by Colin Downes
I enjoyed flying the Stearman and continued my flying with good assessments. Our American instructors placed greater emphasis on aerobatics than did the RAF instructors, and our ability in this respect was reflected in our overall assessments. A good assessment in aerobatics could significantly improve my chances in requesting an assignment to a fighter squadron after graduation. The PT-17 was a fine aerobatics aircraft but it required strong pressure on the controls for precise aerobatics manoeuvres. This may explain a propensity for snap manoeuvres which required little physical effort being a stalled manoeuvre at speed. Jerking the control stick back smartly sends the aircraft into a rapid roll that is in effect a horizontal spin. Snap or flick rolls look impressive when combined with looping manoeuvres in the horizontal or vertical plane. However, a true slow roll as opposed to a barrel roll or a snap roll requires full and accurate use of all the flying controls with the aircraft flown throughout the entire manoeuvre.
An aviation truism states that the only time one has too much fuel while flying is when the aircraft is on fire; and while performing some solo aerobatics I experienced the first of two incidents during the primary phase of my training. After completing some slow rolls I was halfway through a Cuban eight, a manoeuvre involving two half loops and two half rolls, when black smoke filled the cockpit. Flames enveloped the engine and black oil covered the windscreen. I turned off the fuel cock and side slipped the aircraft to keep the smoke and flames away from the cockpit. My immediate reaction to an engine fire was to leave the aircraft before the fire spread to the fuselage and controls, and in preparation for this I released the safety clip of my seat harness when straight and level. Looking down I saw the uninviting swampland below and I imagined a reception of alligators and water moccasin snakes. The flames from the engine fire no longer enveloped the nose of the PT-17 although there was still black smoke coming from burning oil, and I paused to reassess the situation. The side slipping appeared to extinguish the fire as fuel was no longer entering the engine. Obviously, I could not restart the engine without risking a continuing fire, so I contemplated a forced landing in the swamp. The problem of landing a fixed undercarriage aircraft in water is the very great probability of the aircraft turning over on its back. At this point I remembered a student on the course previous to my own, landing in the swamp at night just short of the airfield and finishing on his back. The upper wing rested on the water and the tail became submerged covering the pilot in the rear cockpit. It appeared he was unable to release himself from his harness and parachute, and by the time the rescue crew reached him he had drowned.
The only other option open to me was a forced landing on the airfield and that required sufficient height to glide to the field. The options and the possible consequences passed through my mind quicker than it takes to read them. Fortunately for me the aerobatics area was not far from the airfield and, as one practised aerobatics at a sufficient safety height to recover from spins, I estimated I could just make it and I stopped the side slip and glided for the field. It was a close call but I scraped over the irrigation ditch bordering the advanced flying area causing an AT-6 to over shoot his landing. The chief flying instructor asked why I did not bale out of a burning aircraft and I answered that I did not care for my chances in the swamp. Inspection of the aircraft revealed that leaks sprayed fuel and oil onto the hot engine. This resulted in a fire and a missing inspection panel in the firewall of the engine bay allowed smoke to enter the cockpit. Closing the fuel cock cut off the supply of fuel to the engine; and side slipping the aircraft extinguished the flames; with the fire damage confined to the engine bay. The initial condemnation for staying with the aircraft changed to commendation for saving the aircraft; and on this occasion the approbation for a successful forced landing was justified. However, a second incident during my primary training nearly obliterated any bonus points accrued by the forced landing.
Navigational flying followed the initial handling phase of the primary syllabus. Florida is relatively flat and in 1942 with the major cities sited along the coast the rural population was sparse. Flying over the wetlands and scrub land held few significant features for identification and our navigation was entirely by dead reckoning (D/R) using map, compass and stopwatch. Therefore, the few roads and railways were important aids to navigation and we resorted to them to reach our identification points (I/Ps). The RAF term for following railways was Bradshaw navigation, taken from the name of a pre-war railway timetable. The small townships always had a distinctive water tower on which was painted the name of the town. Railway stations also had their names displayed on boards easily discernable at low level. Such niceties were not available in Britain with all such forms of identification removed in wartime. This gave ample opportunities to indulge in unauthorized low flying on the excuse of identifying pinpoints. Low flying close to the ground enabled one to appreciate the speed of the aircraft and was an irresistible attraction, with the additional urge to shoot-up targets on the ground; both animate and inanimate. It was on a navigational cross-country exercise I met up with a colleague and we continued low level in formation, taking turns in leading. I took over the lead at one turning point and probably attempted to impress my friend with some very low flying. We did not have radiotelephone communication in our primary training aircraft and I did not notice the departure of my friend until I pulled up to consult my map. I looked astern and saw what I assumed to be my friend’s Stearman far astern of me. Wondering why he was lagging behind I throttled back allowing the other aircraft to catch up, and when it did so and flew alongside I saw to my dismay it had two occupants. The instructor in the front seat made gestures to indicate I should follow him back to base and this I did feeling decidedly uneasy. My friend told me later that while following me he saw a Stearman flying above us. The Stearman started to dive down on us and suspecting it to be unfriendly he split formation offering the instructor a choice of targets and the instructor followed me. Instructor Fisher, whom I had flown with a couple of times, was a very different character from Instructor O’Neil, being a very serious and humourless individual. It was just my luck that ‘Hawk-Eyes’ Fisher spotted us low flying and chased me. O’Neil was unlikely to report a student without a warning in the first instance with an impressive bawling out and possible disciplinary action of his own. However, Fisher had a propensity for strict adherence to the rule book and reported me to the Chief Flying Instructor for unauthorized low flying.
