Happiness is a Harvard
Post no. 5 from the memoirs of Tempest pilot Flt Lt Jack Stafford, DFC, RNZAF
Woodbourne for me was just heaven. Perfect days followed perfect days, the sun always seemed to shine, and my contentment matched the weather as winter moved into spring and into summer. Gradually we mastered the Harvard advanced trainer with its retractable undercarriage, constant speed propellor and 600hp Pratt & Whitney radial engine. So passed those wonderful days as a pupil pilot in Blenheim.
I had been very fortunate in getting a Rotorua boy, George Bertram, as my instructor. He was full of fun and as far as I could tell he didn't take anything very seriously. When my flying reached the competent stage he would take me low flying on Lake Grassmere. I would fly and he would fire a revolver at the wildlife on the water. I don't think the wildlife ever realised that this was happening.
George knew a barmaid at Tophouse and on a couple of occasions during night flying we flew up there and he would take control. Then would follow the biggest thrill I had experienced during my short flying career, an aerobatic display with landing lights blazing. As we passed the chimney on one occasion he exclaimed “****, that was close!” Until you have seen George beat up Tophouse you've never seen a Harvard reach its limits. As for me, sublime confidence ruled as I never considered the possibility of George making a mistake. He really taught me to fly to the limit, for that was what the war was about. To me, 'Hort' as George was known was the greatest!
Another top instructor was Roy Mansill. He was from the same mould as George, and it was always great to fly with him. He had taken one or two other pupils under the telephone wires in the low flying area and I pestered him to take me. One day he flew down parallel to the wires and almost before I knew it he neatly slipped under them. He didn't offer to let me try it, however.
One episode startled me, and its effect stayed with me for a long time. We had on our course a young pilot called Charlie Rickey. He was a most pleasant, gentlemanly person and I considered him a friend. Slightly built and athletic, I always enjoyed his company. Charlie was killed in an accident. Several pilots were chasing each other around the valleys and peaks and there was a misjudgement that cost Charlie his life. I heard that his plane lost part of one wing and went in.
Some time later I was called to the flight commander's office. I marched in to find the commander sitting at his desk with his head down, and I stared with amazement at the chart on the wall behind him. Charlie's name was still there, with a red line through his progress and in large bold letters was the word WASTAGE.
I was incensed. How could anyone refer to Charlie's life as 'wastage'? He was one of us, we were brothers, comrades, ready to fight to the death for each other. The commander looked up and spoke to me, but I hardly heard him. He gently reprimanded me for something or other, but it paled into insignificance beside what that chart revealed to me. Our position in the scheme of things was clear: we were expendable.
I could not believe this callous disregard for a well-liked colleague. The flight commander was oblivious to my feelings. I didn't mention this incident to anyone, but it changed my attitude to Air Force life. It was one of many which finally made me what I became.