1956 "The Wild Blue Yonder Beckoned"





With the war barely ten years over and my head filled with the exploits of airmen of that war, I very much wanted to be a pilot. Most of all I wanted to be a fighter pilot. I'd read "Reach for the Sky" and "The Last Enemy" and "The Dam Busters" and all the rest.

With 'the dream', a strong urge to get away from home and armed with just enough education I applied, was summoned and went. I wasn't alone of course and became a member of a group of perhaps eight young dreamers.

R.A.F. Hornchurch was the Aircrew Selection centre. In Essex, north of the River Thames, it had appropriately been a fighter base during the Battle of Britain.

The selection (or rejection) process took three days I think. I have a feeling that the methods of then were probably much as they'd been at the end of WW2. No doubt the methods of "today" are very hi-tech and, by comparison, my 'aircrew selection' experience was pretty basic stuff.

The medical was, as might be expected, pretty rigorous, and I draw comfort from the fact that I passed. We knew we'd passed that because they didn't send us home.

Similarly I passed the mental aptitude tests. Lots of hand/eye coordination stuff. I only remember fragments from these few days:

A hangar full of obstacle courses where we were presumably tested for our leadership skills. For instance, two huge concrete blocks with a supposed bottomless chasm between and the only means of crossing: two planks, both too short to span the gap and a length of rope. We were supposed to get ouselves across. Much chaos I do remember, much shouting and much plunging into bottomless chasms.

There were interviews where our backgrounds were probed. We had to give a talk on a subject of our choice. So it went, discussions such as: "A baby, an aged composer and a young woman trapped in a burning building. If we could save one ... which." And our examiners would argue that with us and of course there's no right answer.

When this was all over we went home and no doubt waited with great nervousness.

Finally, a letter: "We regret etc. etc. etc." The leter then suggested that I try for a 'trade' in the R.A.F. As history records I did just that, thereby sealing my life's future course.

Why did I fail? Three reasons I suspect (they didn't tell us, merely said we were not suitable);

1. Immaturity ... well at seventeen and a half, what do you expect?

2. Poverty ... an R.A.F. officer's life was an expensive one and 'independant means' were pretty much a pre-requisite. My step-father was an out of work violinist and my mother was selling saucepans in a department store so .....

3. Culture or rather, lack thereof. With my south London accent and the slang and language that went with it I doubt I was seen as a future asset in the circles of the commissioned ranks. The rest of our little group even called me "the Southend cockney"( bcause of where I lived and how I spoke!).

Sadly, I just didn't belong with the 'brave and lucky few'.

Sometimes I see myself as a victim of the British Class system. Sometimes I see it as a lucky escape. Who knows?

As an interesting footnote, while I was at squarebashing (boot camp) a mere six months later, I was brought before my squadron commanding officer and asked if I'd considered applying for a commission. Apparantly some keen eye had looked at my records and I'd been singled out as POM: Potential Officer Material.

Still smarting no doubt, from the aircrew rejection, and now perhaps feeling I was "one of the lads" I declined. So turns fate's wheel. We forge or break our own shackles.

1986+/- "You Need a Rest"



The details are vague now but this is roughly how it went .......


Our medical clinic in Shubenacadie had lost two doctors, one to death and one to retirement.

A replacement appeared, a young American. It was he that I visited one day, for some problem or other. In the course of our conversation I mentioned the various tensions at work, worst the endless 'being moved onto midnight shift,' and my chronic insomnia.

He must have taken me seriously because he recommended, and made, an appointment for me with a phychiatrist.

In due course I visited this gentleman. A perfect example of what people imagine when the word phychiatrist is mentioned. Hungarian I think with the required heavy accent and a couch and a rumpled carpet in an untidy office. He was getting on in years and was so very easy to talk with. He asked many questions and I responded.


"Any history of suicide in your family?" was one question I remember. In fact there was at least one suicide long ago.

After two or three (?) visits he amazed me by giving me a note for ten weeks of medical leave.


Ten weeks away from Air Canada's Halifax Maintenance Facility! Unbelievable! My joy was a measure of how grinding was the job at that place.


I duly drove to the hangar and presented the slip to my supervisor. His annoyance and near disbelief seemed to match my euphoria. ..................... Home I went.

