by Colin Downes
I enjoyed flying the AT-6 very much for it certainly was the best advanced trainer of its day. I experienced no awkward moments during my flying of the advanced phase of our training that passed enjoyably and quickly with only one interruption when a major hurricane struck the east coast. We evacuated all the aircraft from Clewiston north to Georgia, returning two days later when the hurricane moved on to South Carolina. Only slight damage occurred at the base as the hurricane expended most of its force as it passed north along the coast of eastern Florida. After a grand total of around 250 flying hours, the great day arrived early in 1943 for our passing out parade and our course assembled on the parade ground for the presentation of our wings. Watching the parade with a kind of parental interest were all the wonderful and generous people whose traditional Southern hospitality made our stay in Florida so enjoyable and memorable. This was certainly one of the best of times as once more dressed in our RAF blue uniforms with the addition of RAF wings on our chests and the propeller patches on our sleeves replaced with sergeant’s stripes, we assembled at the railway station for the journey north to Canada. As we boarded the train many emotional farewells took place with those who for a short time took some unknown foreign students into their homes and hearts.
I had started my journey in search of wings and now as I sat watching the countryside roll by on my return to Canada for embarkation back to England, I felt the satisfaction of achievement together with an innate sense of pride. Despite some mishaps I had succeeded against the odds in my quest to place the coveted replica of eagle’s wings on my left breast. In common with my companions I now felt very attached to this symbol of becoming a qualified pilot to the extent that we joked among ourselves of our reluctance to ever take those wings off our chests. We should have been happy to wear them at all times even on our ‘civvies’ and at night on our pyjamas.
My short year in the United States had been an interesting experience and a great eye opener for me of a very different way of life than my own in England. Despite common antecedents and being separated by a common language that in the US was closer to that of Shakespeare than my own; as European stock there was much else that was common but there was much that was new and novel. In general I found Americans to be more direct in their approach; similar in some ways to people from Yorkshire. However, there was always an underlying sense of the aggressive spirit from their pioneer forbears. This was amply demonstrated on the American football field; more so than in the original game of English rugby football. There was also the disconcerting sense of latent animosity still existing between the southern and the northern states stemming from the civil war, and in the south there was the ethnic situation. However, with very few exceptions I was to find sincere friendship with some truly wonderful hospitality and kindness.
One novel experience for me was an introduction to hamburgers and commercial radio, with my initiation to country music that was referred to as ‘gopher’ music: and purveyors of efficacious snake oil medication as a remedy for all ailments. There were also innumerable gospel preachers and Holy Rollers that conveyed the arrival of Judgement Day. One enterprising preacher always ended his exaltations with the words, ‘Send 25¢ and you will receive free of charge a pamphlet entitled, “The Lord is the same on Monday as on Sunday” ’. I found this a comforting thought and wondered why none of those lengthy Sunday sermons at school had conveyed the same message!
I considered myself fortunate to have seen much of the eastern seaboard of the US from Florida to Canada, and wondered if I should ever be able to see more of this vast and interesting continent with its diverse peoples after the war. The two-day train journey gave me plenty of time to read and to contemplate my future; and the conundrum – What now? My ambition during the whole of my flying training was to fly fighters and now I hoped and prayed for a posting to a fighter squadron. My flying assessments were high enough for this but in my mind were nagging thoughts that the high casualty rate in Bomber Command during 1942 and 1943 compared with Fighter Command could dictate otherwise. I wondered that should I be successful in flying with a Spitfire squadron, whether my new wings would take me into combat over Europe against the ME-109s and FW-190s of the German Luftwaffe, or eastwards to an unknown Orient to tangle with the Zeros of the Imperial Air Forces of Japan; and thereby hangs a tale.
On Wings of Morning
A sudden roar, a mighty rushing sound,
a jolt or two, a smoothly sliding rise,
a tumbled blur of disappearing ground,
and then all sense of motion slowly dies.
Quiet and calm, the earth slips past below,
as underneath a bridge still waters flow.
My turning wing inclines towards the ground;
the ground itself glides up with graceful swing
and at the plane’s far tip twirls round,
then drops from sight again beneath the wing
to slip away serenely as before,
a cubist-patterned carpet on the floor.
Hills gently sink and valleys gently fill,
The flattened fields grow ludicrously small;
slowly they pass beneath and slower still
until they hardly seem to move at all.
Then suddenly they disappear from sight,
hidden by fleeting wisps of faded white.
The wing-tips, faint and dripping, dimly show,
blurred by the wreaths of mist that intervene.
Weird, half-seen shadows flicker to and fro
across the pallid fog-bank’s blinding screen.
At last the chocking mists release their hold,
and all the world is silver, blue, and gold.
The air is clear, more clear than sparkling wine;
compared with this, wine is a turgid brew.
The far horizon makes a clean-cut line
between the silver and the depthless blue.
Out of the snow-white level reared on high
glittering hills surge up to meet the sky.
Outside the wind screen’s shelter gales may race:
but in the seat a cool and gentle breeze
blows steadily upon my grateful face.
