I've been browsing in Commanding Canadians: The Second World War Diaries of AFC Layard, edited by Michael Whitby and published by UBC Press last year.
The title reflects how Commander Layard, a Brit and a career Royal Navy officer seconded to the Canadian Navy in 1943, discovered that commanding Canadians was, well, a bit more of a challenge than he had expected.
But what struck me more in Layard's war-at-sea diary (he wrote a short entry every day for about thirty years, contrary to all naval regulations) is his testimony to the sheer hellishness of command. Layard apparently struck his subordinates and superiors as reasonably capable and always calm. In his diary he's permanently fearful, insecure, and self-hating. The situation keeps changing; no one can know the appropriate decision; mistakes are inevitable. Ships sink, men die, U-Boats get clean away, and Layard in his heart knows it is all his responsibility. Whenever he gets a chance he drinks himself into a stupor, praying for the war to be over.
