WILLOWDALE, ON - I
was not unhappy about going to Pennfield Ridge because the site was, in fact,
almost the very spot where the famous trans-Atlantic flier, Jimmy Mollison, had
landed his Puss Moth, "Heart's Content", after flying the Atlantic
earlier in the thirties. I don't know why I thought Mollison's association with
Pennfield Ridge should have made it an attractive place.
Originally constructed for the RCAF, the base was almost immediately handed over
to the RAF to be manned by their own personnel. With things winding down in
Europe, the RAF departed for home, leaving a small skelton staff to keep the
base open until the RCAF could take over. The camp was filthy and in disrepair,
the aircraft - all Lockheed Venturas with an old Anson and three Bolingbrokes
thrown in for good measure - were equally as dirty and disreputable looking. One
Boly had been pranged and was being rebuilt by a crew from the Fairchild plant
in Montreal who were having a grand time with all expenses paid and about a
three hour work day. When the aircraft was finally test flown about a year
later, the only original part of it was the centre fuselage and wing section.
To-day we would call it a rip-off!
The morning after our arrival on "the Ridge", we trooped into the mess
hall for breakfast only to be greeted with bangers and mash! For breakfast! If
that wasn't unusual, imagine our surprise at dinner time to find the tables laid
out with bowls and boxes of corn flakes! I guess the RAF boys had been on
"the Ridge" too long. After our early morning "dinner", we
went to look at the aircraft and what a gringy looking lot they were. Peggy Lee
was a popular vocalist at the time and one of our aircraft had painted on the
nose "PEGGY LEE - A QUEEN IN ALL HER GLORY". I have often wondered if
Peggy Lee ever knew about it.
Photograph from "The Ventura Memorial Flight Association Collection."
A small group that had
arrived a few days before us seemed to be a more seasoned lot than we were
(I suspect they might have even have been older permanent force personnel)
and they soon laid transport for the Friday night dance at the popular
pre-war resort, St. Andrews-by-the-Sea, about 35 miles from the air base.
Transport, of course, consisted of a 2-ton truck with, fortunately, a tarpaulin
over the back for shelter. We all piled in and started on our way. A bottle soon
began to make the rounds and the party, for some, began to get merrier before we
had even reached our destination. A lot of us, though, were still somewhat wet
behind the ears even though we liked to think that we had "been around"
a bit so only a few actually sampled the bottle which later proved to be a good thing.
The dance was something out of the twenties! The hall was called Andriello Hall
and, indeed, had a mural along the back of the stage that was strictly from the
Victorian era while the music was provided by four locals who appeared, complete
with drums, piano, sax and violin. Their repertoire was typically "down
east" music. There was a surfeit of local girls but they all had escorts -
their parents - who sat along each side of the hall, keeping a close eye on the
activities of each offspring. They made little attempt to make us feel at all
welcome and it was not a successful evening.
The following day, we learned that several of those who had been drinking the
mixture from the bottle that had made the rounds in the truck were hospitalized.
It seemed that one of our more seasoned predecessors had broken into one of the
Venturas, had drained the alcohol out of the de-icer tank and had cut it with
lime juice, not realizing that the alcohol was of the denatured type and was
deadly poisonous - or did he know and simply regarded it as a rather cruel joke
on a brunch of green rookies ? One or two of those hospitalized actually lost
their sight for a short while. Anyway, upon recovery, the "more
seasoned" group was immediately posted away and we never did hear of their
eventual fate.
While the activities on the station were about the same as those on any other,
the off-base activities were meager indeed.
It took a lot of effort but we finally got our Venturas in shape and I must say
that we all felt rather proud to see the first one roar off the runway. The
Ventura was an impressive aircraft with the roar of its 4000 h.p. and the
acceleration pushing you back in the seat. It wasn't long until I had my first
flight in one and I was lucky enough to be in the co-pilot's seat. The pilot a
visiting Squadron Leader from the RAF. The take off was fine, the flight was
more or less routine but, on our final approach, the pilot seemed somewhat
tense. When those huge flaps went down, it was like hitting a brick wall and
only my safety harness kept me from sliding right into the bomb aimer's
compartment. We landed with a bounce or two but nothing serious. As we walked
away from the aircraft, the pilot asked me:
"What did you think of the landing?"
"Oh, fine," I said, "Just fine, Sir." - after all, he was an
officer so I would not have said otherwise even if it had been a decidedly poor
landing.
"Yeah, I thought so, too. You know, I've never flown a Ventura before.
Never been checked out in one. Delightful kite!"
