The 1976 Montreal Olympics was a major assignment for the Canadian Armed Forces, with about 9,000 service members involved. Security was a preoccupation for the hosts, with memories of the terrorism attack at the 1972 Munich Games still fresh. While the army had the biggest load, the navy contributed about 1,000 sailors as it handled security for the sailing events of the Games, which were staged on Lake Ontario off Kingston, Ont. The navy contingent included three destroyers, HMC ships Nipigon, Annapolis and Saguenay, along with 70 tow and rescue vessels. In contrast, Canada never had more than three destroyers at a time assigned during the Korean War.

The Games went off without major hitches, although the final day of the sailing regatta offered a few scary moments. As the final races wrapped up, a pillar of black smoke suddenly climbed into the sky out on the lake. Security vessels, ready for anything, dashed for the site where they found one of the competing yachts burning, while several official vessels bobbed nearby. The response was quickly stood down as the story came out.

One of the Olympic competitors was very unhappy with his performance over the week-long regatta, and he blamed his boat. In fact, he developed a hatred for his boat. And wanted no part of it.

But under the rules which allowed him to bring the vessel into Canada free of duty, he couldn’t sell it. He couldn’t give it away. He couldn’t even donate it. He would have to pay to have it freighted back home.

But he found a loophole. After the last race, he waved over a support boat and, as confused officials looked on, he and his crewman stripped his vessel of sails, winches and anything else that could be quickly detached. When that was done, he opened a gas can and slopped fuel all over his racer. He stepped aboard the support vessel, lit a gas-soaked rag and tossed it in. His boat went up with a whoosh of flames and burned merrily.

While the yachtsman had to explain himself to both race officials and security people, as well as the sailors who had sped to the scene, he was said to be grinning the whole time.

During the last few months of the Second World War, the brass in a Canadian division decided that each artillery troop should include an expert on mines and booby traps. In response, a young artilleryman was tabbed for a course on clearing mines. He and his colleagues were taught the tricks of lifting and defusing the sneaky explosive devices. For their final test, they were driven to an open field, where a large sign in German warned of “Minen.” They were told to clear the field.

As they gingerly surveyed the scene, the sergeant-major climbed back in the truck. As he drove off, he leaned out the window: “Go to it boys, but be careful. I’ll wait down the road. I hate messy scenes.”

Eventually, they lifted all the mines they could find. The sergeant-major returned, counted the mines, then casually tossed them into the truck. The onlookers winced at his cavalier treatment of ordnance. He grinned and explained that he and a helper had planted the mines a couple of weeks ago. “They’re duds.”

Air support during the Normandy Campaign apparently could be iffy. According to the Canadians: “When the Luftwaffe came over, we dove for cover. When the RAF came over, the Germans dove for cover. When the Americans came over, everyone dove for cover.

A Second World War unit was pulled out of line for a brief rest, but was simultaneously chided for the state of its vehicles. They were told their paint was chipped and faded and needed to be retouched. So, someone found drums of grey paint, and everyone set about slapping it on. One bright fellow suggested adding gasoline to the drums. It would dry a lot faster, he said. The gas was duly added and, sure enough, the paint dried in record time, letting everyone get back to the actual important tasks, like scrounging booze. The new paint job passed muster, and all was well. Until the first big rainfall, when all the gasoline-diluted paint washed off.

He lit a gas-soaked rag and tossed it in. His boat went up with a whoosh of flames.

A Canadian Spitfire squadron operating out of an airfield in Normandy in the summer of 1944 decided it was time to party when it was given a few days off. Teams were dispatched to local towns and farms to rustle food and drink. One group found a nearby farm with a tempting crop of ripe corn and decided a corn roast would be a nice change from rations.

When the party started, locals were invited to drop by for a drink and a chat through the language barrier. One of the visitors was the corn farmer. He was all smiles until he came to the food table and found the air force members enjoying fresh corn slathered in Normandy butter. He stared horrified. “Mais non, non, messieurs,” he gasped. “C’est pour les animaux!”