Echoes and Whispers - Part I

"Contact!"

Chris, both hands folded around the trailing edge of the down-going blade, rocks back on his heels and drives the propeller downward - his momentum carrying him away.

The Lycoming coughs once and then catches. The propeller blades instantly disappear into a silver whirl reflecting the flat, early morning light sweeping across the field.

Chris gives me a grin and a thumbs up before walking over to the Champ, hand starting it and then climbing into the front seat.  My friend Bojan is in the back seat.  He's backlit and so appears only in silhouette - but I can tell he's smiling.

Hand-propping the Smith has been an increasingly regular occurrence.  The 50-year-old Remy-Delco starter has taken ill of late and can no longer reliably spin the prop with enough force to start the engine.  On this morning however, given the chill of the air and a period of relative inactivity, we've incorrectly diagnosed the issue as a low battery.  In the end, it's of no great consequence.  Fox-Alpha-Mike did not have a starter - so my Dad hand-propped it for every flight.  Al told me he put a starter in Delta-Sierra-Alpha because he was "lazy".  Given my lack of interest and education in the finer points of hand swinging a propeller, I'm thankful for Al's sloth.

I'm very excited about today's flight.  It's the Club's 3rd annual "Grass Roots Tour" - where a small group of airplanes visit three grass fields in the area.  I missed the tour last season and, despite flying an airplane best suited to grass fields, have never landed it on anything but pavement.

The planned flight route for the September 25th Grass Roots Tour.  (Photo courtesy: Skyvector.com)

The planned flight route calls for stops in Pendleton, Lancaster Airpark and Embrun before returning to Rockcliffe.  Legs are between 20 and 40 miles forming an almost perfect quadrilateral or "kite" shape across the land between Ottawa and Montreal to the east.  Four aircraft carrying ten people will make the trip: myself in the Smith, two in the Champ, two in a privately owned Cessna 150 and three more in one of the Club's Cessna 172s.  The Smith and Champ will fly the trip in formation, alternating lead and wing positions. I will, however, forego the landing in Embrun - simply overflying the field and continuing on to Rockcliffe.  The runway at Embrun is but 50 feet wide, hemmed in by power lines and there is also stiff direct crosswind forecast for later in the day.  While I am quite comfortable with the Smith, in this case, I've taken to heart the old adage of "discretion is the better part of valour."

Smith C-GDSA warming up on the tarmac at Rockcliffe (top) and together with Champ C-FILL (bottom). The photograph at top gives you a clear idea of the lack of forward visibility in the three-point attitude.  (Photos Courtesy: Ernie Szelepcsenyi)

The Cessnas depart first - the 150 followed by the 172.  Chris and I had briefed a take-off in trail, followed by a formation fly-past before departing for Pendleton.  We taxi onto the runway together and Chris takes off first. 

The Lycoming waits patiently at 1000 RPM as the windsock is already beginning to swirl.  While the northwesterly wind will present only a slight crosswind from the Smith's right broad, the impatience of the ten feet of brightly dyed nylon foretells a strengthening wind. 

The corners of the chart tucked under my left thigh tremble in the wind.  Folded inside are photocopies of each airport and my notes.  In any case, I've committed runways, frequencies and procedures, at least for Pendleton, to memory.  Reading charts and notes in an single-seat, open-cockpit, high-maintenance biplane like the Smith is difficult bordering on dangerous.

Now, where is the Champ?  Surely, they must have taken off by now.  I scan the sky ahead just in case I've missed them - but no. Part of the Champ's charm is it is never in a hurry. Its plodding pace is an integral part of its constitution.

I occupy myself with simple tasks - a final scan of the instruments, a jockey of the rudder pedals, exploring the limits of control with the stick.  Finally, I see the Champ slide into view above the Smith's long cowling. 

We bound ahead, reaching 75 miles per hour relatively quickly.  In our first season, I discovered we could run at full power on the main wheels as long as the runway ahead permitted without edging much past 75.  A deft movement of the right wrist and the wheels free themselves from the bounds of the earth.  And so, our open defiance of gravity begins anew.

