Some called it a rest

Some called it a rest – After a regulated deal of hours and/or sorties, depending upon the theatre of fighting, a fighter pilot had to stand down. This usually meant that he had to instruct at an operational training unit for several months. So, I was sent to No. 57 Operational Training Unit (OTU) at Hawarden in North Wales.

The Padre & Recreation

The Padre – The first time, and the last, that I had anything to do with a military padre was before the military got smart and put the right words into padres’ mouths. A young padre of the Tangmere Wing came to visit “B” Flight just before we were about to go on a sweep over France. Each of us in the Flight had the usual difficult-to-spit mouth; dry as a bone. The very first words that the young padre volunteered were, “Now, it is a probability that one or more of you may not be returning this afternoon…” and before he could get another word out, he was on his way out the screen door of the hut without a foot on the floor. (Can you imagine, uh?)

2 – 2 = 0

2 – 2 = 0 – The RAF fighter Command made no money with me as a fighter pilot as the fabulous score of two ME 109’s which I shot down was equated to my being shot down upon two occasions, and both times the kites were written off.

The first ME 109 which I shot down (July 8, 1941, and confirmed by Billie Raine) was in a beehive over the Lille area of France. I spent too much time on the guy’s tail before I got the sights of my kite out in front of him and I was lucky that I was not clobbered myself and I remember that I gave him about a two second burst of the small bore. The 109 was afire and the pilot bailed out. In this particular melee we lost two pilots.

My first fighter leave

My first fighter leave – Ron Gridly and I first met when I was staying at one of the most sophisticated hotels in London – the YMCA. We met in the swimming pool. Grid was a Canadian in the peacetime RAF and he eventually married the beautiful red-headed Ruth who had maintained a stable of prostitutes in London.

My beautiful goggles

My beautiful goggles – On my left eyebrow area, a small scar and indent were left when my goggles were kindly removed by a passing bullet. I didn’t mind the cut, but the bullet smashed my brand-new goggles. I was proud of the fancy, white goggles which my Mother had sent to me.

Ironies

Ironies – The ironies of happenings were, at times, ridiculous. One afternoon, Dixie made an emergency landing at Manston aerodrome. On the way out of France, he flew over an E (flak) boat in the Channel and he ran his cannons and small bore from stem to stern over the boat. In return, one lousy bullet entered Dixie’s cockpit and the bullet tore the muscle from the back of his right leg. He had to keep from bleeding to death while trying to get to the nearest aerodrome which happened to be Manston. He passed out at the end of his erratic landing roll. On the other hand, and on the same sortie that afternoon, Stoopie Stoop was mauled in a dogfight and we counted no less than 72 bullet and shell holes in the length of the fuselage of his Spit and the rascal did not have a scratch on him.

Whistling & Friston, Sussex

Whistling – The cannons on the Spitfires had rubber caps over the open ends of the barrels in order to keep the barrels clean and to keep moisture out. These caps were referred to as “French safes.” When a Spit returned to base after an operational flight with the safes blown, the open ends of the barrels had a type of whistling like nothing else. This meant, of course, that the returning pilot had fired the cannons and the pertinent ground crew was stirred to excitement and they would jump onto the mainplanes before the Spit came to a stop at the dispersal point to ask the pilot what he (they) had gotten. If a pilot reported that he had missed then the ground crew would leave the pilot in disgust, but if the pilot had been successful he would be lifted from the cockpit bodily.

49 years of Scots

49 years of Scots – Jock was an old man of 31 years of age, and Red was a young rascal of 18 years, and I loved them. They were a couple of wild Scotsmen and they were my ground crew.

When I got into my (sorry, our) kite, the rudder pedals were always set at the correct distance for me, my helmet was on the control column and plugged into the RT and oxygen outlets, my left gauntlet was hung behind the throttle lever and the right one was on the landing-gear lever, the trims were set, they always helped to fasten my parachute and Sutton harnesses, and they started the engine more times than I did both day and night. One had to be careful not to mention the simplest of things wrong with the aeroplane as Jock and Red would ground the kite until it was 100 percent again; they were of the old school of conscientious craftsmanship, thank God.

