For the entirety of the Cold War, the fear from the existential threat of an attack from some distant enemy was real for many residents. But, after sifting through readers’ memories of those days, I am left asking the question: How much of it was real and how much was brought on by the dread created by the sheer brute force of the sounds of the air raid sirens scattered around the Nickel Basin?
Even now, decades later, readers have never forgotten the feelings of fear and apprehension that accompanied a single blast echoing across our land.
As reader Darren Dubois put it, “As a young fella, the idea of those things going off could make my stomach churn. I heard them tested only a couple of times but the memory has lasted decades.”
Every single reader who commented about the air raid sirens at the Sudbury Then and Now Facebook group held similar feelings in regard to them after all these years.
Nicole Levesque, in reference to the very first test in Sudbury, said, “I remember that test … it was scary.”
Mary Giroux: “I cringe remembering the sound to this day!”
Elissa Ann Smith: “I will never forget that sound…We just got used to hearing it.”
Joey Bray: “Constant reminders growing up that we could be nuked any time.”
As I was researching the first article in this series, a new follower of the Facebook Group, Alberto Fernandez from Saskatchewan, engaged the group for help with a project that he is still working on. He produces air raid siren maps of different cities across Canada and just so happened to choose Sudbury for his next cartographic engagement. He requested the locations of all of Sudbury’s former sirens and Sudburians stepped up (as they usually do) to help out.
From this crowdsourcing of information, we know that air raid sirens were located at some of following locations: Twin Forks Park; the southeast corner of the Gatchell Pool property (originally the Gatchell Public School); near the Pearl Street water tower; in Levack at the top of the hill on Larch Street; in Lo-Ellen on the top of Marie Street and Stewart Drive, and; off Weller Street where the Royal Canadian Legion is today (at one time a public works garage for McKim township).
Andy Beland remembers there was one on Estelle Street in Minnow Lake, adjacent to St. Remi School, where youngsters would challenge themselves to reach for the top of the siren.
“I remember kids (not me) that tried to climb the pole to the platform. I don’t remember if anyone ever made it to the siren.”
Bill Gordon has memories, from around 1961, of doing “the drill.” As he remembers it, “The siren would wail and the whole family would gather at the supposed strongest part of the house, under the basement staircase.”
With the closest siren being in the neighbourhood of Sandra Boulevard, Gordon also recalls the ubiquitous classroom drills seen in many Cold War nuclear attack public service announcement videos.
As he remembers it, the students would be in class at St. Cecilia Separate School, where “we were told to get under the desks (and) put your heads between your legs.” To which he added (very tongue in cheek) a third step, “…and kiss your (butt) goodbye.”
Leonne Bock remembers those years very well, though since they grew up in Garson, they don't remember if there were sirens in that area and if there were, do not remember hearing them. However, for Bock, the fear was real. “My parents did not prepare for a possible attack, but I remember that the schools were very diligent in frightening the kids of this possibility. I remember that teachers made us pray every morning and every afternoon for peace on earth … I can still remember the fear of the possibility of war as if it was yesterday.”
Dan Bonhomme has a somewhat similar memory from that time. “I was in Grade 6 in 1962 at Copper Cliff Public School during the Cuban Missile Crisis. We were instructed to take shelter under our desks in case of nuclear attack, and sent home with a pamphlet called "11 Steps To Survival".”
You can read that pamphlet for yourself here.
Unfortunately, panic and fear induced by that crisis had a horrible effect on some youngsters. In Dan’s case, “That night, I had a nightmare that a nuclear strike occurred. I was confused when my mother came into the bedroom because I believed my family had been killed in the attack.”
Doug Logan recalls the military activities around Sudbury during the Cuban Missile Crisis era very vividly. “I was a 10-year-old student at Our Lady of Mercy Elementary School in Coniston, and I recall seeing military activity on nearby Highway 17. A long caravan of trucks pulling trailers with Bomarc surface-to-air missiles driving east — I assume to shore up the NORAD radar base in Falconbridge.” And, as with all other schools across the region, “students were instructed on how to hide under desks in case of an atomic blast.”
For young Matt Campbell, he “remember(s) all too well standing in my front yard listening to the air sirens … during the Cuban Missile Crisis. It’s the only time I saw fear in my father’s eyes.”
Reader André Grenier remembers those scary days vividly as well. “It was in 1968, at one time the sirens went off and my Mom (had to) explain to five-year-old me what it was … (The) next three nights I feared sleeping. It was my childhood horror!”
On the opposite end of the spectrum, Brand Boyd remembers when the sirens were sounded, “we would all yell The Russians are coming! The Russians are coming!” (Perhaps borrowing the phrase from the 1966 Norman Jewison Cold War satire of the same name.)
While most readers shared memories of the fear and anxiety brought on by the air raid sirens, reader Heather Robbie shared a story (which could have come from the pages of a 1960s spy novel) related by her father of an unexpected visit, which became an innocuous incident in the end.
