SFTS Part 2 (post-Christmas '43 - late Feb '44)
Chugalug2, ref your 5714 the detail is insufficiently clear for positive i/d but to me, in some undefinable way, neither the loco nor the general scene look very Canadian. There is also the problem that (to a UK eye, anyway) it was usually difficult to identify the owning company of any particular North American loco from its appearance, as compared to those at home - for who could possibly mistake a Swindon product for anything else on rails?!
To get back OT for a change, here follows the second part of my SFTS memoir!
SFTS Part 2, post-Christmas '43 to late Feb '44.
Early in the New Year came another brief spell of bitter cold, giving us a taste of what might have been in a more normal winter. Standing orders concerning movement during blizzard conditions applied to all, and already we had been regaled with the fate of two airmen trying to walk from one hangar to the next in a howling snowstorm the year before; wandering off the footpath, they had fallen into a deep pit dug for some drainage works, were unable to get out or attract attention, and duly froze to death. Fortunately no such tempest occurred during our time at Swift Current, although the below-zero temperatures that prevailed for several days necessitated reduced activity in our unheated aircraft; just as well, as like anything British they were none too reliable in such climatic extremes, and despite the use of carb heat it was a constant battle to prevent the engines from spluttering to a halt during taxying. Adjustable throttle stops were provided so that higher idle rpm might be set as required, but in effect gave only the equally unsatisfactory result of excessive revs while taxying on an icy surface.
A couple of days' flying was lost to the elements, but a third day of brilliant sunshine tempted our masters to have a go using the cold weather routine. Instead of lining up aircraft on the ramp as per normal, they were readied for flight inside the heated hangars with pilots in position, checks complete to start-up and airman kneeling on each wing ready with their crank handles; hangar doors were then opened, one Oxford pushed out and the doors closed behind it. While yet moving, both engines were fired up simultaneously (with any luck) and the doors reopened for the next aircraft after the first had taxied clear. Failure to start engines within a minute meant no start at all, and one was then pushed ignominiously round the hangar for re-entry on the other side. The success rate was about 50%, and since it took time to re-warm the failures in a now chilled hangar the flying programme slipped further.
Fortunately the weather soon returned to being merely cold as opposed to glacial. With the course now more than half over, it was a matter of honing what we had already been taught rather than learning anything new. Formation flying took up some of the time, an exercise I did not find easy and never particularly cared for anyway. Lack of radio increased the risk factor, it being difficult to communicate by hand signals as these were not easily seen unless dangerously close to each other.
Cross-country flights of up to three hours duration were also undertaken, sometimes over areas of little or no habitation; navigation was aided by a drift sight, to squint through which while maintaining straight & level flight was an exercise in dexterity. Mere map-reading was not enough; one's navigation plot had to be maintained on a Bigsworth Board, a contraption apparently from the dawn of aviation history. A piece of plywood about 18 inches square with a pantograph ruler at the top and a large clip to hold the chart/map, one somehow used it while continuing to fly the aeroplane; not easy at the best of times, especially if the lateral trim was incorrectly set (there was no manual aileron trimmer). When not in use the board was best jammed down the side of one's seat; placing it on the main spar box immediately behind was inadvisable, as it would then slide rearwards out of reach.
An air-to ground photography exercise proved interesting, the object to take a sequence of in-line pictures whilst accurately flying a straight path suitably corrected for drift. The camera was a standard RAF job as used for target photographs over Germany, and I still have a good print of the centre of Swift Current taken from several thousand feet. To save time this exercise was flown as a mutual detail, that is to say several students were sent off together in one plane with each occupying the pilot's seat in turn. This was perhaps not such a good idea; acting as copilot at the end of one such flight I was surprised when my colleague appeared to lose control on landing, so that what was almost a polished arrival suddenly became a disaster with the aircraft bouncing up the runway in a most unairmanlike manner. Hearing a loud guffaw behind me after the final hop, I turned and saw another of our motley crew splitting his sides at the rear of the cabin; at the crucial moment he had run back towards the tail, thus creating an out-of-trim condition responsible for our luckless pilot's downfall.
Night flying was largely confined to circuit work so that the maximum number of landings might be achieved. Although aircraft landing lights existed even in those far-off days, their use was frowned on and perfect arrivals hopefully achieved through judgement of approach and touchdown by reference to the flare path along the runway edge; thus (on dark nights at least) one's first awareness of the ground was by wheel contact rather than eyeball - no approach lights, no angle of approach indicator, just pure skill. Yet most of us became quite proficient and perversely even enjoyed it, and certainly there was a sense of achievement following a succession of safe and incident-free landings. In fact the Oxford possessed remarkably effective landing lights, in true British fashion operated by an old-time switch with fluted brass cover and porcelain base that properly belonged in an Edwardian drawing room; but there were sound reasons for training us to manage without external illumination, as its use at home could provide an easy target for enemy intruders.