Richie’s point & It was a tough day

Richie’s point – Richie landed after a wild sortie complaining to his ground crew that the back of his cockpit seat was very uncomfortable. His ground crew went immediately to inspect the seat. They came back to the Flight hut with grins on their faces and they wanted Richie to go back out to the kite with them to see what the uncomfortableness was all about. Richie was aghast at the object which had annoyed him while he tried to settle back into the seat. An armour-piercing bullet had entered the quarter-inch thick steel plating on the back of the seat, and the bullet had expended its energy with the point sticking out far enough to nag Richie’s back every time that he leaned back in the seat.

DW-D

DW-D – When Francis-Knight was our Flight Commander, a new Spitfire was flown in. The letters “DW-D” were to be painted on the newly arrived kite but most of the pilots said that they would not fly a kite with a “D” on it; suspiciously, “D” had previously killed too many, and it was strongly suggested that “D” should be left out of the alphabetical context. Francis-Knight, never the suspicious type, said in an officious tone, “Paint ‘D’ on that aircraft.”

A flying can-opener & The Rolls Royce Merlin

A flying can-opener – One evening, among many, a number of ME 109’s beat up Westhampnett. They made a mess of a few kites, including mine (DW-V), and they, also, messed up some aircraft of No. 616 Squadron on the opposite side of the field. I wondered what the odds were of the phenomenal happening to my Spitfire. It was opened down the razor-like back as a can-opener would open a tin-can; all the way from the empennage to the spinner, but my Spit was not set on fire.

It was miserable, at times, having to dive into a short slit trench when the enemy worked the field over and more so when the damn trench had a deal of water in it.

The worst fright

The worst fright – The worst fright that I ever received as a fighter pilot was not from bullets entering the fuselage or me, as those situations had a tendency to make one annoyed. Nor was it trying to force land a riddled Spitfire as one didn’t have time to think about anything else. The worst fright was waking up and finding that I was flying formation, before daybreak, on the navigation lights of my leader’s Spitfire. This happened when many day Squadrons also did the night fighting, and because of the lack of experienced pilots, one would be on dusk patrol only to find that one would, also, be called for dawn patrol at about 0300 hours. I remembered being wakened by the batman. I remembered being driven in our small van to the mess and eating breakfast there and wondering whether or not to put catsup or marmalade on my sausage. I remembered the drive to the Flight and putting on a bulky, fleecy jacket and curling up into a big chair to cat-nap while the engines were being run up. But I was not able to recall anything from the big chair to the action of flying formation in the darkness. This frightened me to the point where I told the MO (medical officer) that it might happen again. His answer was, “Everybody seems to be having this trouble lately. It’s a normal reaction, so try and get some rest whenever you are able.”

Caruso

Caruso – The old RT (radio telephone) sets in the early Spitfires had to be switched one way for receiving and in the opposite way for broadcasting. The microphone was in the canvas mask portion of the old type of leather helmet along with the oxygen intake. The switching set-up meant that one had to frig with the switch when, on many an occasion, more important things had to be done within the cockpit and, indeed, looking outside of the cockpit while fighting. So it was decided by the powers-that-were that all RT sets would be altered so that the fighter pilot could listen out and talk without having to touch the switch whatsoever. Now, one was able to hear pilots cursing under their breath, singing and humming, moaning either by nature or by legitimate injury, sneezing and coughing, praying, and so on.

Lifetime seconds & A typical return

Lifetime seconds – The longest period of time that I spent in a Spitfire was actually only in seconds. These seconds lead up to the opportune time. The opportune time was awaited while a buddy, across the way in a wide, line abreast formation, was telling me to sit tight as there was a ME 109 coming down on my tail and the buddy would tell me when to break at the opportune time or second; Break too soon and the ME 109 could break inside and put his sights out in front of me and on the other hand break too late, and well ........ . Those seconds were longgggggg.

Right idea, wrong formation

Right idea, wrong formation – Bullfrog always insisted that if one were caught alone over France and high in the sky, such as after a beehive, then one should try to join up with any friendly stray aircraft on the way home. I did this one time and as I was approaching the aircraft up and in front of me I was extremely busy keeping a watch behind me. I eventually joined formation with a snarly looking ME 109 going in my direction. The Nazi pilot’s eyes were as large as saucers as, indeed, mine probably were. We both grinned with our eyes and waved. Neither broke away, of course, until we finally agreed by hand signal count to break. On the count, I broke from the yellow-nose (the spinner of the ME 109 was painted yellow) and headed full-bore for the deck and came screaming back across the Channel at nought feet and up over the cliffs of England like a dog with its tall between its legs. I was watching the pilot’s eyes every second and I didn’t even notice the identification markings of his aircraft. I have often thought about him, and how I would have liked to have met him on peaceful ground. He was, of course, very lucky to be alive as he didn’t see me approaching from behind. I never said anything to the guys when I got back, but I found out later that some of them had been in such a situation.

