Veteran Luke Carmichael, 69, knows it takes special survival skills to live in a tent through winters on the west coast of Vancouver Island. Rain socks in for days at a time and from October through February, gale after gale pounds the coast; windblown moisture, mist and humidity are bound to make your sleeping bag feel damp even if the tent keeps the rain out. Once you’re wet, the cold chills to the bone and drying out by a campfire in winter is no picnic.

A former warrant officer with 19 years and two months service, mostly in the Canadian Airborne Regiment, Carmichael has been homeless for most of the last decade, living in a tent under a tarp in the bush near Jordan River. “My whole life revolved around getting food and keeping warm,” he explains. “I kept warm sitting by the fire. It’s a hard life because the winters are very long out here…it’s the start of the rain forest and we get a lot of snow, a lot of rain. I had rubber boots and a rain suit…I didn’t let it hinder me.”

It took years on his meagre pension to finally save for a car and insurance, so when he ran out of grub “for many years I had to hitchhike (30 kilometres) in to Sooke, B.C., to get groceries, put them in my backpack and hitchhike back.” When he didn’t have enough to pay for groceries, he’d hit a food bank or drop in to see a service officer at a Royal Canadian Legion branch for a food voucher. “But I’d only do that two or three times a year just to get necessities; I never abused that.”

He didn’t give much thought to the future, to what might happen should he become ill. “I would have survived as long as I could. I said ‘Luke, this is what you’ve got. You know what you’re doing…stay at it.’ So that’s what I did.”

Carmichael credits his military training for giving him the skills to do so. But eventually even old warriors can see the writing on the wall. Approaching 70, how long would his good health last? A Legion service bureau officer finally persuaded him to come in out of the cold—and into Cockrell House in Victoria.

It is now the day before the official opening of Cockrell House, and the townhouse Carmichael shares with a couple of other guys is crawling with strangers. It’s temporarily noisy and crowded, an invasion of the residents’ privacy and space—precious commodities for Carmichael. His body language telegraphs how uncomfortable he is, then he says he can’t stand noise or crowds. “It’s hard for me to share space,” he says, noting it is one of the reasons he fled to the bush, just about as far west as you can go in Canada before falling off the map.

“I spent eight years in the woods. The military background is a tremendous base…I had no problems being out there by myself. I lived in a tent in winter and summer (for f ive years). I kept warm sitting by the f ire. A lot of years I had to hitchhike (30 kilometres) in to Sooke, B.C., to get groceries, put them in my backpack and hitchhike back. My whole life revolved around getting food and keeping warm.”
– veteran Luke Carmichael, 69

Falling off the map is the point for Carmichael and many other veterans like him who’ve ended up homeless, hurting and ashamed when their lives fall apart following departure from military service. Nobody knows the number of homeless veterans in Canada, and this is one of the reasons why: “Aside from struggling with issues of addiction and post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), a lot of them don’t want to be identified as veterans,” says Joanne Henderson, Legion service officer in Vancouver. Some don’t want their buddies to find out what’s happened to them. “They think back to their time in the services as the good times in their lives and they’re ashamed. They think they should be able to take care of themselves. They’re in hiding; they’re hiding from themselves.”

Others don’t think of themselves as veterans because they never saw war service, were never wounded or only served a short time. “Even with 28 years of service, I have difficulty seeing myself as a veteran,” says Phil Quesnelle, peer support co-ordinator of Operational Stress Injury Social Support (OSISS) in Victoria, who’s worked with homeless veterans for the past four years. OSISS offers one-on-one peer support to Canadian Forces members, veterans and their families struggling with issues like PTSD, anxiety and depression. “I’ve talked to some who’ve had five or six tours and still don’t think they’re veterans.”

Former Veterans Ombudsman Pat Stogran’s Leave Nobody Behind campaign in 2008 was sceptically received by some who then believed there were only a handful of homeless veterans. But “the more we get into it, the more massive it appears,” says Dave Sinclair, president of the Legion’s British Columbia/Yukon Command, which helped fund Cockrell House.

Canada hasn’t done a good job of tracking and studying its veterans say critics like Ottawa-based trauma therapist Lyn Williams-Keeler, who fears a deluge of homeless Afghanistan veterans in coming decades. Williams-Keeler sees many parallels between the Canadian veterans she works with and Vietnam veterans in the United States, where the Department of Veterans Affairs says a third of all homeless people are veterans, and half of those served in Vietnam. “Afghanistan is the same kind of miserable war, where you’re not too sure who the enemy is,” says Williams-Keeler.

