In World War II, Willie Fong served with the Royal 22e Régiment in the Italian campaign. In Italy, as in other theatres, the Canadian Army drew British rations. Now, the British were our allies but, this was not necessarily reflected by the quality of the rations that they inflicted upon Canadian soldiers; their only defence was that they ate the same food! The staple meat was invariably canned corned beef, always referred to as ‘bully beef’. For generations, the British Army obtained their bully beef from Argentina, no doubt at discount prices for it was certainly not processed from quality Grade A beef carcasses; there are stories, no doubt apocryphal, that many of the beasts were long dead before arriving at the slaughter house! Army cooks tackled the problem bravely and developed seventeen different ways of presenting bully beef to the soldiers but it could never be perfectly camouflaged. It can be understood, therefore, that when an alternate type of meat could be obtained, Canadian soldiers figured out all sorts of ways to get some. A favourite in Italy was chickens which could occasionally be found in Italian farmyards. By the time the Canadians had cleared German troops from a sector, not too many chickens remained, but there were a few and they usually ended up in the mess tins of the more ingenious soldiers. I have heard many a tale from veterans of the Italian campaign on the subject of "liberating chickens." As related to me, Willy Fong developed it into an art form; to him, it was a military operation to be planned in detail and executed to perfection.

           One day, while the Regiment was in a rest area, Willy and some of his friends were eating fried chicken when a newly arrived junior officer asked them where the chickens came from. He was advised that they had been ‘purchased’ from a nearby farmer. "Could you buy one for me?" asked the officer. Willy willingly agreed, took possession of the proffered money and immediately planned the ‘operation’: Two of his friends were detailed to go to the farmhouse and engage the farmer in conversation with the purpose of purchasing some local wine. They were to haggle somewhat for time was required for Willy to infiltrate the farmyard from the rear and ‘liberate’ the chickens. Those of you with a rural background know that capturing chickens is no easy task. They have to be approached slowly so as not to spook them; also, unless properly executed (no pun intended), they will squawk to high heaven when captured. So it was that Willy, using all the skills of an experienced infantryman and scout, succeeded in ‘liberating’ two chickens while his friends dickered with the farmer. It turned out well for everyone: The officer got his chicken as did Willy and his friends. They also had vino rosso with their dinner; with boundless generosity, they even gave a bottle of wine to the officer! Even the farmer could not really complain as payment for his non-vintage wine was effected with several cans of surplus and nutritious Bully Beef - Britain’s best! Although never mentioned, it is doubtful that the officer ever received any change from the transaction. I never forgot that story and that is why, fifty years later, I instantly remembered Willy’s name.

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