The Smith joining up on the Champ. Although it's dark, you can see the end of Rockcliffe's runway 27 at top left. (Photo Courtesy: Bojan Arambasic)

The wind has kicked up small waves on the surface of the Ottawa River - little mounds that now bounce off each shore and crash into one another.  This, coupled with the effect of a low-slung, early morning sun, has created something of a kaleidoscope of black, white, silver and grey.  It is against this shimmering canvas that, from the Champ's rear seat, Bojan watches me approach - a shadowy mass against a field of diamonds. 

By mid-downwind, abeam the field to the north, I am tucked in as number two on the Champ's right wing for our formation fly-past.  Two turns and not quite sixty second later, we sweep over the eastern perimeter fence and across the old field at Rockcliffe.
It is the last bastion of undeveloped land in Canada's capital city - and its once substantial footprint is, even now, dwindling.  Lost behind the roar of our engines and masked by my concentration on the lead ship, are the sights and sounds of change and repurposing.  Lorries and heavy construction equipment shuttle back and forth just outside the airport's boundary - digging a drainage system for the new development atop the stony bluffs from which the airfield takes its name.  Years ago, the airport was bordered to the south by homes for the men and women stationed there as well as a school, theatre, recreation centre, ball diamonds and a general store.  Now, only stone walkways and heritage oaks remain.  

Its very being is somewhat secured by the presence of the Canada Aviation and Space Museum as the facility requires the airstrip to accept new additions to the national collection.  Still, despite having no military function for decades, its fight is far from over.  The airport was threatened by talk of another interprovincial bridge in the 2000s.  It will inevitably find itself in the public's crosshairs once its new neighbours to the south realize an airport's actual purpose.

Holding the Number Two position on the Champ as we're about to cross the perimeter fence.  Note the construction activity in the background.  (Photo Courtesy: Bojan Arambasic)

As I've related many times before, this old airport has a soul.  As our little two-ship races across the old lady's aging face, I can't help but wonder if she finds our display amusing.  After all, her window panes were once rattled by the Merlins of the Lancaster and the Wright Cyclones of the Flying Fortress.  In those days, fly-pasts would stop conversations cold - if only because the participants could not hear each other well enough to continue.  Now, only a few would stop to watch - and most out of annoyance.  Even at an airport, I'm sure there are a handful of poor souls who remain unmoved by our passing.

Two shots of the formation fly past with the Champ leading and the Smith as No.2.  (Photos Courtesy: Ernie Szelepcsenyi)

We leave home behind and I assume the lead position for the flight to Pendleton. My notes call for a course of 100 degrees for 23 miles but the chart remains stowed under my thigh.  I don't bother looking at the compass.  Its presence is but a regulatory requirement.  In practice, it provides little more than added weight and comic relief.  Upon climbing to our agreed upon altitude of 1700', I point our nose to where I know Pendleton, as of yet still unseen, must be.


Leading the formation towards Pendleton.  We're almost past Orleans and the Gatineau Airport is just out of frame to the left.  Note the almost three point attitude of the Smith .  In normal cruise, the airplane sits in more of a tail up stance.  However, I've slowed down here in order to not over tax the Champ which flies at a slower speed.  (Photo Courtesy: Bojan Arambasic)

The Champ is holding close formation on my right wing - even Chris' small movements are barely perceptible from my danger close vantage point.  Bojan is still grinning.  He gives me a wave.  Even across the chasm between our machines, his enthusiasm is infectious.

It's a pleasant day with clear skies and terrific visibility.  To the south, the patchwork of fields and forest stretch to the horizon.  To the north, the river meanders east while the land rises gently in an endless green sea of undulating hills.  We are floating in an immense, empty sky and our emotions are chiefly tranquility and peace.

One of my favourite photographs from the BCATP era.  Here, an RCAF airman in tropical dress checks himself in the Rockcliffe exit gate mirror.  As an air cadet almost 60 years later, I would be drilled in the very same points of uniform wear and maintenance. (Photo Courtesy: RCAF)

The last time the world was locked in large-scale bloody conflict, these same skies were home to the same tranquility and peace we enjoy now - which made them ideally suited for flight training.  In Canada, far from the dangers of wartime skies, the military machine could churn out thousands of aircrew for service.  Between 1940 and 1945, more than 130,000 pilots, navigators, observers and wireless operator/gunners were trained in Canada alone through the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan (BCATP).  The governments of the United States, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa and Southern Rhodesia ran similar training schemes in tandem. 