Although there’s a difference in scale—roughly 25,000 CF members have deployed to Afghanistan since 2001, whereas the U.S. had more than half a million troops in Vietnam at the height of the war—Canada should be taking pointers from the large body of U.S. research on Vietnam veterans, adds Williams-Keeler. “We can’t say ‘we’re Canadian and we’re different,’” she said. “War is war and war is hell and the repercussions for soldiers who fight it are potentially disastrous in their lives, their marriages, their ability to earn an income, for their willingness to even be part of society.” U.S. research shows a lag of one to two decades between the time Vietnam veterans left service and began showing up in shelters and morgues. That’s time when coping mechanisms failed, drug and alcohol abuse skyrocketed and mental health issues like PTSD, anxiety and depression became serious problems. Families broke up, social support fell away.

But there are big differences between the U.S. and Canadian experience, says Kim Andrews, VAC’s strategic policy adviser in Charlottetown. To begin with, Canadian veterans have access to provincial social safety networks and health care unavailable to U.S. veterans except through their Department of Veterans Affairs. As well, the Canadian Forces and VAC now have health and vocational rehabilitation, transition assistance and peer support programs to help smooth the way for military personnel assuming civilian life, and veterans having trouble doing so.

Yet similarities are showing up in early results of a one-year Canadian study funded by a $90,715 federal Homelessness Partnering Strategy grant. Dr. Susan Ray of the University of Western Ontario leads a team that plans to interview 30 to 60 homeless veterans. The team’s objective is to collect data that would lead to better informed policies and improved co-ordination of services. Echoes of U.S. research were heard during interviews with the first 22—aged from their 30s to 87—including the difficulty associated with making the transition from military to civilian life, drug addiction and mental health problems and the time lag between exiting military service and homelessness.

But three surprising results also emerged. First, many are either unaware of VAC services or that they might qualify for them. Secondly, many are highly skilled in their trade, but have trouble finding a job if their company folds, they’re laid off or fired. Thirdly, many don’t view themselves as homeless even though they have no fixed address. “One said, ‘I don’t call it homeless, I call it surviving.’”

Since neither the CF nor VAC keeps track of all veterans to inform them of program changes, there are many missed opportunities in a veteran’s slow spiral down to homelessness. Williams-Keeler worries troubled veterans won’t have the support they need under the New Veterans Charter (NVC), which traded life-long pensions, and their steady, if small, income stream, for a one-time pain and suffering payment and a menu of programs aimed at successful reintegration into civilian life. U.S. statistics show more than three-quarters of homeless veterans have alcohol, drug or mental health problems, and many have PTSD—conditions that work against careful husbandry of cash awards and successful reintegration to civilian life. “The current lump sum disability award may not be the best mechanism to serve the needs of homeless veterans,” Pierre Allard, director of the Legion’s Dominion Command Service Bureau in Ottawa said in September. “We need a combination of lump sum payments, annuities or structured settlements that take into account the severity of the disability as well as the age and circumstances of the individual.” However, the NVC rehabilitation program and suite of financial benefits “is the best mechanism to help homeless veterans reintegrate into Canadian society as active and contributing members,” he adds.

Reintegration, however, is the last thing on the minds of the homeless Afghanistan veterans already on Quesnelle’s radar. “They say things like ‘it’s all for nothing my buddy got killed;’ and ‘we went there and went through all that and nothing will have changed.’ They’ve actually compared it to Vietnam.” These veterans do know about services, but “they just want to disappear.”

Quesnelle spends part of each month visiting homeless veterans throughout Vancouver Island. About once a month he gets a tip about campers in the bush or on the beach, and he seeks them out, making sure they know about help that’s available, and he keeps checking on them if they turn help down. Most are veterans of older conflicts like Bosnia and Rwanda, but he knows of three Afghanistan veterans. “Some of them have been through the wringer with the system…and they just want to be left alone. Some just say ‘the hell with this.’”

Such was the case with Claude Rochon of Cape Breton who was medically released in 1990 after eight years in the services. His left leg had been injured on duty. “They did a few surgeries, and couldn’t fix it so they fused it; it is three inches shorter, there’s no knee in it…steel bolts and rods hold it all together.” Twenty years ago, there was stigma attached to anything less than physical perfection. “It was suddenly, ‘you’re holding up a good man’s position.’ My officer was saying daily, ‘you’re a waste of space.’” Rochon left the services angry. “There was no help, no guidance, not even clues.” Although he went to college and retrained to design and maintain computer networks, his anger got worse. Already taking narcotics for pain, he became a heavy drinker with a violent temper. As his life fell apart, he fled to the U.S., working sporadically, living on the streets, using homeless shelters. Then he began blacking out, doing things he couldn’t remember afterwards. It scared him sober and he decided to come back to Canada “to put things to rest and try to fix my life.” Cockrell House and VAC programs and support are helping him do that. He’s looking forward to completing a master’s degree so he can teach.