“When he (her father) was a teenager, the army came to the door asking for him by name,” Robbie said. “Grandpa came to the door (they shared the same name), but they looked him up and down, and said he was not the right one. My father (as a teenager, maybe 17 or so) was brought forward.
“The family was on edge because they did not know why he was being summoned by the army. He was told to get his coat on and come with them. It turns out, the electrical company he had just started working for was contracted to go up and clean out the air raid sirens here in Sudbury.
“My Dad was young and agile enough to climb up the towers, had the appropriate trade skills, and so that is how he spent that night/day. He had to dislodge crows nests and debris and make sure they were in working order.”
As the years passed and the sirens began to fall to disrepair, some began to activate by accident, almost taunting residents by reminding them of the fears of the nuclear horrors which were so far away in the rearview mirror.
As Sheila Dembek remembers, “When I lived on Edmund Street in 1981, the air raid siren over by the Grotto had a tendency to sporadically go off, quite often, at that. It was almost always a gloomy day, and often raining, or snowing. It never seemed to happen on beautiful (sunny) days. I always felt dread, and instantly overwhelming (sadness). The sound made me depressed thinking about what they were initially intended for. It is a dreaded sound I will never forget, and hope to never have to hear for the reason they were actually created.”
In 1982, as the Soviet Union was pressing to quiet the Solidarity movement in Poland, residents half a world away here in Sudbury were brought back under the grip of the early Cold War on Boxing Day. One local resident was so incensed by the situation she penned a letter to the editor of the Northern Life to address her anger and concerns.
“This morning at 6 a.m. I was jarred out of sleep by the ominous wailing of the air raid warning siren that is situated less than a kilometre from my residence. I turned on my radio. It was business as usual. I phoned the police. They informed me that ‘they (?) were apparently experiencing a malfunction’.”
She asked the pertinent question, “should these malfunctions continue to occur, in the event of a nuclear invasion, aren't citizens prone to adopting a rather lethargic attitude to the sirens?”
In 1986, it was reported in the Northern Life that the sirens again caused a disturbance, this time during the two days of twice-yearly testing the warning system underwent.
Usually this two day procedure, known as a “growl test”, would go off without a hitch (and without anyone being aware that it even took place). However, since the contractors hired by CFB North Bay did the testing incorrectly, “the sirens could be heard at various times over the two-day period throughout the city.”
Major Don Wenzel of the Provincial Warning Centre downplayed the situation at the time. “I can see how sirens might have concerned some people, but they were nothing,” he said. Adding that “there are usually between one and two accidental siren soundings per month across Canada.” (Not bad considering there were 604 total in existence at the time.)
Even though the vast majority of readers’ memories of that time revolve around the sirens, one reader, William Fisher, remembers a local family who latched on to the bomb shelter craze that gripped city officials for a time in 1961.
“I had a school mate that lived around the corner from me,” he wrote. “And they had a bomb shelter in their basement. He took me down into the basement and showed me around it, but only once. It was stocked up with water and grub.”
Another reader, Doug Smith remembers the model bomb shelter on Durham Street (where the YMCA is now). Though it was an attempt by the city to convince residents to build their own shelters at home, residents, including Smith’s mother, would have none of that.
As he put it, “My mom wasn't interested. She didn't want to face the prospect of being in our shelter and having her neighbours begging for her to take in their children ... our playmates!”
And, finally, to bring our adventure in Cold War memories to close, Arthémise Camirand-Peterson, from her 2015 local history collection, “New Sudbury Not As New As You Think”, gave us the story of what she dubbed “New Sudbury's Best Kept Secret,” which I have excerpted here.
“During the Cold War, the Bell Canada building at 1400 Lasalle Boulevard was the site of a secret North American Aerospace Defense Command (NORAD) communications bunker, which was built on the back of the building on Sparks Street.
“During the construction of this facility, everything was covered to avoid questioning. No one was allowed near this construction site … . The bunker was equipped with a decontamination chamber, an air filter, a shower room, a backup power supply for one month and a two-month food and water supply for the technicians. For extra precaution, there was a 5,000-gallon diesel fuel tank under the building, should war interrupt the supply of fuel.”
“Eight to ten Bell employees were contracted to NORAD and for those years essentially worked for NORAD. There were four men on duty 24 hours a day, seven days a week. The employees came through a walkway at the top entrance, and locked the sealed door behind them. No unauthorized person was allowed entry. Prior to assuming their responsibilities, these employees were brought before a judge, were read Section 14 of the Official Secrets Act and were required to sign an oath of secrecy.”
“The bunkers are no longer a secret and most of them were eventually disassembled … . The bunker is now an empty storage space that can be used by Bell Canada.”
Well, dear readers, this week’s edition of Memory Lane has come to an end. And, it has definitely reminded us, as William Fisher wrote, that “It was surely a different time … hopefully never to return.”
See you here again in two weeks for another trip back through time.
Jason Marcon is a writer and history enthusiast in Greater Sudbury. He runs the Coniston Historical Group and the Sudbury Then and Now Facebook page. Memory Lane is made possible by our Community Leaders Program.
Creative Commons link: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/en:Creative_Commons.