by Colin Downes
It was during one hunting trip into the interior of the Everglades that the federal agent in charge of Indian affairs took us deep into the restricted area of the Seminole Indian reservation. We left civilization as we knew it far behind as the Seminoles dressed and lived much as they did at the time of the Indian Wars in the late nineteenth century. The Seminole nation came originally from the plains of the Midwest escaping to the South during the Indian wars following the Civil War. Technically, the Seminole nation was still at war with the United States as they refused to sign a peace treaty. I was probably one of the few Europeans to visit the village and I found the Seminoles both curious and friendly. Especially when my turkey caller critic suggested that I would make a suitable suitor for the daughter of the Seminole chief; who appeared quite interested in the idea! According to the federal agent the village elders kept a strict discipline among their people with instances of crime and drunkenness rare. The Seminoles farmed and hunted for deer, and made colourful regalia, curios and handicrafts for sale by the federal agent in the tourist resorts. It was a very interesting and pleasant experience to see these people living as they had for generations, and a relief from the depressing conditions existing for so many of the indigenous people in some of the slum areas of the cities.
The Florida of today with its continuous ribbon development along both coasts is very different from that which existed in 1942 and in the interior where there was swamp and uninhabited areas there is development and population growth everywhere but in the Everglades. The rigid segregation policy that existed then between the white and black population was a situation that was uncomfortable for someone accustomed to living in Britain, where although a class system was prevalent, ethnic prejudices were much less apparent. The invisible Mason-Dixon Line dividing the North and the South was very much in evidence. To the local born whites, or Florida Crackers, the Confederate flag was more popular and more in evidence than the Stars and Stripes; and they kept the memory of the Civil War alive with comments such as, ‘I was sixteen before I learned that Damn Yankee was not one word!’ One man from whom I endeavoured to get a weather forecast replied, ‘Son, here we have a saying that only a fool and a God damned Yankee would forecast the Lord’s weather’!
The local town of Clewiston was a neat, well laid out white community with many residents involved in the state water management. On one occasion while I was driving back to Clewiston from Palm Beach along the only road passing through the Everglades to the south of Lake Okeechobee, I saw a body lying on the road. The road was straight, bordered on both sides by wide irrigation ditches. There was no other traffic and when I stopped I saw it was a badly injured black man. The man was unconscious and obviously the victim of a hit and run incident. My companion wanted me to continue saying her father would not like it if we became involved. I had difficulty in persuading her to help me move the injured man into the back seat of the car. There was still no other traffic on the road as I drove to the Clewiston hospital and reported a hit and run casualty to the emergency staff. When the medical attendants saw the casualty was black the hospital refused to admit or treat him, telling me to take him to the medical clinic for blacks. I found the clinic with some difficulty and left him there but by then it was too late to save him. The generous and hospitable friend who lent me his car so that I could take his daughter to Palm Beach upbraided me more for placing his daughter in an embarrassing situation, than for the bloodstains in the car. I told him that I had difficulty understanding this and I apologized if I had abused his hospitality. Although he was a good and God-fearing man, it was obvious that to him and many like him, the proposition of a white Samaritan, as far as it concerned a black man, did not apply. There was one way of life and one place for whites and another one for blacks. I decided that as a foreign visitor to the United States and staying in the segregated South it was better not to discuss or become involved in controversial matters. Years later during visits to Ireland fishing I also avoided reference to the ‘Troubles’, for as an outsider such discussions involving implacable views and unshakable historical assumptions can only result in unpleasantness. I tend to take the easy route in such cases and agree with Voltaire – Il faut cultiver notre jardin.