The Squadron’s signature

The Squadron’s signature – 610 was noted for its ability to fly close formation and Bullfrog insisted upon maintaining this standard. On numerous occasions, the Squadron flew as a body, generally from nine to twelve aircraft, either up or down through thousands of feet of clouds. It was a cocky and dangerous feat and I remember that the aeroplane and its tail-wheel in front of me, upon which I was closely formatting by three or four feet just below the slipstream, was usually a dull shadow within the wet clouds of stratus or strata cumulus formations. At a time when the air was clear and heavy, it was a great feeling to see, at a quick glance, all the Spitfires of the Squadron gently riding an unseen swell. When we sometimes came back from over France as a whole, Bullfrog used to ask us to tuck in and then he would, for instance, cut across the City of Brighton so low that I could feel my rear end grazing and cleaning the steeple tips and chimney pots.

Gliders

Gliders – I used to feel sorry for the glider pilots who went aloft so that fighter pilots could practice attacks on their gliders. There was a scare that gliders might be used in an invasion of England.

Cannons

Cannons – 610 was the second squadron to receive Spitfires fitted with two Hispano cannons and four Browning machine guns. There was trouble with the cannons at the start as they would stop firing after only four rounds and this was embarrassing when fighting. So upon repair, the armourers asked that the cannons be tested in the air.

Elphin

Elphin – The Squadron’s call signal was “Elphin.” This always amused me when I looked around, and surveyed the angels in “B” Flight.

The Flight headquarters was a tiny room in a Nissen hut and there was a beaten path to a little outhouse nearby where each pilot went to have his nervous one before take-off, or failing this, waited until he could piddle near the rudder of his kite before scrambling into the crowded cockpit.

The Flight hangar for repairing the aeroplanes was a tarpaulin strung between trees in the woods nearby.

Crowley Milling

Crowley Milling – Crowley, our Flight Commander, was shot down along with Billie Raine and Pete Wright early one morning. We didn’t hear what happened to Crowley and we were resigned to thinking that he was missing and presumed dead. Billie and Pete were killed. Several weeks went by. Well, while McWatt and I were playing a game of shove-hapenny in the Flight hut, who should walk through the door but the living ghost, Crowley. He managed to escape when he bailed out over France. He told us of his experiences thinking that they might be of value to anyone who might be shot down and able to escape in the future. He told of sleeping with a big pig in a barn for a number of nights, and he related, “The stench of the pig was horrible but the heat that pig gave off was tremendous.” He mentioned that while on the move in urban areas he rested by standing in queues, and that he stayed in prostitutes’ houses whenever possible. One of the most ingenious actions that he made was when he was walking along a country road and all of a sudden he stumbled onto a Nazi guard post ahead. They spied him, but Milling, always the fast thinker, immediately pulled his trousers down and had a crap right in the middle of the road. Then he progressed in the direction of the guard post incorporating the actions of some local idiot, with the result that the guards would have nothing to do with him and they let him go on his way. (The well organized underground escape system in France was developed later on.)

The not-by-choice entertainer

The not-by-choice entertainer – There always seemed to be a pilot with two-left-feet in a Flight. I was convinced that fate put such a type there for alleviation of tension. The one in “B” Flight was a wonderful character from Wolverhampton, Bloody ‘ell Doley. Nobody ever figured how Doley got as far as he did in the flying environment. Doley was one of those Englishmen whose slicked-down, blonde hair was always falling to the side over one ear, and whose shoes were always two sizes too large.

