickly indeed. I usually make the journey by train, though on several occasions have flown. I much prefer the latter Indian trains are slow and always desperately crowded. It is no exaggeration to say that often there are almost as many people clinging to the outside of coaches as there are inside.
Amazing incidents often occur while travelling, like the time a bunch of us were involved in such a lengthy argument with Indian railway officials over what class of accommodation we should have that some of us were almost left behind. Only the prompt pulling of the emergency cord by one of our number already aboard that day for the rest of us. The train, which had started to pull out, was brought to a sudden halt; and at once a inevitable avalanche of jabbering natives were upon us, shouting, waving their arms, and threatening us with all manner of dire punishments. The only outcome of all this excitement was the one we sought – we had our ride, and we rode not third-class as they wished us to, but first-class, as we believed ourselves entitled to since all second-class compartments which are normally ours were occupied.
Several days later.-
I really must get this finished and off on the mail. My leave starts tonight, as I shall soon be away. It’s none too soon either, for the heat is sweltering. Perhaps you will be interestd in the spot of mountain climbing I did several weeks ago. It was one afternoon while I was at the other station I’ve already referred to. The camp there is located quite close to the foot of a mountain – not quite as impressive a mountain as that one behind your place, but quite good for this part of India. It is some fifteen hundred feet and I should say, five to six miles long. I had long wanted to climb it, not only for the climbing itself, which I always enjoy, but to see a temple of which we had heard a great deal. This Hindu temple, we had been told, stands in a little wooded hollow just over the brow of the hill.
There were letters from down the hill. A flight of steps have cut into the hill-side leading up to the summit and down into the tiny village that clusters around the temple. Of chief interest was the information given to us of the temple’s dome being made of solid gold.
We usually went down to the sea to swim each afternoon we were stationed there, but this afternoon of which I’m speaking, we trust aside that very attraction inducement. Three of us, with one very small water bottle between us, sallied forthing into the heat. After some reconnaissance we located the first of the steps cut into the hill, and started to a send. After that it seemed we are stopping every moment or two. The sun beat down unmercifully and only little escapes of shade were available here and there. We would sit long minutes while we cooled of with a bit of water and regained our breaths. With each halt came a wider and still wider view of the country-side below us. It looked very charming indeed. It was hard for us to realize that the tiny, trim-looking little villages we could see far below were the dirty, unpleasant smelling places we had walked through but a short time before. The palm-trees and the mango-groves too looked small and the far-away river was nothing more than a silver gleam. Away off to one side was the sea, looking so blue and so cool. And there, on the scorching rocks were we, the perspiration gushing from every pore.
To think we could have been in that water at that moment __! But those thoughts didn’t last long. About two –thirds of the way up we seem to have gained “second wind” for the going seemed much easier. Parties of Indians coming down from the top passed us. Many of them carried baskets of fruits on their heads – mangoes, and others we didn’t know the names of. “Were these latter fit to eat?” We wanted to know. After many gestures, including fingers pointed to the fruit in question and then to our mouths, we were told they were, but when I tasted them, I decided otherwise. Mangoes are excellent, but not the others.
At last we were finished climbing, and for a time walked in the shade of trees along the ridge. Then came mores steps leading down, and in a moment we were looking down upon the village we had been searching for. In the center of it, and dominating it was the temple, its dome glistening in the sun. The village looked unusually neat, and later, when we were wandering through its narrow ways, we were impressed by its cleanliness and order. I have seen no other Indian village quite so attractive. There were none of the inevitable stinking odors, and the people were not only cleaner and better dressed than those living down below, but they were somewhat lighter- skinned and better-looking.
Quite a handsome girl sold us some coconuts which she cut open so we might drink the milk – we didn’t want to risk drinking any water we might find there, though we did do so later on with no ill effects.
We hoped to get into the temple even going so far as to take our shoes off, but were due for disappointment. I’ve yet to see a non-Hindu admitted to any of these temples, though some people do manage to now and again.
Another and more elaborate stairway (evidently the front way into the village for pilgrims) led down to the valley on this side. Little shrines were set here and there into the sides of the steps, and numerous streams of water gushed forth from the mouths of tiny images. At one place during the descent we passed under a veritable cascade of flaming, red flowers arched over-head.
I shall always remember the beauty of the flowers, and the view we had of other hills- range after range of them receding into the blue distance.
At last we were down on the valley floor, with a long walk around the hill and back to our own side ahead of us, but we didn’t mind so much, for it was near evening and cooks. I enjoyed the day immensely. Perhaps I shall have the opportunity of climbing there again –I hope so. Coming along? I wish you could.
I hope you’ll excuse this abrupt ending. I must close on this page. Everyone at home is well and “yours truly” is feeling fine. Take care of yourselves, don’t work too hard; and ma God bless you.
I am aye your
Chris.
Credit: Agassiz-Harrison Museum
Why These Letters Matter to British Columbia History
The Christopher Trickler letters offer a detailed record of a soldier in India during the Second World War. In these letters to the McCallum family in Agassiz, British Columbia, we learn about how much he longs for home and we also are painted a picture of what life in India for those stationed there looked like.
Preserved today at the Agassiz-Harrison Museum & Archives, the Christopher Trickler letters and supporting photographs, are kept so that future generations can know the history of Agassiz, British Columbia and it’s people.
Want to Read More Letters From Agassiz?
Check out the Hazeley Letter Series that was written in 1896-1897.
Editorial Note: How These Letters Are Used
The letters this post are transcribed verbatim from original manuscripts held at the Agassiz-Harrison Museum & Archives. Spelling, grammar, and punctuation have been preserved to maintain the integrity of the original documents. Editorial introductions and historical context have been added to assist modern readers and to situate the letters within the broader social and historical landscape of twentieth-century British Columbia.
This post forms part of an ongoing research and transcription project telling the stories of British Columbians.