Faced with this incredible and totally unexpected 'holiday' my thoughts turned, naturally enough, to a trip away from it all, a trip to England and my new found interest - preserved railways.

Tucked away, somewhere in a corner of my mind, was the knowledge that "free" travel on Air Canada, during illness, required permission from the company. So I drove again to 'work' and sought that permission from the same boss.

His anger was quite impressive. Here was one of his mechanics, who had already wangled ten weeks off for what he doubtlessly considered spurious reasons, seeking permission to fly off on a long, paid holiday!

*** Given the laws of libel and slander and the fact this blog is in many ways publicly accessable, I'm obliged to name no names. The maintenance staff at Halifax numbered about 40. An unhappy group. The most unhappy workplace I ever had the misfortune to endure. A story to be told later I suppose. ***

"If you're fit to fly, you're fit to work!" he exclaimed.

No doubt I dug my heels in and the conversation moved into 'hot and heavy.'

He played his trump card: "You'll have to see the company doctor."

What did I have to lose? I said, 'Fine.'

An appointment was duly made and I suppose a day or two elapsed before I drove into Halifax to see the said doctor.

In fact, Air Canada didn't have a company doctor per se; they used the Canadian National Railway's doctor.

The scene: an office above Halifax railway station.

The interview: He asked who I was and what my problem was. I explained the ten weeks off, courtesy the phychiatrist, the 'gettaway trip', my boss's reaction etc.

"Who's your boss?"

I told him.

"Oh him, that man's an idiot!"

I walked out with the required doctor's note and returned to my boss.

I took my trip and enjoyed the balance of my ten week's sick leave and perhaps regained/retained my sanity.

Yes it was a minor triumph of good over evil. But I think perhaps it shows that work at our little corner of Air Canada really was as miserable as I claim. It shows too that uncaring management was largely to blame.

History now I guess. What a pity 'we' and our union showed so little backbone in those now far off days.

1956 to the present." Were They Mistakes?



Talking here about those turning points in life when you did, or didn't, choose the right path.
To take the left or the right fork in the road? Sometimes the decision was made for you in which case, really there was no choice.

It amazes me how little are the things which would have changed EVERYTHING. To have missed a bus, to have woken ten minutes late; any small difference and our whole future and that of many others could have been different. Ah yes, parallel universes. Have I lost you yet?.

I'm given to impetuous acts, as the following list might show. It's a list of things I chose to do (or not do) when there really was no pressure.

1. Volunteered for RAF aircrew in 1956 (they failed me!)
2. Volunteered for the RAF in 1956 (or the Army would have taken me for 2 yrs)
3. Applied for a fitter's course 1959 (near Blackpool - met Glennys)
4. Proposed to Glennys 1959 (she accepted)
5. Took no "precautions" 1960 (out popped Mitchell)
6. Volunteered for a posting to Singapore 1961 (off we went for 2.5 yrs)
7. "We" decided to get pregnant again 1965 (out popped Martin)
8. Chose not to "sign on for the bundle" during the 60's. (discharged from RAF 1965)
9. Chose Blackburn Aircraft as my new employer 1966 (became an aircraft inspector)
10 Emmigrated to Canada 1968 (joined Canadair)
11 Quit Canadair 1968 (joined Air Canada)
12 Wrote my license 1969 (joined the rat-race)
13 Applied for promotional move to Halifax 1974 (moved out of Quebec!)
14 Built a house in Shubenacadie 1979 (nothing pins you down like a house)
15 Ended an eighteen year rut by taking early retirement in 1993 (smartest move of my life)
16 Sold/threw/gave everything away and went back to England 1995 (it had to be-the cure)
17 Came home to Canada 1996 (England wasn't for me!)
18 Met a certain lady at Dartmouth Ferry Terminal (no regrets at all)

Eighteen turning points, eighteen times when "doing something different" would have literally changed the course of history for me and for others.

Each was prompted by circumstance and I doubt any was thought through, which says little good about my mental processes. But then .... if I'd thought any of them through I'd likely have done things differently and then? Well, as above everything subsequent would have been very different.

Each deserves an explanation perhaps, so I'll give it a try ............................