“I was living and sleeping on the streets, in the parks, wherever I happened to be. You sleep with your clothes on; you sleep with your possessions on you. You never put anything down or it will be stolen. It wasn’t safe; if people knew I had meds (narcotics prescribed for pain), they’d try to take it from me. If you find a place out of the rain, they’d say ‘that’s my space’ and were willing to fight you for it.”
– veteran Claude Rochon, 47

Dennis (who asked that his full name not be used) just got fed up with bureaucracy. Medically released in 1981 after nearly four years in the navy, the New Brunswick native fought through red tape for years. In 2000, after being denied benefits for post-traumatic stress injury, “I took a wheelbarrow with all my documents—it was a big wheelbarrow and it was full—I took it all out in the backyard, built a bonfire and got rid of it.” One of the first residents in Cockrell House, he has since received additional VAC assistance, is taking a college course to prepare for a media career and has reconnected with his family.

Some veterans like Carmichael, from Halifax, left the services not knowing they qualify for VAC help. He’d seen too much on two peacekeeping tours to wartorn Cyprus, including “bodies…swelling up in the 110-degree heat. Ever since then I’ve had a hard time sleeping.” After serving 19 years and two months, the warrant officer abruptly left the Canadian Forces in 1978. “There was no help available. I did not receive any instructions from anyone. When I put in for my release, no one said, ‘maybe we can help you.’ I had no idea of VAC benefits.”

He tried resuming normal life, took a civilian job. “But I just couldn’t; I wasn’t a normal person.” He had a breakdown, and his marriage broke up. Eventually he moved to Victoria—but his demons moved with him. “I couldn’t stand it anymore; it was a real struggle, especially at nights.” His small pension didn’t cover rent in Victoria, one of Canada’s priciest cities. Occasionally he’d have to stay in a homeless shelter, but couldn’t stand sharing space with “people who bummed in the street” or drunks and addicts. “I needed peace and quiet.” Finally he lit out for the bush near Jordan River, where he lived for eight years, most of them spent in a tent with just a campfire for heat. Since leaving Cockrell House, Carmichael has secured a place in Prince Edward Lodge in Victoria, a Legion housing project where rent is geared to income. “I’m not sure about the future; no one is,” he says. “If I can stay healthy and stay alive another 10 years, that would be a pleasure.”

Luke, Claude and Dennis are among the more than 40 homeless veterans who’d been referred to Cockrell House by August. Each week brings more referrals from local shelters, OSISS or VAC, says Dave Munro, chairman of the South Mid Vancouver Island Zone Housing Society, which operates the Legion-affiliated homeless shelter. Cockrell House was full soon after opening in May and if they had more room “we would have more veterans with us,” said Angus Stanfield, society treasurer.

The society leases the five-unit townhouse complex that can accommodate 11 veterans, for $5,700 a month. Owner Russ Ridley picks up taxes, utilities and cable. The society has been supported by the Legion, which donated more than $85,000, the Victoria Remembrance Day Committee, which donated $25,000 on the official opening day, regimental associations, veterans groups and local charities. The federal Homeless Partnering Strategy has kicked in $86,400 of short-term funding, which expires in March.

Veterans are screened to make sure they’re veterans and understand what’s required of them during their stay, including dealing with addiction issues. “The majority have between 10 and 19 years of service,” says Munro. “Some have post-traumatic stress disorder; most have histories of alcohol and drug abuse and broken marriages.”

“Having that housing is a key piece” to helping homeless veterans, says Bridget Preston, VAC district director in Victoria, who has referred people to Cockrell House. It’s not unusual for a homeless person to have no identification at all and to have no way to travel to VAC offices to ask for help. Sometimes they begin the process of applying for help and then disappear overnight because someone offers them a place to stay, or they hear of a possible job in another province, or they give up.

The focus for the first three or four months at the house is to stabilize the veterans. They’re given food vouchers and bus passes so they can get to job interviews and medical appointments, says Stanfield. The furnished units include a washer and dryer. For former spit ’n’ polish military personnel, who found it impossible to keep clean while living rough, access to laundry facilities is important to self-respect and confidence, says Munro.

Many Cockrell House residents are referred to the Legion life-skills program, where they learn how to shop and make economical meals, skills they may never have developed. They’re also hooked into other provincial or VAC programs. Many have qualified for the Rehabilitation Program under the New Veterans Charter, which provides financial benefits, physical, psychological and vocational rehabilitation, education and help finding a job. Once they’re stabilized with safe accommodation, a reliable stream of income and regular meals, “the other programs have a chance to work,” adds Stanfield.

