Danny wrote: My generation has already "spoken out" as far as it can; it is now dying out and we must pass on whatever we leave behind in memory or in writing to the next to "take up the baton".
Following Danny's comment, I would be honoured to relay the story of Tempest pilot Flt Lt Jack Stafford, DFC, RNZAF, who died in Auckland this year at the age of 92. I have retyped it from a printout given to me some years back; its source may be an early Flight Simulator game for which Mr Stafford was a consultant. I can find no record of copyright, so if it exists my sincere apologies and I shall withdraw this post. For me, these memoirs put Mr Stafford among the top flying authors and I am sure they will be greatly enjoyed by readers of this thread. If no objection, I shall post them as a serial for all to enjoy over the next month or so in tribute to Mr Stafford and so many of his fellow Kiwis who hesitated not in this country's hour of greatest need.
The Memoirs of Flt Lt Jack Stafford, DFC, RNZAF, 1923-2015
I was 19 years old, I was flying a Harvard, and I was flying it well. Just imagine a 19-year-old boy given a machine that cost the equivalent of several top racing cars, with a performance that would leave those cars in its dust. The boy is taught to fly and, when he is capable, he is told to take this beautiful thing up into the air and have fun. Built only for war, it was just a magnificent, expensive, uneconomic, performance-inspired, young man's dream. So I was up into that unlimited space, with no restrictive roads, just the bright blue sky.
“Go and practise some aerobatics”, said my instructor. “I'll catch you later”. No music could have been sweeter to my ear, it was like when I was a child and my mother said I could go out and play.
I hung high in that crystal-clear Marlborough sky. I could see the magnificent and impassive Southern Alps shining white, standing like fangs in some prehistoric skull. I watched the vast and restless Pacific as it rolled in, crashing and curling against the coastal headlands. I saw the Canterbury Plains stretching south, it seemed to infinity, while to the north the dark shadow that was New Zealand, my homeland, stretched to the horizon. My contentment was total; I loved every minute in the air and I was totally confident in my ability to handle this elegant and sophisticated craft.
I played with the controls. I pulled the nose up, I pushed the nose down, I rolled each way and I skidded each way, I stood her on her tail, held her up until she stalled, then recovered quickly as she dropped. I dived a short distance, pulled the nose up again and rolled onto her back. A little pressure on the stick and down we went towards the earth beneath. As she fell through the sky and the speed increased, she quickly reached vertical.
I maintained back pressure and she moved into the transition to reach the circular arch at the bottom of that sweet curve and the G-force took over, brutally crushing me down onto my seat. The controls gently overcame the G and the machine rose, soaring towards the sun like a demented rocket. Oh God, it was just so good! I rolled vertically upwards, a victory roll, yelling with joy, exhilarated beyond belief. The speed lessened and I hung upside down in a sloppy half roll during which I lost 100 feet, putting me in almost the same position from which I had started.
I was so filled with joy, so excited that I sang, I yelled, I even tried to yodel, I was so inspired. Like a lark rising high in this cloudless heaven I chirped my pleasure to the world. Overcome by the happiness I was experiencing, I prayed: “Please God, let me spend my life playing in this heaven, let this last and last forever”.