The first time I sat in the cockpit of a Bolingbroke, I vowed never to go up in
one. I disliked the beast from the moment I saw it. And it was a beast,
especially to work on. Each engine panel had to be carefully set aside and
replaced where it came from because it wouldn't fit anywhere else. No precision
work there. On American-built aircraft, it didn't really matter if the panels
were accidentally mixed because they would usually fit on either side of that
aircraft or any other of the same type.
Several months after our arrival on "the Ridge", our PV-1 Venturas
began to disappear to be replaced by a somewhat improved version, the PV-2
Harpoon. Those that came to Pennfield were obviously U.S. Navy aircraft,
complete with the white undersides and two-tone bluish grey topsides as well as
U.S. markings. Each Lockheed aircraft was decorated with nose art that consisted
of Disney characters and I have since learned that all Venturas and Harpoons
apparently left the Vega Division adorned with Disney artwork. Our replacement
aircraft appeared to be either factory new and nearly so and were obviously
lend-lease. There were fewer of them, however, and that was because the base was
being converted to a Transport Conversion Squadron where returning RCAF pilots
would receive training in flying transport types of aircraft, mainly C-47
Dakotas with a few Beech Expeditors included. Consequently, the Harpoons
disappeared rather rapidly, so much so that some aircraft were still being flown
with their original U.S. Navy markings. The Transport Conversion Squadron was an
idea of (the late) Group Captain Lewis Leigh who was in charge of transport
squadrons in the RCAF at the time. Little did I realize that I would become very
good friends with "Lewie" some years later. This transition proved to
be real windfall for the airman on "the Ridge" because a flight was
organized each Friday night to fly to Montreal, Ottawa and Toronto, returning
via the same cities on Sunday night. Thus we at last had means of getting as far
as Toronto on a 48 hour pass.
Shortly after the C-47 Dakotas began to appear on the base, I was transferred to
the Modifications Section under the aforementioned notorious Sergeant Nass, a
man whose Service career must have dated back to the creation of the RCAF!
Sergeant Nass was not too popular because most "erks" were afraid of
him but I got along quite well with him. There seemed to be nothing that he
didn't know about an airplane - indeed. I sometimes wondered if it was really
Nass who had invented them! I was the only fitter in the section because there
were very few modifications to be made on the aircraft engines. Most of them
fell into the airframe category so there were about three airframe mechanics or
riggers as they were called and, I believe, a wireless technician. I still had
to keep busy, though, so I frequently helped the riggers when they needed an
extra pair of hands. One day, Albert Langois found himself in just such a
situation so I went along to help. Our job was to install a map case in a Dakota
and our orders were to install it on the bulkhead behind the captain's seat. It
merely involved drilling holes in the bulkhead and attaching the map case with
bolts - a fifteen minute job. I held the map case in place while Albert drilled
the holes. Suddenly came a spew of profanity, half English, half French and I
found myself standing in a puddle of alcohol. We had just proceeded to put the
map case exactly where we were told to but whoever thought up this clever little
idea had failed to realize that there was a de-icer tank on the other side of
the bulkhead. As I said, Sergeant Nass knew all the tricks for we never heard a
word about that caper.
We seldom saw the sergeant. He lived off base in married quarters and would come
into the section late at night, leave written instructions for us and then go
home. Sometimes we wouldn't see him for several days. That is what brought about
my next embarrassing situation. One morning, I found my instructions were to
install new exhaust manifold brackets on the engines of Dakota 654. I would find
the aircraft in hangar #2. First, I went to hangar 2 and found my aircraft. It
wasn't difficult because it was the only one in there. Then I returned to the
Mod. Section, gathered up my tools and the new brackets and departed again for
hangar #2.
By even to-day's standards, a Dakota is a fair size and, since it is a tail
dragger, the engines sit rather high in the air, maybe 10 or 12 feet. I brought
over a maintenance stand and proceeded to manhandle the cowling sections off and
that was not easy for one man to do. I found the exhaust manifold brackets to be
replaced but, to my dismay, they were secured by the engine mounting bolts. That
meant I had to get a mobile chain hoist, take the weight of the engine off the
bolts while I changed the brackets, then manhandle those damned cowlings on
again. And there were two engines on the beast so the job took me almost three
full days! I did the job, signed the L14 and that was that.
Next morning, Sergeant Nass made one of his rare appearances. In fact, he was
waiting specifically for me.
"Where in bloody Hell you been, Henry?"
"In hangar 2, Sergeant, replacing those manifold brackets on 654."
"For THREE bloody days?", he roared, frightening a mother bear and two
cubs a half mile away in the bush!
"I'll bloody have you on charge!"
"Well, Sergeant, it was a big job."