Bill McWatt & Joe ‘Bloody ‘ell’ Doley

Bill McWatt – Billie was the only pilot known to have survived an outside loop or full bunt (centripetal force) in a Spitfire. (It was not possible to stay, at the least, under a 300mph airspeed in reaching the vertical attitude with a Spit.) Bill was unable to state exactly what happened, but someway or other while he was at 24,000 feet he was spun in a forward motion in the cockpit seat and forced onto the control column. When he came to, and was aware of his contortive condition, he was about 1,000 feet over the Channel. He managed to land relatively safely at Lympne aerodrome. When he, eventually, arrived to our little hospital, we were waiting for him, having brought his personal things to him. Although I had seen, and was yet to see some outrageous physical conditions of human beings, I have never seen a condition comparable to that of Bill’s. Two sacs of blood hung like poultry wattles from below each of his eyes, his eyes were completely red with green pupils, and he had vomited all over his torn flying suit. (About one and a half years later, I went to visit Bill in Southeast Wales. He had returned to flying although he was restricted from flying at very high altitudes. His eyeballs were still completely red. Bill’s wife said that she had recently married the ‘red flyer’. Helen, also, said that the RAF research people had been very interested in Billie’s plight.)

Happy Merriman & Roland Richardson

Happy Merriman – Happy was named such because every time that he was in a scrap with a ME 109 he would holler like mad for somebody to come and save him, yet he always seemed to shoot down the particular enemy aircraft chasing him at the time. For some unknown reason, Happy threw his mattress out of the Cottage window each time he shot down an enemy aircraft. Happy shot down five enemy aircraft in one day (I confirmed one of these for him as the port mainplane snapped on the ME 109) and he hollered the usual gutturalnesses all the way in getting each of them. He threw his mattress out the window five times that day, and the batman, who made up Hap’s bed, was as happy as Happy.

Bill Ballard

Bill Ballard – Bill was a chronic complainer, but he did this in such a manner as to make us laugh. Bill was sitting at lunch one day chuckling away, yet making intelligent cracks about the terrible food (comparatively good food actually), and remarking to us poor sword-carriers that he would be enjoying his coffee while we would be labouring shortly over distant France. (His kite was unserviceable at the time.) Poor Bill, to his chagrin, his Spitfire was put on the line and he had to go with us. The only pilot lost that afternoon was Bill. In spite of things, we had to laugh because we felt sorry for Bill, probably having to search for something to eat in Northern France while we had come home to a not-so-bad dinner.

Billie Raine, Georgie Mains & Pete Wright

Billie Raine – Billie had no right ear and the right side of his face and head had been burned. These were repaired as best as possible. This disfigurement affected him psychologically as he was, previously, quite a lady’s man. Before he was lost, however, he was well on his way back to the recovery of schmaltz.

First Canadians & Fisher Cottage

First Canadians – Dix and I were the first Canadians, in fact the only Canadians to be posted to 610. The motto of which was, “The Goddess of Corn Rides on a Winged Car.” Don’t ask me to come up with the relevant Latin that was on the crest. This peacetime auxiliary squadron’s home base was in Cheshire, a great agricultural area. I’m afraid that Dix and I used much colonial corn in order to get away with devilishness at every turn; colonials never knew any better.

No. 610 Squadron’s crest

The meeting

The meeting – The Commanding Officer of No. 610 Squadron was Squadron Leader Ken ‘Bullfrog’ Holden. His headquarters was situated in an old Nissen hut on the edge of the field. Dix and I met the Adjutant in one part of the little hut and he was quite emphatic, “The Commanding Officer wants to see you two.” We breathed on our buttons, entered the little room, saluted as smartly as we were able, and stood there waiting. Holden’s head rose very slowly from our documents on his table. He peered at us. He queried, “Are you fellows here already?” This discerning answer described this gentleman. Even though he was in dire need of pilots, we deeply respected and never forgot his wise approach.

Westhampnett - Where is it?

Where is it? – As it turned out, Westhampnett, the one we wanted to get to, was only about six hours by train from the Speke area but nobody, either at the Station Orderly Room or at the railway station in Chester, seemed to know where our particular Westhampnett actually was situated. Dixie and I were sent to a little base in East Anglia. We had a wonderful time there, as it seemed to Dix and I that nobody there had ever met experienced fighter pilots before. Then somebody heard that there was a Westhampnett in Cornwall so we trundled off to Cornwall to another little base. The lonely adjutant at this little station was to give a party (the RAF 365 reasons for a party) and he said, “Chaps, I think I know where Westhampnett is but why not stay for a day or two.” It was obvious to us that the rascal wanted our contributions.