The combination of a cold, dark night plus lack of adequate air traffic control was partly responsible for a most destructive multiple accident towards the end of our course. The runway controller, whose task it was to flash his Aldis lamp at aircraft awaiting takeoff or landing clearance, finding himself discomfited by the increasing chill in his glass cupola decided to move to the front seat so as to derive greater benefit from the vehicle's heater. By so doing of course, his field of vision was restricted to an arc of barely 180 degrees with little view of the circuit and none at all up the runway, and so it was not long before the inevitable occurred. Aircraft turning on final approach were (supposedly) given landing clearance provided that the runway was unobstructed, this assessed by visual inspection prior to flashing the necessary green light; however, lacking any view up the runway, our hero decided to work on a time interval system. With the permitted maximum of four aircraft in the circuit things went well for a while until one pilot was caught out by the “insufficient carb heat” trap, trundling to a halt with both motors dead and apparently lacking the nous to roll clear onto the grass before losing headway. Without radio he was unable to inform anyone of his predicament, and before he could locate his Verey Pistol to fire a warning "red" the next Oxford smashed into him, the remaining two following in fairly short order so that soon a monstrous heap of matchwood was all that remained of four of his Majesty's aircraft.
Needless to say this occasioned grave displeasure in high places, and the wretched controller was probably put away for life. Miraculously nobody was hurt and the episode had no effect on our course's completion, so we hoi polloi were vastly amused by the whole episode. Anyway, our course was the penultimate one prior to the station's closure, following which all the Oxfords were to be scrapped; as noted earlier, they were comparatively aged and it was not considered worth sending them back to UK at a time when all ships were crammed with supplies for the forthcoming invasion of Europe. By the end of course towards the tail of February 1944 most of us had survived, although a few had fallen by the wayside and been reassigned to other aircrew duties; however, no injury or fatal accident had occurred at either FTS during our 5 1/2 months, a tribute to the BCAP and its staff. As the end drew near we were duly informed by our unloved disciplinarian that, much against his will, we would shortly set forth into the wide world as "scaly, ten-a-penny sergeant pilots or equally scaly, ten-a-penny pilot officers". This gracious intelligence was naturally communicated well out of earshot of the instructors, most of whom might be said to qualify for this charming description of our superiors.
Down on the flight line a greater degree of goodwill prevailed, perhaps because our instructors now envisaged the prospect of operational duty at home following shrinkage of the BCAP. As for us students, the end-of-course flying tests passed off more or less painlessly and suddenly the day we had thought would never come was upon us, when we donned freshly pressed no.1 uniform and paraded for the award of our pilot's wings.
Held in one of the hangars, this event was surprisingly well attended by the locals. Few of us knew any of them, but I suppose anything out of the ordinary relieved the tedium of prairie life and their presence added a sense of occasion; certainly, I for one was pleased that they came. About a third of us graduated as Pilot Officers and the remainder as members of that vanished breed the Sergeant Pilot, of which I found myself one; for which in the end I was duly grateful, as nearly all my friends were in the same boat. I later discovered that my mother was less pleased, and could only answer her indignant query "why no commission?" with the reason that I had possibly not impressed the Station Commander in the final interview; for I recalled that he had looked rather sour when given a negative response to questions on my attitude to Rugby Football, a game I detested. Not that it bothered me one iota, for in the wartime air force Officer and NCO aircrew were treated equally insofar as allocation to flying duties was concerned and at that stage of my life nothing else mattered.
The next afternoon, shiny new stripes on our sleeves, we boarded the eastbound transcontinental at Swift Current station, waved off by another group of locals. Unusually we had been granted three weeks leave before having to report to Moncton prior to the transatlantic journey home, and most of us elected to head for the eastern fleshpots. For my part, I was determined to visit a much-loved aunt in Connecticut, maybe taking in New York & Washington also; all of which came to pass, but is no part of this particular saga.
ADDENDA.
I have said little about my fellow-students, although I recollect some of them fairly well. We were a pretty mixed bunch; a few of us had started Service life under the University Air Squadron scheme but most were direct entry cadets from all walks of life. It was quite an education for one such as myself from a relatively sheltered background to live with others so different in upbringing and outlook, and yet in an age when social divisions were supposedly so much harsher than today we got on famously. I do not recall a single enemy among them, and was pleased to count many as friends as indeed they considered me. True, I was occasionally ribbed for being (apparently) a bit 'different' although always good-naturedly, just as I would often feign bemused incomprehension at some of their stronger regional dialects (such lack of understanding not invariably feigned, either!). We lived happily together in our crowded barrack-room, united in adversity against authority in general, our dreaded Glaswegian Flight Sergeant in particular, the Oxford and its strange habits, and not least the very real fear of being "scrubbed" for non-achievement. Sometimes my companions' straightforward outlook on life and what it had to offer could be rather startling, but universally they believed that life was for living and humour was never far away. I count myself fortunate to have known them, the good ones far outnumbering the less praiseworthy, and the memory of their comradeship is for me one of the more worthwhile recollections of the war.
Much official propaganda was directed against the evils of unauthorised low flying, some quite ingenious. I recall a parody of Longfellow's "Hiawatha", where the hero came to grief while so engaged: following the inevitable impact with earth, his head "…...........slowly trundled o'er the prairie, gently trundled o'er the prairie, slowly trundled to a standstill...........at the feet of Minnehaha, laughing maiden" - who then, not unnaturally, experienced a sense of humour failure (actual words forgotten). However it was as well to take such propaganda seriously, for the lowliest member of the Swift Current cookhouse staff was a sad figure wearing pilot's wings but no badges of rank. This unfortunate individual had flown an Oxford beneath a railway bridge whilst engaged on instructional duties at North Battleford, another SFTS far off to the north west; subsequently reduced to the ranks for this heinous offence, he was posted to our airmens' mess to undertake menial tasks in full public view – no doubt as a dreadful warning to us all. Although we felt sorry for him at the time, his harsh punishment must have had some effect on the rest of us for our course maintained a clean record on this score.