Shortly after the war broke out, Boucher went to a recruiting station near his home. The enlistment officer complimented him on his “fine build and strong physique” but stated the obvious—the upper age limit for enlisted men was 45. Two years later, age 71 and still aching to join, Boucher got a tip that the 72nd Queen’s University Battery needed a cook. “Now, I had something of a reputation as a chef,” Boucher bragged in the Post-Standard. “There were few in Gananoque … who had not sampled my dishes at one time or another.” He was denied again and begged a Canadian senator for help. No luck. “The Canadian army was immune from politics,” he wrote.
Another year passed. In January 1917, the 257th Canadian Railway Battalion raised its age limit to 48, granting Boucher three extra years of plausible deniability. “Here, I thought, was the supreme opportunity,” he said. “To be with the railroad construction battalions meant being within sight of the trenches.” He went to a different recruiting office, where he undressed, stood before the doctor, threw back his shoulders and stated his age as 48.
“And then some, like myself,” the doctor replied with a smile—at least in Boucher’s account.
Boucher passed the physical exam and, at 72, became a sapper—a private-grade military engineer. He packed his bags and took the next boat to Europe.
“Historians have focused on the underage soldiers,” says Tim Cook, an author and chief historian at the Canadian War Museum, “but there were thousands of overage soldiers as well.”
Boucher joined his battalion in western France. The work of the 257th—repetitive, grinding—was of a kind that earns few honors but wins wars. “Logistics are crucial,” Cook continues. “You can’t fight a battle without ammunition. You need to move soldiers to the front and the wounded away from the front, and if you can’t get food, water and rum to soldiers, they’re going to degenerate into a mob.”
Trench railways were the solution to this problem. These narrow-gauge lines, with small locomotives and rail cars, were similar to those seen at a theme park. “In building a narrow-gauge line,” Boucher wrote in the Post-Standard, “… we simply went ahead laying the ties and joining up the steel rails. Instead of grading a hill or chopping down a tree, we ran our line around them.” He earned a nickname: “Dad.” Able as he was, he wasn’t fooling anyone, and he shared his actual age with those he trusted.