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.
The Hunt Club – Finally, in my home-grown shoes and socks, I was posted to the Hunt Club in Toronto where I was selected, in due time, to go for training as a pilot, or an air gunner, or a wireless operator, or a navigator, or as el flunko. Through the weeks of saying, “I want to be a fighter pilot,” I drilled, did callisthenics, was taught Morse code, did navigation problems, fingered the parts of a combustion engine, undid and put together, while blindfolded, a machine gun, and finally wrote the exams and went to the last interview. “What do you have in mind, Philpotts?” asked the interviewer. I said, “I want to be a fighter pilot, Sir.” The interviewer retorted, “Well, you are in luck because the present demand is one of more fighter pilots.” I thought of how much money the government could have saved had the RCAF employees had listened to me before I commenced the last few weeks.
The bulletin board indicated that I had been posted to Prince Albert, Saskatchewan for elementary flying training.
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