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PM 0 - “ATM W. “at WT” M. 1”. Some Waterloo aldermen seem to be guilty of following the “which way the wind blows" school of politics. Last week, in the taee"of intense resident opposition to the plan, they vetoed a requested zone change, which would have cleared the way for construction of a 50,000 square-foot shopping plaza at University Avenue East and Bridge Street. It was a very popular decision, with the 35 residents in attendance loudly applauding the move. However, when developer Dave Smith of Buildevco Ltd. appeared before them Monday evening asking for a deferral on the matter to give him an "opportunity to work on the project," they readily gave him their assent. Why the change of heart? Smith provided no additional information and only promised to meet with residents to discuss their concerns. The plan itself would not be changed. He simply proposed to find information that would support the project's viability. Admittedly, a city council should not be close-minded and inflexible, however it appears more than a little unfair to reconsider the mall question without notifying the residents. After all, they went home last week thinking the matter was resolved forever. A - - _ - Perhaps council should investigate a policy whereby residents, who have demonstrated their concern on an issue by appearing before it, can be kept informed, particularly if discussion of the matter is re-opened. One can only wonder how the aldermen would have voted Monday evening if residents' representatives had been there as well - with the wind blowing from both sides, they might have been knocked off their fence! The sudden resignation of Alderman Glen Wright last week left Waterloo aldermen with the dilemma of how to fill the council vacancy and they should be commended for finding the simplest and fairest solution. Monday evening, John Shortreed, who was the closest runner-up in the 1982 municipal election, was appointed alderman to complete the 12 months remaining in eouncil's current term of office. The procedure was short and sweet - no costly byelection, no calling for applications, and most importantly, no secret vote. Of course, council was lucky to have a man of Shortreed’s calibre waiting in the ivings. In his one-and-a-half terms on council, he has shown himself to be hard-working and quick to come up with innovative approaches to the problems at hand. As council faces the challenges of the coming months Shortreed’s experience is bound to be a valuable asset. wmmmmuuuraa “Mush-mam cttttt qftttr, 'tyir 99-!“ he Worthy choice Blowin’ in the wind punished every Wednesday by Fairway Press. a division at Kitctteeter-Wntertoo Record Ltd., owns: 225 Fairway Rd. S., Kitcheoer. Om. E m erae-deoee to Wanda. "tee: u EN St, E, Nauru». on. NN n.1, totem-e - -tooCttrortttso-tttca-ttrtth-r.6tti_.co -tttt-r.ettraocrtato.rttoet.hr%ruirtgattttqr-ro'ttte hum. Open My to Fad-y ttoo an to soo 9 In» Pros: Council Publisher: Paul Winkler Manager: Bill Karges Editor: Rick Campbell It's been a long way from there to here. Just forty years ago. I was lying on the floor of a box-car in north-east Holland, beaten up and tied up. And half-frozen. And half-starved. Today. I'm sitting in a big, brick house. with the furnace pumping away, a refri orator stuffed with food, and my choice of thrgg soft. warm beds. " Forty years seems like eternity if you're a teenager, but they've gone by like the winking of an eye, as most old-timers will confirm. mice then, I was tied up because I'd tried to escape. It wasn't pleasant. They had no rope, so they tied my wrists and ankles with wire. Served me right. I should have ignored all that stuff we were taught in training: "It's an officer's duty to try to escape," and gone quietly off to sit out the war, which I did anyway, in the long run. l was beaten up because I'd managed to piller a sandwich, a pipe and tobacco from the guards' overcoat pockets when they weren't looking. and these, along with a foot-long piece of lead pipe, popped out of my battle-dress jacket when the sergeant in charge of the guards gave me a roundhouse clout on the ear just before escorting me back onto the train headed for Germany. But the next few weeks weren't pleasant. I couldn't walk. because my left kneecap was kicked out of kilter. Every bone in my body ached. My face looked like a bowl of borstch. as I discovered when a "friendly" guard let me look in his shaving mirror. Worst of all, there was nothing to read. When I have nothing to read. I start pacing the walls. But I couldn't pace the walls because I was on the floor, and tied up. Anyway, the light wasn't so good. One little barred window. Ever try to do your dailies (and I don't mean push-ups), with two hands pllnted in Cinders. one leg stuck straight ahead, the other propping you up. and I guy pointing I revolver at you? it's a wonder I wasn‘t constipated for life. _ Perhaps even the worstest of all was my daily ttblutimts. And I don't mean washing mte's face and armpits. I had to be lugged out of the boxcar by a guard. since only one leg was working, helped down the steps, and ushered to the railway bank. One day the guard almoat shot me. I never understood why. He van a rather decent young chap, about n, blood. apoke a bit of French. ao that we could communicate In a rudimentary we FINALLY unue A "ti FORYW! on (mm JARKWINDER HOSVITAL BED SHoerAee Memories Bill Smiley Syndicated columnist Forty years. Time to complete the war, finish university, marriage, children, ll years as a weekly editor, 23 years " a teacher. a year in The San for nonexistent T.B.. and 30 years as a columnist. I couldn't hack all that today. But I can so to bed and any. “TM: beats the hell out of sleeping In a box-car.” I was dozing. on and of! (you didn't sleep much, tied up. on the wooden floor of a box-car) when there was a great screeching of brakes, a wild shouting from the guards as they bailed out of the train, then the roar of an engine and the sound of cannon-fire as the attacker swept up and down the train, strafing. - As you can understand, I wasn't hit. and the burns in the aircraft didn't even put the train out of commission, but have you ever seen a man curled up into a shape about the size of a little finger? That was ich. Sorry if I've bored you with these remini- scences. But they are all as clear. or mom-so. than what I had for lunch today. _ - Another hairy incident in that October, 40 years ago. was the night the train was attacked by a British fighter-bomber, probably a Mosqui- to, perhaps even navigated by my old friend Dave McIntosh. But this day he was out of sorts. Perhaps sick of being a male nurse. His eyes got very blue and very cold, and he cocked his revolver. All I could do was tum the big baby-blues on him and mutely appeal. It worked. He muttered some- thing, probably a curse, holstered his gun, and shoved me roughly back into the box-car. There was another Schmidt in the detail. Alfred. He was a different kettle. though he, too, was a wounded paratrooper, He was as dark as Hans was fair, as sour " Hans was sunny. He would have shot me, in the same mood, and written it off as "kiiled while attempting to escape." Luck of the draw. He hadn't taken part in the kicking and punching at the railway station, for his own reasons. Perhaps pride. He was a soldier, not a member of the Feldgendannerie. Why did Hans Schmidt (his real name) not kill me that day? He was fed up with a job on which rations were minimal, comfort almost non-exis- tent, and duties boring and demeaning. way, He was a paratrooper who had been wounded in France and seconded to the mnndqnejob of guarding Allied prisoners.