After three or four months, residents start paying subsidized rent; within two years they’re expected to move into more permanent accommodations. “It’s a hand up, not a hand out,” says Sinclair.

By the end of the year, Ontario Command expects to have its homeless veterans program up and running in co-operation with partners, including VAC, the Salvation Army, Good Shepherd Ministries and homeless shelters in the Greater Toronto Area. By July, 90 homeless veterans had been identified, said Ontario Command President Ed Pigeau. “Our Mission Statement: to ensure that every veteran who is homeless or near homeless finds the help they need to leave the streets behind.”

Meanwhile, VAC is attacking the problem on at least three levels, says Andrews.

In an ongoing outreach campaign across the country, more than 190 community organizations, including homeless shelters, food banks and anti-poverty groups, have been contacted, visited by VAC staff or sent information kits, including a poster with contact numbers.

“After (couch surfing) for about a week, I realized this was a nuthouse. There was a spot near the Crystal Garden with a pool, benches, a little grove of trees. On a fairly dirty night I could go there and be out of the rain and read by the streetlight. When I was sure the nutty people were asleep, I’d go back, but get up before they did in the morning and be back out.”
– veteran Dennis, 57

Two pilot projects, which will be re-evaluated at the end of 2010, are working to identify and help veterans. In Montreal, VAC is working with several homeless shelters, OSISS and community groups. The United Auto Workers of Canada donated a van and the union and Wounded Warriors.ca donated funding to allow volunteers to canvass the streets; 11 veterans had been identified by July. VAC’s Homeless Storefront on Vancouver’s Lower East Side had identified 43 veterans by June. “No one has been turned down,” says Adrienne Alford-Burt, VAC district director in Vancouver, but eight veterans did not complete the application process, even though they “would likely qualify for some form of assistance.”

“When they come through the door, they’re in crisis,” adds Philip Middleton, VAC client services agent who often staffs the storefront. Wounded Warriors.ca provided $16,000 to fund backpacks containing basic comforts like a towel, socks and toothbrush. “We take care of their immediate needs (vouchers for groceries, bus tickets), and that will bring them back” so a plan can be worked out for housing and applying for VAC or provincial benefits.

And VAC has plugged into projects run by other agencies. One is At Home/Chez Soi, which is investigating what services and systems best help homeless people with mental illness. It had recruited about 750 participants in five cities by July; between 5.2 and 7.6 per cent identified themselves as having military wartime service. By the end of the project, it’s expected 140 veterans will have been identified and offered referrals to VAC. VAC is also working with Human Resources and Skills Development Canada, which has provided admissions software to dozens of homeless shelters across the country, to add a question about military service to the intake questionnaire to identify veterans as they register.

“We want to ensure all veterans and their families receive all benefits to which they are entitled,” says Andrews. “A homeless veteran is eligible along with any other veteran for any program VAC offers.” Those who don’t qualify for VAC programs are assigned case managers who help them work through provincial and community support, says Rick Christopher, VAC’s manager of service delivery modernization.

Stogran, meanwhile, believes VAC should do more. The initiatives in Vancouver and Montreal “have been done on a shoestring,” and mostly on the initiative of individuals in local offices, says Stogran. “I’ve seen little direction…from the centre.” VAC confirmed “existing resources” are being used for the projects in Vancouver and Montreal.

“VAC has been very slow to engage the homeless veterans issue,” says the Legion’s Allard. “Their first response was totally inadequate. However, they have and will be taking more proactive steps in partnership with the Legion.”

Stogran maintains there still is not a strong VAC presence in shelters. “I still visit shelters where they haven’t heard a thing from the department,” Stogran said in August. Indeed, phone calls by Legion Magazine to shelters across the country revealed uneven levels of contact with VAC. Although many have a close relationship, some had seen nothing of VAC since initial visits after the issue of homeless veterans first hit the news in their communities; at least one manager had had no contact with VAC; some say there’s no way to tell which clients are veterans; others have no protocol for referring homeless veterans to VAC or the Legion.

The phone calls also revealed that the number of homeless veterans climbs as one moves further west, partly due to milder weather. But there are homeless veterans in every province, Quesnelle believes. Communities and shelters “that say they don’t know of homeless veterans—it’s because nobody’s asked the question.” And it has to be the right question, he says. It’s not enough to ask ‘Are you a veteran?’ “We learned you have to ask ‘did you have any military service’ because many don’t feel like veterans—they think veterans are guys from World War Two.”

An update on Ontario Command’s efforts to help homeless veterans will appear in the January/February issue.

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