Life on (and above) the Prairie
Many thanks Danny 42C, Chugalug & others for your kind comments and here is the next instalment. So as not to stray O/T I have missed out events between the transatlantic voyage and arrival at EFTS, when nothing much happened anyway apart from the long rail trip west.
Darkness fell as we approached Moose Jaw, junction for the branch line to our final destination at 34 EFTS Assiniboia (Saskatchewan) and near the end of our three day journey from Moncton. Here the cars behind us were drawn away, after which I noticed a large yellow orb shining dimly through the back vestibule. Getting up to investigate, I found myself staring at the headlight of an elderly shunting engine; no time like the present I said to myself, nipping to the ground through the open door and walking along to the cab. "Come on up" called the cheerful young fireboy, "we're gonna switch you to the next track". I was up in a trice, closely pursued by a couple of mates, and together we passed an enjoyable interlude chaffing with the engine crew as their antiquated tea kettle shuffled back & forth with our carriage in tow. Bidding them farewell with regret, we returned to our mobile cell and reconciled ourselves to a final sixty miles of discomfort - but at least there were beds at the end of it, praise be.
Our wheeled slum rattled and swayed through what appeared to be a complete void, finally halting in the middle of nowhere about ninety minutes later; a short, low platform fronting a small wooden depot building, behind which was a dirt area containing a couple of buses. Crickets chirped in the warm darkness, making a duet with the locomotive's gently swinging bell as we clambered out and got 'fell in' to the orders of a harsh, unseen voice - a voice we were to come to know only too well in the ensuing weeks.
The voice began to harangue us, its owner becoming visible as he moved into the light. A youngish, good looking Sergeant but no flying brevet; a bad sign, for we had all learned long ago that aircrew trainees were detested by some of the regular ground trade NCO's. The cause was, without doubt, jealousy of aircrew's quick promotion and relatively high pay; that many seldom lived long enough to make much use of these advantages, was apparently not considered. The RAF's peculiar trade structure, whereby disciplinary NCO's belonging to the least qualified and hence worst paid trade group were placed in authority over aircrew trainees, was a recipe for trouble that served only to compound animosity on both sides. At the time I felt little respect for a system espousing such a topsy-turvy state of affairs, and although it worked after a fashion I remain to be convinced that it was the best way of arranging things
Our welcome over, we clambered gratefully into the buses as the train chugged off towards the little town twenty miles distant from which our airfield took its name. Ten minutes later we passed through the gates of No: 34 Elementary Flying Training School, our home for the next two months, and after a meal of sorts sank (or climbed, according to whether one got the upper or lower berth of the two-tier bunks) into a bed that thankfully did not sway, jerk or go clickety-clack.
The first daylight view of what was to be our home for the months of September/October 1943 was hardly morale-boosting; endless, gently-rolling plains of stubble stretching to the horizon (and endlessly beyond, as we later discovered). The (very) occasional and distant homestead aside, there was no sign of other habitation and we were informed with joyful malice that Assiniboia, population 1000 or thereabouts, was the original one-moose town (sans moose) and was anyway over 20 miles distant, its only regular public transport the daily train which had conveyed us to this desolate spot. Not that this made very much difference, as we were also told (with even more glee) that one half-day per week was all that was permitted in the way of free time; to rub it in, the obvious Indian origin of the town's name merely emphasised our outlandish situation.
All domestic and other buildings, without exception, were unusual to our eyes in that absolutely everything bar the foundations was of wooden construction. Barrack blocks were H-shaped, of two stories with fire escapes provided, while the hangars were impressive for their enormous timber-framed flat roofs. The airfield comprised a triangular layout of three runways, each of about 800 yards length (I think); and, as our initial few hours of flight in the UK had been from all-grass aerodromes, this seemed pretty advanced stuff.
The aircraft provided for our tuition was the Fairchild Cornell, a primary trainer. A low-winged monoplane with tandem seating for instructor and student, and powered by a six-cylinder in-line engine of 200hp, it looked highly sophisticated as compared with the antediluvian Tiger Moth of recent memory; an impression enhanced by sliding canopy, flaps and spindly landing gear even if this last was firmly welded down. However, there was an inevitable period in the ground school to be endured first before reaching the interesting part.