Not far to the north of the airfield were cattle ranches with a small settlement and I occasionally joined some friends in visiting the local bar when returning from a hunting trip. There was just a single dirt street with a general store, saloon bar and sheriff’s office among the houses lining the street. Outside the saloon bar was a hitching rail for the occasional horse among the pick-up trucks. Inside the bar were lean, tough and weather beaten ‘crackers’ and cowpokes drinking near proof bourbon chased with beers. Some of the men wore guns and there was much loud talk. Tall tales abounded and no women were present in the bar. Sometimes arguments became heated resulting in a brawl. It was not a propitious place for a tenderfoot to be but the attraction was an authentic Wild West atmosphere and I did not go unless accompanied by friends or local acquaintances. I remember one shooting taking place after an argument, and also another most unusual death in the bar. One local frequenter of the bar supplemented his drinking money by betting he could take any snake bite. When a jar placed on the bar had sufficient dollar bills stuffed in it from a largely drunken crowd, he placed his hand in a glass cage on the bar containing some ground rattlesnakes and allowed one to bite him. The bite of a ground rattlesnake although unpleasant is not as dangerous as its much larger relative, the diamondback rattlesnake. The rattlesnake’s haemo-toxic venom infects the blood stream and the resulting sickness depends on the amount of venom injected by the snake’s fangs. The man then went home to sleep off the ill effects from the bite before returning to the bar to claim his bet. On this occasion one drunken customer, with possible evil intent, bet that he could not take a coral snake bite. Foolishly the man was drunk enough to insist on taking the bet claiming no snake could kill him, and the bettor produced a small coral snake in a jar. The brilliantly coloured coral snake has to grab its victim with its teeth and from abrasions in the skin the neuro-toxic venom seeps in to attack the nervous system causing paralysis and death from asphyxiation. The man put his hand in the jar allowing the small snake to bite him. He died within an hour of the bite without leaving the bar. I only visited this township a few times but each visit was memorable. On one occasion I reluctantly took a friend’s hand at poker when he had to leave the game for a while and to my surprise won the hand. I left the table and the poker player, unable to settle his debt with cash, offered his 0.32 Smith and Wesson revolver in payment. I kept the gun for many years and often wondered about the two notches cut into the butt. On another occasion a man entered the bar calling out, ‘There’s a nigger hunt on and the sheriff’s giving us half an hour start!’ At times the twentieth century appeared far away and this last episode sickened me. I decided to stay away and concentrate on my task of qualifying for my wings in preparation for a more dangerous manhunt against a dedicated enemy armed with machine guns and cannon.
Although we had many diversions during the weekend stand downs, for the rest of the week our flying training and ground studies kept us well occupied. We were also quite active in the sporting field and among the sporting personalities to visit us at Clewiston were Bill Tilden to coach us at tennis and Byron Nelson at golf. The United States entered the war in December 1941 following the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor and the US Army Air Corps had an aircrew induction centre in Miami, taking over several of the top hotels for the purpose. During leave passes in Miami we saw many well-known personalities from the entertainment and sporting worlds. These included the film stars Clark Gable, who became an air gunner; and Jimmy Stewart, who finished the war as a distinguished bomber pilot. As a result of the publicity surrounding such personalities there were plenty of female visitors to distract us from the purpose of our stay in Florida. One I particularly remember was an aspiring starlet named Jinx Falkenbug, visiting her brother in the Air Corps. Whe
never such extra curricular activities took us away from our flying, Mr O’Neil’s succinct phrase of warning stayed with me as we proceeded off the base, ‘Remember son, only birds can drink, fuck and fly’!
One very memorable and entertaining visitor sent to inspire us at Clewiston was Squadron Leader James MacLachan, DSO, DFC; a genuine war hero. MacLachan was famous not only in the RAF, but also with the British public, for continuing to fly fighters on operations while being what the present politically correct people would describe as ‘physically challenged’. This he most certainly was; and we called him ‘One-armed Mac’! MacLachan flew Fairey Battle light bombers in France before the retreat at Dunkirk; followed by Hurricanes during the Battle of Britain in 1940. In 1941 he was in Malta flying Hurricanes, being successful in claiming eight German and Italian aircraft shot down. It was during a dog-fight with Bf-109s over Malta that he was shot down; parachuting from his aircraft with his left arm shattered by cannon fire. Following the amputation of his arm he quickly set about flying as many aircraft as he could wrangle in order to persuade the Air Ministry that he was fit and competent enough without a left arm to return to flying current fighters on operations. During 1942, after being fitted with an artificial left arm the Air Ministry agreed and he was given command of No. 1 Squadron flying Hurricanes on night interception and intruder operations. No doubt Douglas Bader’s legless precedent assisted him in this respect. Following a successful tour on No. 1 Squadron, claiming another five German aircraft destroyed; he spent the last six months of 1942 on a goodwill tour of the United States. MacLachan made a great impression on the Americans during his visit to the US and he managed to persuade the US Army Air Corps to let him fly some current US fighters; and to lend him a P-40 Tomahawk fighter for a tour of the British Flying Training Schools. I met him when he visited us at Clewiston in 1942. He was certainly a colourful character and he put on an impressive display of aerobatics for us in his Tomahawk. He described to me his dramatic combat over Malta chasing a Bf-109 when his Hurricane shuddered with the impact of exploding cannon shells from a Bf-109 he did not see on his tail. He recollected an explosion in the cockpit as a 20 mm cannon shell shattered the instrument panel after passing through his left arm. The cockpit filled with smoke as flames came from the engine and he knew he had to bail out quickly or die. Releasing the control stick he reached up with his right hand and pulled the canopy jettison release cable. The hood lifted from the cockpit as he felt for the seat harness locking pin and pulled it clear. Re-grasping the stick he rolled the Hurricane onto its back, and by dint of part kicking, pulling, pushing and aided by gravity; he fell clear of the aircraft. Tumbling through the air he groped for the parachute ripcord and pulled it, and with a jerk he was floating down towards the Mediterranean some 10,000 feet below.