Misfortunes come on wings and depart on foot! A disciplinary board consisting of the Chief Instructor (CI), Chief Flying Instructor (CFI) and Chief Ground Instructor (CGI) met to decide my fate. I listened while Mr Fisher gave evidence that fairly accurately described the circumstances of spotting two PT-17s low flying; however, he was only able to identify me. The CI asked me the name of my companion-in-crime and I answered that we met by chance and I could not identify him or remember the aircraft number. The CI then asked if I was aware of the seriousness of indulging in unauthorized low flying and I could only answer in the affirmative. I also knew that such transgressions usually resulted in termination of the course and a return to Canada for reassignment to other aircrew duties. My turn came to give my version of the incident and I admitted low flying in order to identify my position from a water tower. The CI then asked how low I was flying and I answered about 100 feet. The CI commented that Mr Fisher claimed it was much lower. I replied that from a distance he could not be precise for I was certainly at least 100 feet or more when he formated on my aircraft while I was consulting my map. The CI then asked a question that put a chill to my stomach, ‘Well, Mister, tell me; how high is a cow?’ Taken aback I muttered something about not understanding the question. The CI continued saying, ‘Mr Fisher, who is not only an experienced instructor but also an experienced crop dusting pilot, reports that you had to climb your aircraft to get over a cow!’ The CFI and Instructor O’Neil reported on my flying progress with good assessments, as did the CGI on my ground studies. The CI asked me to
leave the room while the Disciplinary Board discussed the matter. I returned to the room with just the three chief instructors present. The Chief Instructor commented that normally when faced with a serious breach of flying regulations he had no option but to return the offending cadet to Canada for reassignment. The aim of the school was to produce pilots and a considerable amount of effort and money went into achieving that objective. My instructors spoke well of me and considered me capable of graduating and making a worthwhile flying contribution in the RAF. An act of folly now jeopardized my flying career and was an unnecessary waste with benefit to none but the enemy. However, such breaches of discipline and orders required punishment. As a result the Board allowed me to continue my training and confined me to the base for one month with no weekend passes. It was not difficult to assess the outcome should I reappear before the Disciplinary Board. In thanking the Chief Instructor I felt an enormous sense of relief as I left the room with a smile as permanent as that of the Cheshire cat. I felt sure that O’Neil contributed considerably in the decision not to wash me out and may have put forward the case that I represented only half of the offending breach of discipline. He never discussed the matter again but I am sure he expressed an opinion with my prosecutor. This was the second occasion of fortune favouring fools in my quest for wings, and I averred there should not be a third bovine experience!
During the weekend stand downs I reported as instructed to the aircraft maintenance area for aircraft and hanger cleaning duties. In carrying out the decision of the Board, although I missed out on the local generous hospitality in Clewiston, the rest of my punishment was virtually non existent. The question of race relations and segregation in the southern states of the USA during 1942 was in a very different form than that of today, with certain duties or types of work stipulated for specific workers. Consequently, those in charge of the maintenance area would not allow any other than those so employed to carry out cleaning duties. The engineers made it very clear to me to keep out of the way and not to touch any cleaning equipment. I reported to the chief engineer, a large middle-aged man, with a large paunch, who, when I explained the reason for my presence reacted vehemently, ‘Son, this is the engineering and maintenance department, not the goddamn training department. No damn Yankee training chief is going to tell me how I run my goddamn department; and what’s more, no white boy is going to do any goddam nigger work. I don’t care what you do outside of my department but stay away from my hangers’. I did not need any further problems and I did not wish to be responsible for reviving the civil war, so I did not refer my predicament to a higher authority. I did as instructed and attempted to assume a cloak of invisibility; spending four partially boring weekends mooching around the aircraft, reading and feeding the Coca-Cola dispenser. Any attempt to talk to the black workers produced an embarrassed reaction with a furtive looking around for any repercussions from the supervisors. I limited my approaches to the white engineers and the exercise was not a complete loss or without some educational value. My chats with the engineers taught me not only more about the PT-17 and AT-6, but also much more about matters unrelated to aircraft and flying.