First leave in England

First leave in England – We were given a few days leave and Don Keith and I went to London. On the second night we were in the Euston Station area where we got caught in a bombing raid. The blast from one of the bombs blew Don and me up against the wall in the alcove of one of the stone buildings. (I can still see the small chunks of stone nicked from the wall about us.) Keith and I did not believe in going into the bomb shelters. Farther down the street near Euston Station, one end of the air raid shelter in the street was hit directly. We went over to find the Air Raid Warden to see if there was anything we could do. The well organized Warden sent us into a type of headquarters and told us to start making tea. Someone tied aprons on us and we made tea the whole bloody night. We were pooped, but we learned a great lesson pertaining to the personality of the British people in general. Two items impressed us greatly. They brought in a young girl of about seventeen years of age. Her entire right leg was a piece of elongated hamburg and she never flinched. Indeed, she inquired as to how we were doing. Then a middle-aged (whatever that means) mother came in and her face was slashed to ribbons, but the only thing that she was capable of was trying to find out whether or not they had found her young son. They, also, brought in the inert ones.

Jokers

Jokers – We lived in typical RAF, wooden barracks which had outside doors for each of the self-contained rooms. In each room there was a small, cylindrical cook stove with the stovepipe going straight up through the roof. Art Summers and I roomed together and we had two neighbours – Don Keith and Jack Martin – and both of these characters were jokers of the practical nature. A number of times the area was a target for enemy bombing, but the most dangerous aspect was the falling shrapnel from the area’s protecting force. One evening, Art and I had just returned from the bath house some distance from our barracks and were in clean pyjamas. Keith and Martin, evidently, saw us and they waited until Art and I entered our room; then they whistled in an expert manner simulating falling shrapnel. Summers and I reacted quickly. We hit the floor and landed under our respective beds. Under our beds was much dust. We were livid when we heard, through paper-thin walls, the rotten characters laughing like mad. So we agreed to fix their water. We got a shell used for the firing of identification signals from an aircraft. We tied a long piece of string to the shell, and while I went next door to hold the attention of Keith and Martin, Summers climbed up onto the roof and quietly lowered the shell down the short distance into the stovepipe of Keith’s and Martin’s cook stove. Then Summers, hanging onto the end of the piece of string, got back into our room and when I, also, got back into the room, Summers let the string loose. There was one terrific BANG. Keith and Martin went running out of the barracks hollering, “Get out boys, she’s on fire.”

The Spitfire

The Spitfire – It was at Speke aerodrome where I first piloted a Spitfire after about one hour dual and two hours solo in a Miles Master aeroplane with an in-line Kestral engine. The Miles Master had a long nose which, in a way, acclimatized the novice for the very long nose of the Spitfire and it, also, offered training in the handling of the in-line engine. The pilot’s cockpit was at about the middle of the length of the Spitfire. The old MKI Spitfire had an undercart which had to be retracted by pumping it up by hand; thirteen strokes on the hand-pump, if I remember correctly. The lever of the hydraulic hand-pump was on the starboard side of the cockpit, so one had to hold the control column with one’s left hand while the right hand pumped up the undercart. For the novice making their first flight, the take-off was comical to watch as there was a natural reflex to push on the control column with the left hand in a forward and backward motion as the right hand simultaneously pushed forward and backward on the pump lever. Consequently, the Spitfire was doing this,, after it lifted from the ground and the undercart was being pumped up. The poor instructors had kittens watching their fledglings jack-rabbit through the air, yet too closely to the ground, in the old Spits.

One morning

One morning at breakfast in the salon, one of the military powers-that-were asked the Captain of the ship if there had been anything unusual happen during the night. The Captain shook the guy by telling him that a torpedo had missed the ship. I immediately thought of the poor soldiers on F deck.

Yep, we were getting closer to it.

Zip Powell

Zip Powell – Zip was one of my cabin mates and he was deathly sick for most of the drip across the Atlantic. Twice I got him up on deck for some fresh air and he would seem to be OK for a while. I kept telling him that he should try to get something into his stomach, so he came with me into the dining salon for dinner. Unfortunately, the very tasty meal included a dish of buttered spinach which looked, according to Zip, as if it had already been eaten and away went Zip. I went after him and I just got him to our sink in the cabin in time.