Here we found that although the flying instructors were members of the RAF, the ground staff (both instructional and others) were Canadian, a mix of RCAF and civilian. I recall only two, a civilian radio instructor of the old school who could send and receive morse at unbelievable speeds, and a fat RCAF corporal of socialistic outlook who was given to dissertation at length on certain evils (as perceived by him) of the Canadian scene. For some reason the Canadian Pacific Railway was one of these, alleged to function on "hot air and b------t" while the CN, presumably because it was government-owned, was regarded with more favour. Being unable to discern overmuch difference between the two I said so, to be called a "goddam ignorant limey" for my pains. In fact both men were fairly genial characters, although sometimes provoked by the more uncouth and chauvinistic of our fellow students of which regrettably there were quite a few; some, indeed, the same ones who had complained about the journey west. These appalling individuals seldom let slip any chance to denigrate things Canadian, and as little seemed to find their favour the rest of us had to endure the displeasure aroused by their thoughtless conduct. I remember little of the preflight phase; drill and physical training was interlaced with lectures and classroom work, but we must have progressed fairly soon to the flying as the entire course lasted only eight weeks.
But before this long-awaited phase came an introduction to the Link trainer, and for the benefit of non-aviators (others may skip this paragraph) it is necessary to describe the contraption as it played a large part in every pilot's life until superseded in later years by the flight simulator. Named after its American inventor, the Link was the first serious and reasonably successful synthetic flight trainer. Virtually useless as a substitute for the aeroplane in so far as pure flying was concerned, it did provide a cheap and safe method for teaching the rudiments of instrument flight ab initio; later on, it also served as a means of instruction in basic radio navigation procedures. With a full set of flight instruments, "throttle", control column and rudder pedals its plywood "cockpit" pivoted on pneumatic bellows mounted on a turntable and was responsive to control inputs; thus it was able to turn through 360 degrees whilst simultaneously yawing, banking and/or tilting within certain limits. All "flight" took place with the cockpit cover lowered, i.e. on instruments, flight "progress" being recorded (in plan only) by a moving crab trailing a line of red ink on a glass-topped table, beneath which any required map or chart could be inserted. Here sat the instructor, with the important cockpit instruments duplicated, so that he could monitor the student and relate his activity to the movements of the crab and of the trainer itself. These civilian instructors did their best to drum the principles of instrument flight into our unwilling skulls, filled as they were with dreams of the wild blue yonder in which (of course) the sky was always clear; over seventy years later, I hear yet the nasal chant of "needle, ball, airspeed" repeated ad nauseam by our bored and long-suffering mentors in their attempts to instil the basic techniques of frequent instrument scan. Inevitably the Link Trainer was regarded with dislike by most of us, in our youthful ignorance being interested only in "real" flight, but it served a most useful purpose nonetheless.
Came the great day that we moved to the flight line and teamed up with our instructors. Allocated to an ex-policeman of seemingly advanced years (but probably under 30), I found him mostly equable but capable of the outspokenness general to his north country roots. None of us trainees were completely ab initio, having previously done a grand total of 12 hours flying each at various UK grading schools. These establishments existed solely to assess which of us might be worthy of pilot training, unfortunates failing to measure up proceeding thence to schools of navigation or bomb-aiming etc (on completion of which they often emerged with commissions, to the rage of those of us who had stayed the course but ended up as Sergeant-Pilots). Some of us young hopefuls had managed a few minutes of solo flight at grading school; having more than most, I anticipated no problems but soon rediscovered the old adage about pride coming before a fall.
The Cornell was a pleasant aircraft, if somewhat underpowered at our relatively high elevation of approx. 2500ft, a failing aggravated at first by the high temperatures of early autumn. Matters were further complicated by the school's fleet comprising a mix of Canadian and US-built aircraft in a ratio of about 7/3, the American specimens being fairly basically equipped whilst the Canadians were comprehensively fitted out with full IF panels front & rear, electric starters, cylinder head & air inlet temperature gauges, carburettor heat and various other gadgets; not surprisingly, they were heavier and more sluggish than their sisters, which were thus usually preferred for aerobatic work. Those built in Canada had plywood-skinned wings, whereas the Americans were metal-skinned; indeed one machine had one of each (probably cannibalised from a write-off) and needless to say it did not handle too well. Surprisingly, no radio was fitted.