As I sit motionless and at my ease,
contented just to loiter in the sun
and gaze around me till the day is done.
And so I sit, half sleeping, half awake,
dreaming a happy dream of golden days,
until at last, with a reluctant shake
I rouse myself, and with a lingering gaze
at all the splendour of the shining plain
make ready to come down to earth again.
The engine stops: a pleasant silence reigns –
silence, not broken, but intensified
by the soft, sleepy wires’ insistent strains,
that rise and fall, as with a sweeping glide
I slither down the well-oiled sides of space,
towards a lower, less enchanted place.
The clouds draw nearer, changing as they come.
Now, like a flash, fog grips me by the throat.
Down goes the nose: at once the wires’ low hum
begins to rise in volume and in note,
till, as I hurtle from the choking cloud
it swells into a scream, high-pitched, and loud.
The scattered hues and shades of green and brown
fashion themselves into the land I know,
turning and twisting, as I spiral down
towards the landing-ground; till, skimming low,
I glide with slackening speed across the ground,
and come to rest with lightly grating sound.
Jeffery Day (1896 – 1918)
Lieutenant Jeffery Day, DSC, Royal Naval Air Service, was shot down and killed on 27 February 1918.
My first flight at the tender age of six with my parents in 1929. The flight was from Harwich to Ostend in a Type FBA17H22 French Navy flying boat, powered by a Hispano-Suiza engine of 180 h
p. The aspiring aviatrix is my mother.
Clayesmore 1st XI. Spin bowler CWD is extreme right in the back row.
At Clewiston, Florida in 1942.
CWD flying the North American AT-6A, designated ‘Harvard’ by the RAF, at 5 BFTS, Clewiston, Florida in 1942.
Right: A Stearman PT-17 primary trainer at No. 5 BFTS, Florida, 1942.
CWD with the AT6A after a flight in 1942.
Central Flying School
Tiger Moth
Miles Magister
Miles Master Mk. I
Some of the aircraft types flown during my instructor ’s course at Woodley during 1943.
My flying instructor rating.
The Spitfire Mk V cockpit.
The North American P-51C Mustang.
The P-52D Mustang.
A de Havilland Hornet long-range escort fighter.
The Oxford University Air Squadron at summer camp in Shoreham in 1947. I am seated 5th from the right holding a Border Terrier.
No. 41 Squadron Meteor VIIIs, Biggin Hill, 1951.
A de Havilland Vampire Mk 5 with No. 601 Royal Auxiliary Squadron, North Weald, in 1949. (Reproduced from the book ‘Til We Meet Again by John McQuarrie, 1991, published by McGraw-Hill, Ottawa.)
Meteor VIIIs of No. 41 Squadron in 1951.
No. 41 Squadron in front of my personal Meteor VIII ‘D’ at Biggin Hill in 1951. I am 5th from the left.
CWD with his flying Dachshund at Biggin Hill in 1951.
No. 41 Squadron at readiness at Biggin Hill in 1951.
No. 41 Squadron formation team with the photographer Russell Adams at Biggin Hill in 1952. CWD is on the extreme right.
My Flying Assessment, 41 Squadron, Biggin Hill, 1952.
CWD flying Meteor VIII ‘D’ for Downes.
I am standing 3rd from the left with ‘Charlie’ Flight, 335th FIS, USAF, at K-14 Kimpo, Korea in 1953.
A North American F-86 Sabre cockpit, Nellis AFB, USAF, 1953.
‘Charlie’ Flight, 335th FIS, heading for ‘Mig Alley’ in 1953.
The Yalu River, ‘Mig Alley’, North Korea, 1953.
‘Charlie’ Flight returning from ‘Mig Alley’ in 1953.
‘Charlie’ Flight over Seoul and K-16, Korea, 1953.
Flight into Manchuria and a visit to the Chinese air base at Feng-Cheng, June, 1953.