Zip became one of the great train-busters and he was very well known. I often thought about the ashen, immobile form in our cabin as I read of Zip’s exploits in both military and civilian publications.

Halifax to Glasgow

About twenty of us pilots, with hundreds of soldiers, went across the North Atlantic Ocean in the East Indies luxury liner, Johan van Aldenbarnvelt (at least that’s the way I say the name and spell it).

The Commanding Officer of the military on the ship thought that the RCAF pilots should have something to do on the cruise so we were ordered to inspect, at regular intervals, the Soldiers-of-the-Watch on the respective decks. It was my turn to inspect the Soldier-of-the-Watch on F deck, which was down in the stern of the liner just over the propeller shaft. One was able to hear the thumping of the propeller and then hear it race as the stern of the ship came out of the water while going over the crest of a huge wave. The wind was blowing. The waves were angry. The ship rolled and pitched. Not many military were making it into the dining salon so the great inspector went down to F deck. I found the Soldier-of-the-Watch flat on his back and he was hoping that someone would torpedo the instable platform. The Soldier-of-the-Watch and I didn’t inspect that area for two reasons. First, I let the poor guy stay flat on his back and I took off his steel helmet and put the pack, with his oxygen mask therein, under his head as a pillow. Second, I heard from several directions, “Blaaaaaa, blaaaaaa, splat, drip, splat, blaaaaaa, blaaaaaa, splat, drip” and these throw-up groans were accompanied by the most acrid of odours. I got out of there pronto and eventually reported that everything was in its proper place and order. Then I went to the galley to have a cup of coffee with a fellow by the name of Buchanon who was from the United States.

The sailor

The sailor – One of the best ways to press woollen trousers is to put them either under a mattress or under a rug overnight. O------- had a habit of putting his trousers under his mattress all night and in the morning his trousers, very slightly dampened the night before, would be neatly pressed. The roll calls in the mornings were at an ungodly, early hour and most of the guys stumbled out of their bunks, weaved to the parade ground, and then opened their eyes. On one roll call parade, the inspecting officer stopped abruptly in front of O------- and was taken by surprise at what he saw. O-------’s trousers looked like those belonging to a sailor as they were pressed with the creases running down the sides instead of down the front like an airman’s. O------- looked down and his eyes were like saucers as the look on his face was one of wonderment. When he went out to have a shower before going to bed the night before, Summers and I changed his trousers around to crease like a sailor’s and then put them back under the mattress. We knew that O------- wouldn’t have his eyes open when he went to the early morning parade.

Farrel again

Farrel again – Farrel was a very cool customer. Another minister’s son, Art Summers from Saskatchewan, was also a pupil of Farrel’s. The coolness of Farrel nearly frightened Summers out of his breeches. Summers was doing spins by instruments for Farrel and they were beetling towards the ground when Farrel cut in, “I say, Summers old boy, you had better take a look at the altimeter as it is, probably, the last time that you and I will observe it.” Summers told me, also, that they came out of that particular spin whistling across the tree tops.

Alliston, Ontario

Alliston, Ontario – Alliston aerodrome was a satellite field to the camp Borden aerodrome and it was used to alleviate the traffic of flying training at the Borden aerodrome.

One night, Farrel was giving me dual, night flying training at Alliston and as usual Farrel fell asleep in the rear cockpit while I was practicing night landings. (When an overworked instructor had an opportunity to get some sleep it was considered by the pupil to be a compliment that the instructor would do so on the pupil’s time.) As the petrol was getting low, I switched to the reserve tank and took it upon myself to land and to taxi to the ramp. I got out of the aeroplane and started to walk, with my parachute over my shoulder, to the small, dimly lit hangar, when sleepily I realized that Farrel wasn’t with me. I went back to the aeroplane, and to my amazement, Farrel was still sleeping soundly. He was too much of a gentleman, whom I admired, for me to leave him there to be ridiculed.

The drive

The drive – One evening, Sandy Taylor said, “I can get a car. Are any of you fellows willing to chip on for a trip to Toronto next weekend?” There were four of us eager to go. Sandy was a capable pilot but the four of us thought, on the road to Toronto, that he could do with a little more dual on an automobile as his driving was quite erratic, including the grinding of the gears at almost every shift. We made it to Toronto and we made a pact as to where we would meet and at what time for the return journey.