During our leisure moments some students ventured to the coastal areas, to the cities of Palm Beach and Miami on the east coast, or Sarasota and St Petersburg on the west coast. Invitations would arrive at the base for a number of students to visit families in these cities, particularly Palm Beach, where they enjoyed invitations to swimming, tennis and golf, as well as luncheon and dinner parties. The hotels in Palm Beach and Miami offered very generous discounts that made it possible for us to indulge ourselves royally. One aspect of our social life was adjusting to the attraction of the local girls in Florida who matured so much earlier than was our experience back home in Britain. In common with most of my compatriots I found the girls in Florida and Georgia not only physically attractive but fascinating to listen to with their slow and soft Southern accent after the more nasal and rapid accents found in the Northern states. We were to find that in Florida it was not unusual for a girl to be married by the age of sixteen, and even younger. Paradoxically, the age of consent in Florida was eighteen and statutory rape was a felony punishable by harsh imprisonment. For a bunch of virile and aspiring fighter pilots being strangers in a strange land, the early blossoming of some of the beguiling girls we came in contact with could be deceptively enticing as well as potentially dangerous. I experienced one such cautionary near involvement that served as a propitious warning while spending a short leave in St Petersburg. This was a pleasant resort on the Gulf of Mexico near Tampa, the principal city on the west coast and the centre of the US five and ten cents cigar industry. At one social function I met a very attractive girl who, to my surprise, reciprocated my evident interest in a very engaging and encouraging way. From her appearance and manner I judged her to be in her early twenties and was surprised when she told me she was about to celebrate her nineteenth birthday. The girl was manifestly concupiscent and my aspirations must have been fairly apparent for a well-intentioned observer suggested that if I intended to further the acquaintance to be warned that I was dealing with jailbait! On questioning him I learned the girl was in fact only seventeen and this information effectively doused any thoughts of a budding relationship. My early return to Clewiston allowed for an amicable withdrawal from a decidedly disconcerting situation; and probably confirmed the impression that the British were somewhat coy and slow on the uptake when it came to the dating game.
The local community in Clewiston went out of their way to offer the most wonderful and generous hospitality, with many families virtually adopting cadets during their stay. For myself, I spent much of my leisure moments locally around Lake Okeechobee where I had some of the best bass fishing and duck shooting available in the States. I was particularly friendly with the engineer in charge of the state water control board in Clewiston who took me on his air boat across the lake and into the Everglades bass fishing and duck shooting. The boat, powered and steered by a radial aircraft engine and propeller, was able to travel at high speed over the shallow and weeded water. In addition to the fishing and duck shooting there were hunting trips into the interior of the cypress swamps and savannah for quail, wild turkey and deer. The wild turkey is a very wary and difficult bird to hunt among the cypress trees and the method used was to appeal to its mating instincts. Taking cover one called up the male turkey by means of a caller that involved scrapping a piece of wood on a piece of slat in an open ended wood box. I found it not too difficult to make a fairly accurate rendition of a mating call and one relied on the intense competitive nature of the wily bird to come near enough for a shot. On one occasion I sat on the ground behind a tree calling to two birds that answered my call. The calls in reply were getting closer when suddenly a panther appeared bellying along the ground and ready to pounce on what he assumed to be a beguiled bird that happened to be me behind the tree. I think we saw one another at the same moment and I do not know which of us was the more startled. For a microsecond we stared at each other and as I raised my shotgun in anticipated defence, the panther leaped into the air and bounded off at speed. This was the only time I saw a live panther in the wild and I regretted that the moment was so fleeting for the rare chance to see this magnificent animal. After recovering from the shock I commented to one of the hunting party who had made disparaging remarks on my ability with the turkey caller that at least my calling was improving as it fooled the panther.
Hunting in the interior there was danger from various species of venomous pit vipers. On scrub lands there were ground and diamondback rattlesnakes that were rarely aggressive unless suddenly surprised. The danger from snakes was far greater in the cypress swamps as here one waded through water inhabited by the copperhead and the water moccasin or cottonmouth, with the water moccasin being the more aggressive. High leather boots encased with wire mesh to deflect a snake strike were used by some hunters, but they were not suitable for rough walking and wading through the swamps
. A more comfortable outfit for wading the wetlands was to wear loose fitting trousers with thick socks and canvas boots. The protective theory being the width and looseness of the trousers presented a wide target to a snake strike making it unlikely for the fangs to penetrate the leg. The most poisonous of the snakes in Florida was the small colourful coral snake that did not possess fangs but injected its deadly venom while gripping with its teeth. A coral snake bite was rare which was just as well for the neuro-toxic venom was often lethal. The only worrying moment I had with snakes was while wading up to my waist in Lake Okechobee fishing for bass when a cottonmouth joined me. The snake gets its name from the white interior of its mouth and I saw this clearly as it circled me about twenty feet away with its head raised about a foot out of the water. While considering the best action to take, a second cottonmouth joined the first swimming about ten feet behind it. The second snake also swam with its head about a foot out of the water showing its open white mouth. I assumed the second cottonmouth to be the mate of the first and any action taken against one of the snakes might bring retaliation from the other; and I was unarmed apart from my casting rod. The two snakes continued to circle me about ten feet apart and I felt uneasy as I waited motionlessly to see what their next move might be. Several minutes passed before the snakes lowered their heads and swam away. It was an uncomfortable moment and I wondered at the snakes’ interest in me. Was it just curiosity or were they attracted to the bass trailing behind me on a keeper line attached to my waist?
