But branches across the country adapting as best they can

By BILL KAUFMANN, QMI Agency

From 2000 to 2009 alone, national membership plummeted more than 25%.

Those numbers roughly track the attrition that time is wreaking on Second World War vets, whose ranks thin by 400 a week and now stand at about 160,000 -- just 15% of the 1940s numbers.

"We certainly don't have the military to fill the ranks," says Maureen Thompson, national head of the legion's membership section.

"We're fighting a battle."

The dwindling legion roll call among so-called ordinary members, or those consisting of once-in-uniform veterans, tells the tale.

In 1997, there were 201,056 throughout the country -- a figure that fell to 100,398 by the end of 2009.

And that's with the addition of police officers in 1996 -- one of dozens of changes throughout the years that have eased recruitment requirements, says Thompson.

"Some of the categories have been watered down ... we've had to relax requirements but even then, our numbers continue to drop," says Ottawa resident Thompson, whose father is a Second World War vet and mother a war bride from Britain.

"We're hoping blood relatives of those who served will fill the ranks."

In 1998, membership criteria requiring a family connection with a veteran was waived, allowing anyone "who supports the aims and objects of the RCL" to join, states the official literature.

Ironically, it's those constantly shifting goalposts -- designed to halt the bleeding -- that might be contributing to confusion and a stagnant head count, says Thompson.

"It's a challenge letting everyone know you don't need military ties to belong to the legion," she says.

More recently, says Thompson, the legion offered newly-retired servicemen a complimentary first year as an enticement to join.

"That's been a slow-go, but we are getting more response," she says, adding those targeted by the promotion are typically in their early 50s.

"The next couple of years will tell if they're keeping up their memberships."

For the 84-year-old institution, maintaining a foothold in the face of 21st century social realities is a tough slog, says Thompson.

In the old days, when families were one-income clans, holding on to membership loyalties was less of a challenge, she says.

"Now, with two people working and with children, it's hard for people to have the time to join," says Thompson.

And competition posed by other licensed joints has only thickened over the decades.

That in turn has squeezed what legion branches are able to do in their communities -- tasks that include raising money for veterans, youth and seniors programs.

But it's also up to legion brass to move beyond archaic approaches that only feed public stereotypes, Thompson says.

"We have many branches that are still not computerized -- they're still working with pen and paper," she says.

Thompson figures about 10 branches surrender their charters and close each year due to dwindling head counts.

"A few branches do open up but definitely not enough to make up the losses," she says, pointing to new locations in Newfoundland and Ontario.

Another irony is many of those closing are in the rural areas where they're still the most relevant -- focal points for wedding receptions and other social events.

But they're struggling with smaller, older memberships, says Thompson.

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The flags snap in the breeze at half-staff above the legion No. 284 to honour the passing of an 83-year-old member of Calgary's Chapelow Branch ladies' auxiliary.

It's long been a sign of the times played out in increasing frequency across the country.

Inside, naval veteran Bill Smith, 86, is the only Second World War survivor sipping beer at 2 p.m., though there are few faces under age 50.

It's a sobering indication of the legion's present, and a challenge for a younger generation in whose hands rest the organization's future.

"We're getting some of the younger people," says Smith, past-president of the rural branch in Hanna, about 200 km northeast of Calgary.

There's talk of young Afghan vets in their 20s and 30s joining up, but nobody can point to any actual members or come up with numbers.

"We want them here in the legion -- they're most welcome," says Smith.

The legion in his hometown of Hanna was once a way-station for post-war unemployed ex-warriors riding the rails but it's dying a slow death, says Smith.

In the past year, the legion branch at Delia, just down the road from Hanna, shut its doors -- its platoon of members whittled down to 24.

Jacques Levesque also knows the challenge of age attrition well.

"We're losing our veterans every week ... we're doing a lot of tributes," says Levesque, manager of the Orleans No. 632 in suburban Ottawa.

"Some of the branches have had to close or downsize."

But Levesque's branch has fought back and become something of a model amid a national system under siege.

No. 632's membership is actually rising, helped by a geographic location rife with military retirees eager to join.

But they've also aggressively gone after prospective members with no uniformed ties while fortifying the bottom line by renting space out to clubs and businesses.

"People think it's just a place for the old to drink and we've tried to change that image and have been successful in some ways," he says.

For Levesque, who served 39 years in the naval reserve and had two uncles survive Normandy, the notion of an extinct Royal Canadian Legion is unthinkable.

"It'd be terrible -- our main mandate is to help veterans ... we've got Afghan veterans to worry about.

"The historical legacy is important and you've got to worry about the new guys."

A national push is on to appeal to the families of currently serving reservists and regular force soldiers.

"They're part of our family," says Tammy Wheeler, 43, executive director of the Alberta/N.W.T. Command whose participation in the legion traces back to her father, who served in Canada's Second World War armoured corps.

"We recognize we need to do something different."

She also sees the limitations borne of a military that now numbers less than 100,000, compared to a Second World War force of 1.1 million.

Branches are encouraged to "adopt" a Canadian Forces member or their family -- partly by sending gifts to places such as Afghanistan.

"If military personnel are injured, we're behind them. It doesn't matter what age you are," she says.

"We have a pretty significant role -- it hasn't changed."

A centrepiece of the legion's sustainability is to broaden its membership appeal beyond a finite military-linked base, says Ottawa's Thompson.

She's asked if that will fast-track the evolution of an institution from a military-themed one to just another saloon chain or civilian service club.

"Absolutely not," says Thompson, who does add "it is a concern. We have a split-road approach -- we're trying to get the military in, these are the people who are our backbone. We don't want to lose those ties."

It's a strategy whose prospects remain uncertain in altering both the realities and perceptions of a service body and its halls described with black humour by Chapelow president Rick Garbutt.

"It's seen as God's waiting room by some," he says.

It's a national symbol determined there'll never be a cenotaph erected in its name.

But for the past two-and-a-half decades, there's been no ceasefire or advance in the Royal Canadian Legion's battle for survival across the country -- a race against time to shore up a sinking membership and a perception of irrelevance.

From a membership peak of about 602,000 enjoyed a quarter century ago, the national number has retreated to about 348,000, spread throughout 1,500 branches.