Ring makers & O’Driscoll vs. Kennedy

Ring makers – Bob Boettger, Sandy Taylor, and I used to make rings and other things from the pieces of duralumin which we cut from the bent and broken airscrews found in the graveyard before the wreck was ploughed into the earth. One rainy day, Bob and I went to the graveyard to get a supply of duralumin before they bulldozed a new wreck into the soil. In the process of nosing through the wreck, Bob pulled back what was left of an instrument panel and somebody’s brains oozed down. This ended our hobby of making rings and other jewellery in the machine shop.

Accidents

Accidents – It was always a sad sight to see a mangled blob of metal being trucked to the aircraft graveyard at Borden. I, especially, remembered watching the hamburged wreck of Ogilvie’s aeroplane as it solemnly passed. I liked Ogilvie very much and I could not understand his crashing as he was a reliable person and pilot.

Phillips & Wings tes

Phillips – Pop Phillips was a hard master, but he had a pleasant way of being so. After about thirty minutes on a Harvard, we landed and he made me taxi the aeroplane back to take-off position and put the kite straight on the runway, and then he said, “Put the instrument hood over your cockpit and take this Harvard off by instruments. I’ll set you straight on the directional gyro.” I got ‘er off. Later on, he used to put the Harvard into a spin and demand that I recover by the use of basic instruments only.

Camp Borden, Ontario

It was at the No. 1 Advanced Flying Training School where I got my early wings.

Instructors – It was my fortune to have two wonderful instructors. The first was Flying Officer Farrell, a tall, lean, and quiet Englishman who came to Canada to try and teach colonials certain aviational ways of doing military things. The second was Flight Lieutenant Pop Phillips who was, without a doubt, the greatest forestry pilot to fly in Canada and who was the Superintendent of Algonquin Park in Ontario for many years until his death.

The peanut pusher

The peanut pusher – The Commanding Officer of the Station, Flight Lieutenant Bouchier, was indeed, a sport. He and Dave Wilcox, a pupil from the United States, were great friends. Because of a bet that Wilcox wouldn’t finish the course, Bouchier had to push a peanut with his nose along the main street of Prince Albert while hundreds of the natives looked on. The nasal course was paced off but I have forgotten the length it was.

The residents of the Prince Albert area indicated that they would never forget the first class, and the instructors and administrators extolled that the sooner the better. The School was in the developing stage and we certainly helped to develop many rules. Oh me, oh my, were we a handsome bunch of innocent young men for one fiftieth of a second.

Back row, left to right – Dave Wilcox, Ron Fidler, Don Cochrane, Stan Thompson, Sandy Taylor, Wier Klassen, Bruce Whitson, Phil Archer, Tom Parker, Bob Vincent, Bill Doerr, Harry Boyle.

Front row, left to right – Jack McGrath, Art Summers, Paul Sabourin, Jack Amos, Don Keith, Earl Mason, Don O’Driscoll, Laurie Philpotts, Don Sutherland, Jack Martin, Jeff Northcott, Bob Boettger.

Recreation

Recreation – The good people of Prince Albert were always trying to do their best for their country, and they would invite the pupils to go here and there. While attending a festival dinner at one of the churches, one of the ladies remembered me saying that I loved to ride horses. I never thought that the young housewife, who was, also, a local equestrienne, would turn up the next Saturday morning at the Station without first telephoning and ask me if I would like to go horse-back riding.

Golfers & Wooden Nickels

Golfers – Sandy Taylor, Bill Doerr and I went to play golf at the local club one Saturday afternoon. Sandy and I had never been on a golf course, never-mind playing on one, so poor Doerr was in for a surprise. Doerr finally left the golf link in complete disgust and, childishly, he wouldn’t speak to us for a couple of days. Cohort Sandy and I told him that we had played for years and we supposed that he would soon realize our joke. With big bruising Sandy digging holes all over the place, and with me continuously looking for my golf ball, I never knew how many players Doerr waved though, but I did know that I was sick of the game at the last hole; hole No. 3.