The land around us was once dotted with BCATP fields and you'd be hard pressed to find a pilot (or any Canadian for that matter) who hasn't flown into a former Plan airport.  In fact, Rockcliffe itself was home to No. 7 Manning Deport where RCAF personnel, mainly Women's Division recruits, were drilled in military basics.  RCAF Station Uplands, now the Macdonald-Cartier Ottawa International Airport, was once home to No. 2 Service Flying Training School (SFTS) operating the Harvard and Yale.  In the midst of a war, they even found time to shoot a movie: Captain of the Clouds starring James Cagney with a cameo by Billy Bishop.  Service Flying Training Schools were typically served by two nearby relief fields.  These smaller airports came in a wide variety as some were paved, others simply turf and some also featured hangars, maintenance facilities and barracks.  The role of these airports was to provide alternate landing areas in case of maintenance, weather, overflow or emergency.  In the case of No. 2 SFTS, famous for turning out High Flight poet John Gillespie McGee, these airports were Carp to the north (which still exists) and Edwards to the south (which is now a solar farm).

Carp in 1944.  (Photo Courtesy: Library and Archives Canada)

RCAF Station Arnprior which, during the war, hosted one of the BCATP's three flying instructor schools. (Photo Courtesy: BCATP Museum)

To Carp's north was Arnprior, still in service today as a major general aviation field, which hosted No. 3 Flight Instructor School.

No. 10 EFTS at Pendleton, Ontario during the war.  (Photo Courtesy: BCATP Museum) 

Pendleton, our immediate destination, was first built in the late 1930s as part of a network of emergency landing fields for Trans-Canada Air Lines (TCA), Air Canada's predecessor.  It was little more than a leveled field with a lit beacon flashing a Morse code identifier to mark its location at night.  When war erupted, the site was selected and developed for use as a BCATP field - welcoming its first trainees in September of 1942.  RCAF Station Pendleton was home to No. 10 Elementary Flying Training School (EFTS) where recruits selected for pilot training cut their teeth on the de Havilland Tiger Moth and Fleet Finch.  Its relief field at Limoges is now a private grass strip where I had, at one point, considered basing the Smith.  Roughly 30 miles east of Pendleton was the airfield at St-Eugene, home to No. 13 EFTS operating the Fleet Finch.  That airport is gone now with only the faint outline of its overgrown runways and an old road still visible from the air. 

No. 13 EFTS during the war.  (Photo Courtesy: Flight Ontario)

 

The former site of No. 13 EFTS - about two miles south of the town of St. Eugene.  The school operated the Fleet Finch from October 1940 to June 1945.  You can plainly see the triangular runway arrangement characteristic of BCATP fields. (Photo Courtesy: Google Maps)

My own connection to the BCATP runs deep.  Over three days in September 2005, I learned to fly gliders at Mountain View (No. 6 Bombing and Gunnery School) and Picton (No. 31 Bombing and Gunnery School).  The old Royal Air Force base at Picton, in particular, has changed very little since its BCATP days with most of the H-hut barracks, hangars and support buildings remaining in use as storage space.  At Mountain View, you can still see the pockmarks of bullet strikes on the huge concrete walls that once served as targets to sight aerial weaponry. 

At top, Picton (No. 31 B&G) and at bottom, Mountain View (No. 6 B&G) during the war.  Picton has remained largely unchanged while Mountain View is hardly recognizable.  (Photo Courtesy: BCATP Museum)

In the many summers spent working with my Dad, we flew out of the former BCATP fields at Dunnville  (No. 6 SFTS - Harvard and Yale), Welland (Dunnville's relief field) St. Catharines (No. 9 EFTS - Moth) and Oshawa (No. 20 EFTS - Moth).  Just before the Club acquired our Super Decathlon in 2009, I flew out to Boundary Bay, British Columbia to get reacquainted with the type.  Boundary Bay was home to two BCATP schools, No. 18 EFTS on the Tiger Moth and No. 3 Operational Training Unit - the last stop before overseas assignment for B-24 Liberator and B-25 Mitchell crews.