CHAPTER TWO
They That Hath Wings Shall Tell the Matter
I left England early in 1942 and looking out of the porthole of the troop ship as it docked at Liverpool early in 1943, the aspect looked the same as when I left; cold, wet and dismal. After a miserable seven days dash across the Atlantic from Halifax, Nova Scotia, the sunny, warm and comfortable lifestyle of Florida was another world away. The trip across the Atlantic was an unpleasant and uncomfortable one, although no U-boat alerts occurred as far as we knew. Our ship, the Louis Pasteur, when it docked at Halifax disembarked 6,000 Italian POWs, and then immediately embarked the waiting British and Canadian aircrew, with some Canadian Army units, without attempting to clean the ship. The Canadians marched on and confronted by the filth and stench left by the Italian POWs in the Augean quarters below deck, about turned and marched off again despite threats of arrest. With stolid British phlegm, or bovine stupidity, we remained onboard. Some efforts followed to redress the problem and the Canadians returned. We sailed unescorted for Liverpool that evening, and to prevent a repetition of the protests we remained battened down for the duration of the voyage under appalling conditions. The Geneva Convention may have applied to the unfortunate POWs but certainly not to British Commonwealth aircrew. A short disembarkation leave at home followed our arrival in Liverpool, before reporting to the aircrew distribution centre at the famous Yorkshire spa town of Harrogate. The town looked shabby after three years of war with its principal hotels requisitioned by the military. To ease the bottleneck resulting from the aircrew output from the Commonwealth Training Plan, the Air Ministry decided that before their assignment the recently qualified aircrew should undertake a modified commando style fitness course. Consequently, before appearing before an assignment board I found myself leaping around the golf course and sand dunes of Whitely Bay, a suburb of Newcastle-upon-Tyne. Returning to Harrogate I restated my preference for Fighter Command and Spitfires. The assignment board stated that the pilot situation in the Command was stable at the time but the Mustang squadrons in Army Cooperation Command needed reinforcing. This sounded ominous but I still had delusions of aerial combat and the prospect of ground support operations did not appeal. The assignment board then dangled the carrot: as my assessments were satisfactory for the purpose if I agreed to take a flying instructor’s course, a tour of instructing would give me priority in my preference. This was of course a con but being still naïve in the ways of the military I agreed. My first choice was Spitfires at all costs and I had no wish to discuss the requirements of Bomber Command. If I could have foreseen how my flying instructor’s category would dog me years later I might have settled for Army Cooperation Command. In retrospect, some years later after experiencing some of the alternatives it might have suited me very well. The Allison engine Mustang was a nice aircraft to fly low level, although the casualty rate on low level operations was higher than that on high level escort.
My next stop was the Central Flying School of Flying Training Command at the subsidiary flying school near Reading. The grass airfield at Woodley was the home of Miles Aircraft, having merged with Philips and Powis Aircraft. Here I flew my old nemesis, the Tiger Moth, together with the Miles Magister, a two-seat primary monoplane trainer, and the Miles Master, a two-seat advanced monoplane trainer powered by a Rolls-Royce Kestrel in the Mk I, a Bristol Mercury radial in the Mk II and a Pratt & Whitney Wasp radial in the Mk III. The Master was the British equivalent of the Harvard but not as good a training aircraft. It was a robust aircraft of wood construction and although giving the appearance of a two-seat fighter with a high thickness-cord ratio wing, its handling qualities did not match up to that of the North American AT-6 Harvard. The Mark II version of the Master, with the 800 hp Bristol Mercury engine, was the most powerful variant of the aircraft and was used as a Hotspur glider tug for the training of the Airborne Forces pilots. Instructing in the Master was different from any other training aircraft I flew because it had one very unique design feature for the instructor in the rear seat. Forward visibility was poor and in order to be able to see ahead to land the aircraft the instructor in the rear seat had to raise his seat to see over the top of the front seat cockpit canopy. This was achieved by pulling hard on a handle mounted on the front of the Perspex panel over the instructor to pivot the panel upwards and provide a windbreak. This also acted as an airbrake and resulted in considerable airframe buffeting and cockpit turbulence. Accompanied by wind noise and aircraft vibration, the instructor then raised his seat up into the slipstream behind a vibrating Perspex panel to look out of the cockpit and over the top of the pilot in front of him which made for an interesting landing. It was also a decided advantage, as well as a necessity in winter, to wear the de rigueur leather sheepskin flying jacket and pants as protection against the elements. Fortunately, I did most of my instructing on the Tiger Moth and the Harvard, with some instructing on the twin engine Airspeed Oxford. However, I did some instructing with the Master II while towing Hotspur gliders at Crouton. This provided some additional unusual moments when, due to the continued use of full power to get the Master and the Hotspur glider airborne and to keep it in the air, the overworked Mercury engine spewed out a coating of black oil over the windscreen making it almost impossible to see ahead. An occasional engine failure necessitated a hurried release from the Hotspur, before being stalled by the towed glider, for a quick forced landing back on the airfield (if one was lucky, as I was when it happened to me!).
The management, design and test flying of all the Miles Aircraft projects at Woodley consisted of a remarkable team of the two Miles brothers, Fred and George, together with Fred’s brilliant and e
bullient wife, Blossom, as chief designer. This dynamic and innovative team designed and produced while resident at Shoreham, Woodley, Redhill and eventually back at Shoreham again, many interesting concepts and projects primarily of light sporting, passenger and training aircraft in competition with de Havilland. After the war they designed and produced a larger twin engine, civil transport aircraft called the Marathon. The Miles team were certainly unusual in their projects; some being very successful and some not so successful. I recollect one light aircraft design having a novel and unique system for lateral control with the ailerons replaced by stick controlled leading edge wing slats. George Miles often flew the first test flight of a new project but on this occasion their chief test pilot, Tommy Rose, a King’s Cup winner and a very extrovert character flew the aircraft. The aircraft took-off heading south and I witnessed its slow and erratically controlled climb to around 200 feet. The aircraft then commenced a slow spasmodic and jerky descent without attempting any turn and disappeared from sight. A search party located the undamaged aircraft in a meadow with no sign of the pilot. Tommy Rose was eventually traced to a nearby pub where he was recovering from an experience he described as trying to walk a wet, greasy pole without a balancing pole in a strong wind!