The first two or three hours of instruction were mostly occupied in general handling - stalling, spins, turns level, climbing, or descending (intentionally or otherwise), none of which posed any great difficulty; for most of us for the crunch came in learning to put the beast safely back on the ground, a task which caused me at least a good deal of anguish. In my complacency and ignorance I had assumed that there was one landing technique applicable to all aircraft, however the Tiger Moth had one of its own which was quite incapable of being read across to more sophisticated types. Following initial landing flare, its draggy profile ensured a rapid decrease of airspeed during hold-off; then, at the crucial moment, the control column was moved smoothly rearwards as the Tiger sank gracefully to the deck in (with any luck) the approved 3-point attitude. However, any attempt to do the same with the Cornell resulted in the unfortunate student suddenly finding himself yards above the ground with the proverbial "nothing on the clock"; then, with a blast of invective through the primitive "Gosport Tube" intercom, the instructor would slam the throttle open and take control as round we went again for another try.
Despite Joe Bowler's patience and persistence I appeared to be incapable of learning the correct method, and became increasingly despondent; finally I did grasp it, but used up most of the runway in so doing. Taking over control yet again, my mentor exploded with rage and prophesied an imminent "scrub" unless rapid extraction of digit took place forthwith. Whether or not this was the essential catalyst I shall never know but from that moment on, to our mutual satisfaction and my own most enormous relief, I had it more or less hacked and encountered no further difficulty.
I was fortunate, for failure to surmount this particular hurdle was a major cause of suspension and only a limited number of hours were allocated for pre-solo training; the exigencies of wartime enforced ruthless standards, and time could not be wasted on slow learners. And so the delights of unaccompanied flight, essential for building confidence and self-reliance, became part of daily living and the freedom thus gained a treasured bonus; especially so off-circuit, for without radio and far from the instructor's eagle eye, what one actually did during the allotted time was largely a matter of conscience and common sense. Even the dimmest individual was aware of the necessity to practice at least some of his prescribed exercises, but no normal being could be expected to spend a solid hour gyrating nauseously in endless aerobatics or other such bilious manoeuvres; after all, sundry other activities of varying legality were temptingly available. Overall was a satisfying sense of achievement at having successfully passed this milestone in any pilot's life, and with a better understanding of the Cornell came a fondness for its reliability, docile nature and easy handling.
The most dangerous temptation was low flying, but the risks were very real. Quite aside from normal hazards, the apparently empty prairie contained a surprising number of keenly-sighted people who took grave objection to being beaten up and were adept at taking aircraft numbers. Foremost among these were locomotive engineers and farmers on tractors, and the invariable penalty was removal from training for a student or court-martial for an instructor. Nobody on my course was foolish enough to be discovered in flagrante delicto, and for my part temptation was resisted without difficulty; however, a few of our "betters" were bolder and gave their pupils some exciting moments. Flying on my birthday with a different instructor, we headed south towards the curiously-named hamlet of Willow Bunch in order to beat up the farmhouse of his girl friend's parents. His technique was daring, to say the least; with the throttle almost wide open he aimed our aircraft at an open space in front of the house, brushing the wheels on the ground and bouncing over the roof! Great fun at the time, in retrospect I suppose there was a very real possibility that my 19th. birthday could well have proved my last. A fellow student reported that an exasperated farm hand had heaved a pitchfork at him and his instructor from the top of a cornstack, during what supposedly was an instrument flying detail.
Given the right weather, it was just as much fun and far safer to play with the fair-weather cumulus that floated serenely over the limitless prairie Struggling to climb over a saddle connecting two towering peaks, then nosing down and accelerating into endless g-inducing turns around billowing white castles, diving through great darkening canyons of cloud and suddenly shooting through a narrow hole to find another huge galleon of white vapour to play with was sheer, unadulterated bliss. The slight possibility that one might encounter a similarly-occupied colleague coming the other way was of course never considered, but the sky is a big place and a practice now frowned on in these over-regulated days never (to my knowledge) claimed any victims.