"For Christ sake, quit the sergeant crap. Who the Hell did you take with
you? I'll charge the lot of you!"
"No one.", I said weakly.
"NO ONE? You did it alone? Why in Hell didn't you take someone with
you?"
"You didn't tell me to, Sergeant."
"Oh, Christ,", he moaned, "Bugger off!"
I had done what no other man had ever done. I had rendered the indomitable
Sergeant Nass to a quivering and speechless state of humanity. Holding his head
and muttering, he turned and walked away. The next day was Friday and in came
Nass to hand out the week-end passes. When he approached and he handed one to
me, I said:
"There's a mistake, Sergeant. I'm not due for a pass until next
week-end."
"Well, I'm giving you another one. Where do you come from?"
"Toronto, Sergeant."
"That what's I thought. You're on 654 to-night. You fixed it, you'll fly in
it. You've earned the ride but you better bloody well be here Monday
morning."
"But the aircraft will be filled now. I'll never get on it."
"I'll see that you are."
He was as good as his word for my name was on the list. How he managed that,
I'll never know because I doubt if even officers below the rank of Wing
Commander could have pulled that one off. Beneath his rough exterior, he was
quite a guy. Even if he hated your guts, he'd lash out anyone who tried to
reprimand one of his "boys", as he called us and God help anyone in
his line of fire! I guess we were mere boys to him.
Each morning, a small amount of gas had to be drained from the tanks of each
aircraft to ensure that any water formed by condensation was removed. This gas
would mysteriously disappear into five gallons cans that were discreetly lifted
over the fence and left in the weeds where those who were fortunate enough to
have an automobile (usually an officer) would find it. It was amazing the
favours the officers would do for us in return. The fact that it was 100 octane
aviation fuel didn't seem to bother anyone but there must have been an awful lot
of burned out valves around. Anyway, our generosity was often reciprocated by
the pilots who would take us along on a training or test flight. Needless to
say, few pilots ever dinged a wingtip and got into trouble over it! It worked
both ways.
On August 16 of 1944, a de Havilland Mosquito, KB297, came into Pennfield Ridge
and landed the hard way, wheels up. I was never sure of what caused the accident
although one version had it that an Expeditor had turned out on the runway in
front of it and there was simply no time to go around. The pilot got the gear up
and lifted one wingtip to avoid the Expeditor but lost speed and ended up on the
grass. Well, the aircraft had to be guarded until the salvage crew arrived and I
am not sure whether I volunteered or was "volunteered" but I drew the
midnight to seven shift. Another airman named Musika was allotted the five to twelve
shift and the sergeant in charge instructed us both that absolutely no one was
to be allowed anywhere near the aircraft without his permission. Obviously, he
assumed we were of normal intelligence or nearly so anyway. He then handed
Musika (whom we regarded as a bit of a loose cannon) a loaded rifle. Early in
the evening while it was still daylight, a load of brass hats arrived from
headquarters to survey this nasty situation. Accompanied by our station C.O. ,
they approached the aircraft and were challenged by Musika:
"HALT!"
"It's alright, lad.", said the C.O.
"HALT!"
"Airman. Put that gun down."
Then they heard the ominous "click" of the safety catch being released
and the entire entourage were frozen in their tracks. No amount of arguing would
persuade Musika to let them come any closer because, after all, his sergeant had
given him his orders and, officers or not, orders must be obeyed. Finally,
someone had to go all the way to the Sergeant's Mess and bring the sergeant out
to the wrecked aircraft to tell Musika to put down the rifle. Poor Musika! He
remained in the Air Force after the war and was with the crews that built the
Dew Line. Once, one of their airman got lost and was the subject of an intensive
search for several days. Yes, it was Musika!
By the time I took over at midnight, one of Pennfield's world famous pea soup
fogs had rolled in. At first, I walked around the aircraft to survey the damage,
then I stood guard for a while until I was damp and chilled right to my skin. I
reasoned that no idiot would come out in that fog to steal anything (aircraft
clocks were the usual target) so I climbed into the cockpit where it looked to
be more comfortable but the designer of the Mossie had failed to take into
account that an airman might have to spend the night in there in dense fog. It
was cramped, the seat was hard and it was still damp and cold in there. Even so,
I managed to doze off for a few moments until I awoke for no apparent reason yet
I sensed that something was amiss. I could hear something or someone moving
about in the darkness and fog or, at least, I thought I did. Unable to see
anything, I released the safety catch and shouted:
"HALT."
The noise stopped, then something rustled.
"Whoever you are, get the bloody Hell out of here."