BCATP fields at St. Catharines (top), Oshawa (middle) and Boundary Bay (bottom).  (Photos courtesy: BCATP Museum & RCAF)

The Plan drew heavily upon the civilian population - employing thousands in support jobs.  In the post Depression years, the construction and operation of 80 new airfields meant an instant economic shot in the arm for small towns neighbouring these facilities.  It was a monumental effort - a tremendous mobilization of man and machine, ingenuity and innovation that raged for nearly five years.  It cannot be denied that the Plan played a significant role in the Allied victory.  And yet, many Canadians don't know of its existence let alone its importance.  If a BCATP field survived the post-war dismantling, any sign of its former role would be forgotten or slowly erased altogether in line with present and projected needs.  At Uplands, for example, thousands of passengers a day pass a plaque detailing its wartime function and importance.  Few stop to read it. 

August 23, 2005, Picton, Ontario.  At top, my 21-year-old 2nd Lieutenant self about to close the canopy of Schweizer SGS-233A C-FCIV for my first glider solo.  At bottom, landing on the grass next to runway 35 after an 11 minute flight on a 2500' tow. (Author's Collection)

Today and in these parts, we can navigate in the purest form - watching the landscape below unfold and knowing where we are with wonderful precision, even without the aid of a chart.  We've only just said goodbye to Gatineau over the radio.  The riverside village of Cumberland lies over our left shoulder.  Ahead and stretching to the south-east are two rather large forests flanking a swath of farmers' fields.  Without looking at my chart, I know that the larger town on the south shore of the Ottawa River is Rockland and the smaller towns at the northern and southern extremities of the near forest are Clarence Creek and Bourget.  The field at Pendleton is on a heading roughly between the two towns on the westernmost border of the far wood - two miles north of its namesake town (really more of a crossroads).  On a clear day such as this, it first appears as a triangular patch of green much lighter than that of the surrounding forest. 

I glance over at the Champ and wave my hand.

"See it?" I call over the radio, pointing forward with my gloved hand. 

"Yep," comes the reply. 

"Okay, we'll stay as a two ship until two miles out, then break off and join the circuit separately," I say.  "Switch to Pendleton Traffic on one-two-three-point-three."

"Two," comes the acknowledgement from Chris.



Another look at Pendleton in 1942 (top) and today (bottom).  We landed on the grass parallel to the northernmost runway, nearest the hangars. (Photos Courtesy: BCATP Museum and Gatineau Gliding Club)

"Glider Ground" at Pendleton comes in faintly and I strain, cupping one hand to my ear and cowering behind the windshield, in an effort to hear and understand.  After a few attempts, it's clear that they're using the east-west runway.  In order to not conflict, I offer to take Runway 31 which points directly into the north-west wind.

The Citabria tow plane pulls a glider up away from Pendleton. (Photo Courtesy: Bojan Arambasic)

I fly my downwind leg tight to the runway.  Under my right main, a Citabria tow plane has just broken ground.  At the end of a long line is the elegant form of a glider - long, slender wings turned gently upwards at the tips, canopy glinting in the sun.  The tow plane will labour for the next ten minutes or so, dragging its charge to altitude where they will part ways at the top of a graceful curve. And while the Citabria pilot will aggressively return his ship to earth and another waiting glider, the sailplane pilot will linger aloft, searching for invisible columns of air to carry him higher and higher still with only the whisper of the wind as company.

A long, deep sigh - almost mournful.  Nearly ten long years have passed since the last time I piloted a glider.  And yet, I can still hear the wind as if it were yesterday.  I've not forgotten the intoxicating feeling of buoyancy as unseen hands carry you aloft.

An admonishing growl from the Lycoming - a call for mental discipline, a warning to not allow the mind to wander.  I sweep into a left hand turn, still tight to the field and rapidly shedding altitude in the biplane's classic circling approach.  I roll out as we cross the perimeter road and, vaguely aware of the gaggle of bystanders watching, set up for my first grass landing in the Smith.

We hover over the grass, dry in spots, tinged with dandelions and buttercups in others.  Corn stalks, stark yellow against so much green, whip by on our left as crumbling pavement provides vivid contrast on our right.  The little ship drops the last few inches onto the turf.  The wheels respond with a soft rumbling sound as I feel the biplane fishtail gently, sliding ever so softly from side to side. She rolls out straight ahead and with hardly any brake, slows to a walking pace.

We've just passed 100 hours, the Smith and I, and marked the milestone with another first - appropriately, on the same ground where hundreds of aviators had their first taste of flight's magic and freedom.

The Smith and I at Pendleton after breaking 100 hours and our first landing on grass.  (Author's Collection)