The awe of it all & A print dress, a couple of bouncy muscles, and no shoes

The awe of it all – Sometimes just flying around doing the same exercise over and over was quite boring so one afternoon I set the Tiger Moth down into a field which, I thought, was miles from any habitation. I put the parachute in the shade of the mainplane, put my head on it, and planned a snooze. The engine was ticking over, but I heard a voice and it came from a break in the hedge along the edge of the field. A little, old farmer came over and asked, “Can I have a look at your machine? I have never seen one before.” “Yes,” I said “but please don’t go in front of it because it is dangerous.” Very shortly after this, I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, that he was beckoning a lady (his wife) over and, again, I suggested firmly that they keep away from the front of the aeroplane. They had a great time looking into the cockpits, jiggling the ailerons and elevators up and down, and chatting away and then I heard the little, old guy say, “Naw, naw Mable. This is one of them thar fightin’ machines.” Before I took off I had to give them a reason, of course, for landing in his field. I told him that I had to land to cool the engine off. He thought that that was a smart thing to do. The kind people wished me good luck and I never forgot them.

Parasquirrels & Look Ma, no belt

Parasquirrels – Ron Fidler of Fidler’s Seeds of England was crazy about snaring ground squirrels (gophers) and then taking the little critters up onto the roof of the hangar and watching them float to the ground in the parachutes which he made for them. I swore that the gophers, with their four little legs drooping down, enjoyed the lofty view of the scenery yet I was worried lest the eagles, hawks, and owls saw them. But I suppose that the parachutes would keep them away.

The educators & Boyle, bread, girl, pie

The educators – Stan Thompson, a rancher from Saskatchewan, and D---- O---------, a Newfie, were rushing a country school teacher and they would fly over her school on the prairie and perform acrobatics. The teacher used to take the kids outside of the school in order to watch the performances. It was lucky that she did this because Thompson dropped a note to her on one occasion. Dropping a note was perfectly alright but the silly ass but the note into a bottle and the bottle went right through the roof of the school like a bomb. Authorities of the local school board and of the flying school were perturbed.

First flight & Spot landing

Caption reads "Twenty- four young aircraftsmen of the Royal Canadian Air-Force cheered on arrival at Prince Albert airport for training at No. 6 Elementary Flying School. Getting down to action at once, they drew lots to decide who should have the honor of the first flight. To the right, Aircraftsman Philpotts is shown in the rear cockpit of a Tiger Moth craft after his first training flight. Civil Instructor Earl Bowman, who took up the recruit, is shown in the front cockpit"

The heat’s on & The Hunt Club

The heat’s on – The meals at the Depot were excellent as they were organized to keep one on the move. The beautiful China was made of tin and when the coffee was poured into the mug, one had to quickly eye a proposed place of sitting and then go like a bat out of hell before the rising heat of the tin mug burned holes through one’s fingers. Much food was spilled on the floor and you had to have a keen sense of balance to stay on your feet.

Drilling

Drilling – We lived with the odour of creosote in the cleaned-up horse stables at the Canadian National Exhibition Grounds. Some had uniforms and the remainder had parts of uniforms. We drilled and were taught how to make our bunks up for about ten days. To me, drilling became fun because it was not too long a period of time before I noticed the types who had poor coordination and I would make a point of falling in behind these characters.

On the way

On the way – It was not until the first part of June, 1940, while I was helping to wire houses along the Bay of Fundy, that I received a train ticket to Moncton. I hopped a train and never returned to Saint John again for any economic reason.

A Young Punk Steps Forward

Canada declared a state of war against Germany on September 10, 1939. In the fall, on a sunny weekend afternoon, I was standing in a potato field near Fairfield, New Brunswick when an old aircraft chugged over. It was the only one which I had seen since I was a stripling in Windsor, Ontario. Right then and there I decided that to pilot an aeroplane was for me.

Preamble

For many years whenever I spoke of something or someone relative to an anecdote from a military sojourn (1940-46) in World War II, Edna urged me to write down the anecdote. So I took Edna’s advice and over the years I jotted down numerous highlights of humour, embarrassment, sorrow, disaster and achievement.

This concoction of memoirs is not intended as a piece of literary art and there is no chronological story or thin-red-line through the collection. The anecdotes are simple fact and the quotations by persons are remembered precisely. I have omitted the presence of dates so that the text may not be one of a bore in this aspect. The memoirs are, however, assembled according to the home aerodromes or bases from which I operated or was stationed in Canada, Great Britain, Malta, and in Canada again. I apologize for not remembering the names of some persons long gone but I do not think that the omissions here deter the descriptions or actions.