In commenting on his successful separation from his aircraft, MacLachan thought he was fortunate to the extent that it would have been far more problematical had he lost the use of his right hand! As he descended by parachute a Bf-109 buzzed him without opening fire, and he assumed this to be the German who attacked him. He then viewed the bloody, mangled remains of what had been his left arm and tried to assess his chances of surviving before bleeding to death. By now, due to the physical shock and loss of blood he was feeling light headed, although he felt no pain. Recounting this to me he said, ‘You know, it is said that while drowning or being very close to death, your whole life can pass before you in a flash. Well, I can tell you, old chap, that is a load of crap! If I thought of anything at the time it was of the girls I had; with a sense of regret there had not been more!’ Fortunately for Mac, he drifted over the island and landed in a field. Immediate first aid applied a tourniquet to staunch the bleeding from the mangled mess that had been his arm and it was found necessary to amputate his left forearm below the elbow. In early 1943 he returned to the UK flying Mustangs on intruder operations; claiming three more German aircraft for a total of sixteen aircraft destroyed. He was shot down over France by ground fire in July 1943 and died of his wounds.
Following the primary phase of our training we moved on to the more exciting advanced training phase with the North American AT-6, to experience at last the thoughts contained in the poem ‘High Flight’. We now had an aircraft to fly where never lark, nor even eagle flew. The AT-6 was an all-metal monoplane powered by a Pratt and Whitney 600 hp radial engine. It had a maximum speed of 208 mph, with a service ceiling of 24,000 feet and a range of 750 miles. This was a big jump up in performance from the enjoyable Stearman PT-17, being much closer in performance to a current fighter aircraft. There were many new functions and procedures to learn as with the increased performance from the engine came increased complications in instrumentation and aircraft systems. The aircraft controls now included a retractable undercarriage and adjustable wing flaps for landing. The more powerful engine with its variable pitch propeller had a very distinctive noise, especially when in fine pitch. Much stricter attention was required to extract the optimal performance and range from the aircraft. As the AT-6 carried a radiotelephone new operating procedures were required with the additional piloting functions associated with the increased performance of the aircraft. The importance of an accelerated scanning rate to monitor all this new information together with the correct procedures was paramount while flying this advanced training aircraft. Advancing from a primary trainer to an advanced trainer also advanced the scanning rate and attention span to the fine art of paying much more attention for just the slight lapse that could end any aspirations of becoming a pilot. The AT-6 was indeed a fine training aircraft, lacking only the power and speed of an operational fighter. All good training aircraft should have characteristics to curb the careless or inattentive pilot and the AT-6 was no exception; it could bite if abused. The aircraft was not so benign in a stalled condition than was the case with the PT-17, and there were two types of manoeuvres that required more circumspect attention to correct errors that might have more serious consequences. Aerobatics were impressive and exhilarating but required accurate flying with close attention to stalls and spins; and of course, the landing that required particular attention and concentration for the AT-6 had particular problems involving a good landing, as opposed to a tail-up arrival. It was during the circuit and landing phase of our advanced AT-6 training that we needed to exert the most due care and attention; particularly when landing in a cross wind. The AT-6 Harvard shared a common design characteristic with both the Tiger Moth and the Spitfire in possessing a narrow undercarriage. In attempting a three-point landing quick and accurate application of the controls, together with the throttle, was required to prevent any swing developing into a ground loop that could tip the AT-6 ignominiously onto its nose.
We normally flew the AT-6 solo from the front seat, as opposed to the PT-17 that was flown solo from the rear seat. Flying and landing the AT-6 from the rear or instructor’s seat was a good initiation for flying any single engine fighter with its long engine cowling and restricted forward vision. As with the primary training phase on the PT-17, instrument flying practice was carried out from the rear seat under a hood. Night flying during the primary and advanced phases was carried out operating from a grass runway formed by goose-necked flares. In addition to night circuits and landings in the AT-6 we carried out night cross country flights using D/R navigation and radio aids, but it was the daylight cross country flights that gave us the greatest enjoyment as these carried us much farther afield. The highest hilltop in Florida reaches a mere 345 feet above sea level and this allowed ample opportunity for low flying. I had some blissful moments flying along silver beaches with my near catastrophe when caught buzzing a cow in my PT-17 a forgotten memory. There was an irresistible urge for the excitement of low flying and speeding close to the ground. Some cross country exercises involved two students with one flying the aircraft from the front seat while the other acted as navigator from the rear seat. This resulted in a very sad occasion for me when two of my friends from Cambridge died in a
flying accident. Investigation of the accident attributed the cause to unauthorized low flying. A strange premonition occurred the night before the fatal flight when I visited the room shared by my friends. As I entered their room I saw one of them lying on his bed with a sheet pulled over him. On hearing my voice his head appeared from beneath the sheet and he asked, ‘How do I look in a shroud?’