I didn't know how much good that would do but it made me feel better. I might
have fired the gun in the air if necessary but I sure wasn't prepared to shoot
someone over a lousy pranged aircraft - especially one that was obviously a
write-off. Anyway, the noise stopped and I heard nothing more. It might have
been some person but wild animals, mostly bears and moose were known to wander
over the field quite frequently. If it had been a moose, I would probably have
been running still by the time I reached Halifax! A beer would probably be
startled enough to leave but a moose, an animal known to always be in bad humour,
would not likely let a mere human stand in his way. We had, in fact, been warned
never to tangle with one.
Later that summer, it was apparent that the war in Europe was winding down. Life
on "the Ridge" had reached a new low and I hated the place with a
passion. So much passion, in fact, that I had taken in completely by a notice on
the bulletin board requesting volunteers for a new Parachute Rescue Squadron
that was to be formed in Manitoba. Now, the Golden Rule in the military is
that you never, ever, ever volunteer. Well, I was desperate so I put my name
down. A few days later, I had occasion to go on a test flight in a Dakota which
was to the type used fro parachute rescue work. I looked out and realized that
Pennfield had suddenly taken on a entirely new appearance. It was a good place
to be - far better than up in a Dakota with a parachute on my back. I
conveniently overlooked the fact that I was, at that moment, wearing a parachute
harness and my clip-on 'chute was a mere three feet away. Anyway, I knew
beyond a doubt that I would never step out of a Dakota unless it was a dire
emergency! And I wasn't even sure about that! Fortunately, the war ended before
my name came up and, in fact, only one damn fool volunteer from Pennfield was
called. I often wonder what happened to him.
My most exciting experience at Pennfield took place on my last day there. I was
at home on my annual leave when the war in Europe ended. For the first time, I
did not mind going back to Pennfield Ridge because I knew I wouldn't be there
too much longer. Sure enough, the brass in Ottawa decided to empty the bases in
Eastern Canada to make way for those returning from overseas so lists of names
of those to be shipped back to Release Depots soon began to appear. It wasn't
long until I spotted my name on the list. My elation was short-lived, however,
because word filtered through that the officer commanding the "erks"
couldn't stand idly by and see his little empire crumble around him so he
persuaded the C.O. of the base that he could not spare any of his maintenance
staff. Now, I was in the Modifications Section by then but he suddenly
considered it to be part of maintenance.
I took no foolish chances. I headed out the barracks door at full speed and went
directly to Headquarters at the opposite end of the base, picked up my documents
and proceeded to make the rounds of the camp, getting cleared and signed out at
each department. In order to make speed, I "borrowed" a bicycle that
just happened to be outside Headquarters. By the time I arrived back at
Headquarters with my documents all signed , it was 4:30 p.m. The C.O. had been
signing these documents all day and was weary of them and I walked in with
another set. The W.D. took them into his office and I heard him groan.
"Not another one.", he muttered, "I thought Glennie cancelled all
the fitters on the maintenance list."
"He did, Sir."
"Well, this one appears to have slipped through. Modifications isn't really
maintenance is it?"
"No, Sir", she replied although she had no idea of whether or not it
was."
He sat there leafing through the documents until he finally said, "Oh what
the Hell." and he signed them.
Finally I was free and clear of "the Ridge"! Or was I?
I wasted no time in packing my gear and hiking out to the bus stop where there
was already a line of riggers who were cleared of the camp. The bus arrived and
the sergeant stood at the door, checking off the names. I was last and, of
course, my name wasn't on there because I was a fitter and no fitters were
going. However, I had gotten this far and was not about to stop.
"I don't see your name of here, lad.", said the sergeant.
"Oh, I was on yesterday's list of fitters but I missed the bus so I'm going
to-day.", I lied.
"Well, I don't know.", he pondered, "Oh Hell, the bloody war's
over so who the Hell cares. Get on the God-damn bus and keep quiet."
I made a quick trip to Saint John, checked my kit bags through to Toronto and
got on another SMT bus to go to St. Stephen. I crossed the border and went to
Calais to visit some friends there, then returned to Saint John the next day. I
had great satisfaction in waiting on the bus while it loaded passengers
at the Pennfield air base, knowing I did not have to return there.
I have never been back to New Brunswick but both my wife and brother-in-law have
been past Pennfield and reported that it was as desolate as ever. For the first
time, they were able to understand why I was so glad to leave it. My overall
impression is, however, that wartime restrictions prevented me from really
seeing the province. I understand that it really is a very nice part of Canada.
~Click for Larger Version~
Return
to Pennfield Ridge Air Station Newspaper Stories Page
Return to Pennfield Ridge Air Station Page
Return to Pennfield Home Page