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.