Another option was illicit solo formation flying, somewhat risky in that miscreants were liable to be spotted by any nearby beady-eyed instructor. But by dint of glancing at the authorisation book it was easy to discover what one's mates were supposed to be doing so, armed with their number, other aircraft seen in flight might be cautiously approached from the rear. It was of course advisable to sheer off hastily in case of error, but if one had chosen correctly there then ensued a spell of illegal, enjoyable, and no doubt highly dangerous "formation" flying of a standard that would have given a present-day Red Arrow heart failure. Mutual "dog-fighting" was rightly considered almost as heinous as low flying, and best avoided.
As stated above, the lack of radio rendered one blessedly free from interference. The sole means available for the CFI to exert his authority was a large rotating beacon mounted on the control tower roof, this being the signal for a general recall; but it was a fairly useless piece of kit, only used after a weather deterioration had already taken place when one was less likely to be able to catch sight of it anyway. Furthermore it resulted in dangerous overcrowding, with the circuit becoming a nightmare of about twenty aircraft all jockeying for position in the inevitable race to get back onto the ground.
In fact the term "Control Tower" was somewhat of a misnomer because, given the lack of radio, it was incapable of offering any form of control anyway. This function was exercised by a courageous individual situated just to the left of the runway threshold, flashing (as required) green or red Aldis lamp signals at each approaching aircraft from a glass cupola atop his van. The system worked tolerably well so long as no more than half a dozen aircraft used the circuit at any one time, but beyond this it became overloaded; and although the more conscientious controllers attempted to give priority to anyone thwarted from landing off a previous approach, this was not easily achieved and tempers became frayed after the receipt of several "reds" in succession. On a general recall as described above, the situation became extremely fraught as a positive blizzard of aircraft jostled for advantage in the overcrowded circuit, the controller forced to fire frequent "reds" from his Verey pistol as some pilots suddenly became colour-blind to his lamp signals; the offenders were, I regret to say, usually instructors.
Occasional night-flying details apart, evenings were free. The camp cinema was well patronised although a surfeit of the more rubbishy type of American films was the usual fare, these normally greeted with derision. The occasional film of UK provenance was always rapturously received, such rapture not shared by the locals who were plainly baffled by British humour and likewise annoyed at the reception accorded most US or Canadian offerings; for this one can hardly blame them, as our intolerant element previously mentioned was well to the fore on such occasions. The only alternative entertainment was a canteen providing light refreshment of a non-alcoholic nature, quite useful as the last official meal was at a comparatively early hour. As for serious drinking, we received a meagre ration of beer that worked out at a few bottles per month; it was vile stuff, and to my mind Canadian beer has shown little improvement in the last seventy-plus years. The hard stuff was not permitted, being out of reach to most of us anyway as 21 was the minimum age for a liquor permit.
Our sole off-base time was the weekly Saturday afternoon outing to the metropolis of Assiniboia; to an Old World eye, a gunslinger or two in place of the few motor vehicles would have completed the Wild West illusion. Of timber construction, the low wooden buildings (some false- fronted and all with hitching rails) gave onto raised boardwalks running along the sides of a few grid-pattern streets of rutted dirt, not that this latter feature should have surprised us as the 20 mile bus ride into town had been along an unsealed main highway. Yet behind the crude exterior lay a standard of life that few of us had known at home; the principal shops were clean and warm, offering a reasonable supply of goods even if most prices were beyond our pockets, while lobster salad followed by a large ice cream was my normal fare at the Chinese restaurant. Seemingly rather out of place this facility was apparently fairly common, such establishments being owned mostly by descendants of those who had laboured to build the first (Canadian) transcontinental railroad sixty years before. The bookshop/drug store had an excellent selection of books & magazines, and was fortunately tolerant of prolonged browsing.
I was befriended by the owner's wife, a kindly lady who insisted that I visit their home and partake of refreshment. Her husband drove us the short distance, impressing me enormously with the manner in which his American sedan rode so smoothly over bumps and ruts that would have shaken my father's ancient Humber to pieces. I was even more impressed by the luxury and comfort of their house, with its rug-strewn floors of fine, highly-polished wood and attractive furniture, not to mention the superbly-equipped kitchen; reflecting sombrely on the archaic facilities at home, I gave a guarded response in reply to queries on UK domestic life.
Letters from home arrived regularly, being eagerly awaited; even in 1943, a regular transatlantic air mail service enabled one to maintain a proper correspondence. Heavier items were another story, and although my parents sent regular cigarette parcels only one or two arrived, an experience common to all of us. I was later to encounter the same problem in the Far East, and later still told by ex-POW's that few turned up in their camps either. Post-war enquiry by the Red Cross into the latter problem allegedly proved that 90% of these parcels went adrift when passing through the docks of a west coast port.
As the weeks passed we ventured further from the local area, making cross-country flights both dual & solo of increasing length. The routes were planned so as to negate the easiest method of navigation, i.e. crawling along one of the myriad railways that criss-crossed the prairie. Straggling towards the horizon, these tenuous lines often carried no more than a weekly mixed train, their main but essential purpose to convey grain on the first stage of its distant journey to foreign markets; each small town (hamlet would better describe most of them) along the line being marked from afar by large grain elevators. Theoretically one's position might be confirmed by diving down and reading the station name, but we all knew the old joke about the dimwit who could not find "Pool" on his map, this being the title of a large farmers' co-operative displayed on many of the elevators.
Came the day of the final challenge, a solo flight to land at Regina, refuel and then return. This was a direct flight of about eighty miles across a patch of largely empty country, seemingly an awesome task akin to an ocean crossing. Having equipped ourselves with pencils for log & chart plus various bonbons to ward off pangs of hunger, a group of us were dispatched at ten-minute intervals, this presumably to foil any attempt at follow-my-leader tactics by the less confident. I was pleased to be allocated one of the Canadian-built aircraft, as its full set of instruments were more suited to this sort of work than the spartan fit of its American cousins; also, these latter often had some of the instruments fitted in different positions on the panel as between one plane and another, an annoying feature not uncommon on US-built machines of that period.
I soon found that I had over-equipped myself, losing two of the pencils beneath the floor and being far too busy to think about munching candy. The matter of navigation was of course quite simple in this instance; the weather was fine (we would not have been allowed off otherwise), and it was merely a matter of keeping the bird pointing in the right direction and waiting for the expected landmark, usually a lake or railway, to come into sight and then make any correction required. Arrival at Regina was also unexpectedly straightforward, despite having being briefed to watch out for the daily Air Canada DC3 on its transcontinental flight (plus dire warnings of what might happen to us if we got in its way); the hoped- for green light shone from the tower, and after a quick refuel it was back the way we had come. Nobody got lost, although incredibly this was not unknown.
The days passed in the golden haze of a late Indian Summer, but then suddenly as October drew on we got the first breath of winter to remind us that our stay was almost over. There was the final hurdle of end-of-course tests, but the fact of survival thus far was in itself a pretty sure sign of success; some had been weeded out along the way, but the majority of us were still there to receive news of our next stage of training. Most were imbued with the hope of becoming fighter pilots but I was not one of them, probably because I was not very good at aerobatics; I had conceived a dislike for the more athletic aspects of flight, prolonged indulgence in which tended to make me feel ill anyway. I also had the idea, no doubt misconceived in view of the contemporary Bomber Command chop rate, that large aircraft might perhaps be safer; so, unlike the majority of my brethren, I was not displeased to find myself posted to a Service Flying Training School equipped with the ubiquitous Oxford twin-engine trainer.
The final act was an end-of-course party, for which there was an extra issue of beer. It was a disgracefully drunken affair, but having existed on an exiguous ration of very occasional bottles of a very inferior brew for a very long time our celebration can perhaps be forgiven as the youthful folly it was. A day or two later we boarded buses for the short ride to the local station, never to return.