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For me it was easy. In our barracks there was a 19-year-old pilot from Toronto whose name was Andrew McFarlane Harrison 'Drew' Gain. He had a terrific sense of humor and could do wonderful impersonations of Winston Churchill. Drew was a likable sort and when he asked me if I would consider being a member of his crew I was delighted. Drew said he was glad to have me because of my navigation training which to him was a bonus. Within the next few days we met others in the sergeants mess and settled on three Brits who seemed like good types. The navigator was Eric Antrobus, age 19 from Lancashire; Rex Caplin, age 21 from Harwich; Don Burge, age 18 from suburban London. I was 20 years of age which made us a very young crew to be operating one of his Majesty's expensive aircraft in the skies of Europe. We fitted in well together and it showed that the somewhat unscientific method of crew selection usually worked.

Our pilot, Drew, was learning to master the Wellington bomber and this required several weeks of instruction and practice before we flew together as a group. The rest of us had specialty training in our respective fields. The first time I was airborne in a Wellington was on November 23, 1942. I was one of several Bomb Aimers and Gunners who flew to Cardigan Bay on the Welsh coast for practice in air to sea firing. It was our first experience firing twin Brownings, from a power-operated gun turret, quite different from the single Vickers at Bombing and Gunnery school. We all got in a lick or two and it was fun as we sprayed the Irish sea with the stream of bullets.

On the return trip over the Welsh hills the weather closed in and we couldn't see a thing. So much of the time the weather was absolutely beastly and was a major factor in many of the prangs (crashes) in wartime Britain. We couldn't find Pershore in the murky skies and the pilot, who was an experienced instructor, found an opening and let down at the first airfield he could find. It turned out to be Gaydon which was a satellite base for another OTU in the Midlands. We stayed overnight since it was impossible to take off. In the Sergeant's Mess I was pleasantly surprised to see Stan Gaunt who was training there. I had been with Stan at Manning Depot, Guard Duty and I. T. S. I hadn't seen him in a year and we surely got caught up on the news. Stan hailed from Rhode Island and was a good friend of John Godfrey mentioned earlier. A number of the Americans had already transferred to the US Army Air Corps after graduation. Stan was still a Sgt. in the RCAF at Gaydon. He later posted to squadron in 6 Group and was awarded the coveted Distinguished Flying Medal early in his tour. When I last heard of him he was a Second Lieutenant in the US Army Air Corps and was continuing to fly with his Canadian squadron.

By now I had been at Pershore for several weeks and I must say I wasn't enjoying the place very much. It was cold, wet and foggy and our only source of warmth was the small stove in our hut that seemed to give off more smoke than heat. The Sergeant's Mess had a sort of lounge where we could read magazines and hear some of the NHL hockey games - they were pre-recorded. Best of all I was getting letters from home again and several parcels came all at once from friends and relatives. I remember in one of them was some maple sugar and I shared it with the English guys in my crew. I told them it came out of trees and one of them in disbelief said, "Oh you Canadians are always joshing." In another parcel was a box of chocolates from Dr. McDerment who was our family doctor in Port Hope. The parcel must have been salvaged from a torpedoed ship or something. The chocolates look great but tasted like kerosene. I asked mother to thank the good doctor but not to mention the petroleum flavor. His thoughtfulness was typical of the kindness and generosity of so many people all the time I was away.

It was now early December and Drew was ready to solo. It was Sunday and we're out at dispersal where the Wimpy was parked. Drew said, "Okay which of you guys want to ride in the rear turret while I see if I can fly this thing by myself?" Without blinking an eye I said I'd give it a whirl and away we went. I remember heading down the main East-West runway and we were approaching the lift off point when I sensed a rise in the runway, something like you find on some country roads. Drew held the nose down for another few seconds to gain more speed. Then he pulled back on the control column and in a flash I knew we were airborne. Our young pilot completed the circuit and came in for a perfect landing. In the following weeks Drew proved to be an excellent pilot and the entire crew had every confidence in his ability. Incidentally when Enid and I returned to Pershore in 1977, we drove down the same runway in our Ford Cortina, and felt the same rise as we scooted along. It seems that some things never change-at least not in 35 years.

From this point on we progressed quickly and after one cross-country flight with an instructor on board, we as a crew, were on our own. We flew a series of training flights around England and Wales and completed our assignment without any serious problems. I felt perfectly at home flying with Drew, Eric, Rex and Don and was looking forward to the days ahead.

At this point Drew got word that he had been awarded a commission. Our crew was granted a 48 hour leave for Drew to go to London to order his officer's uniform and other things he would need. The English guys went to their homes and I headed for London with Drew. It was my first opportunity to visit the big city - Drew had been there a couple of times. We arrived at Paddington station and took the underground to Leinster Gardens, a leave club for aircrew. I was straight off the farm and here I was in one of the great cities of the world. In the pre-war years, almost no one traveled to distant countries but here I was on an all expense trip to England.

Drew went to the renowned tailor Austin Reed in Oxford Street in the heart of London. You will note that I said in. For some reason the English say "in" rather than "on" when referring to a street. Drew got measured for his uniform, bought a flat hat and an officers greatcoat and trenchcoat. This partially outfitted him and his uniform would be delivered to Pershore later. We didn't have much time to visit the historic places other than walk around Trafalgar Square and Piccadilly Circus. We went to see a first-run movie The Road to Morocco starring Bob Hope, Bing Crosby and Dorothy Lamour. At the time I thought it was uproariously funny. In later years I saw all the 'Road' movies and they weren't all that great. One thing I remember about wartime London was the long queues outside the cinemas where the line stretched around the block. It was commonplace to wait two hours or more to get in to see a movie. Amateur entertainers, or buskers as they were called, took advantage of this captive audience and made an absolute fortune as they sang, juggled or played a musical instrument. The tips were generous, sometimes in the form of pound notes which had an exchange rate of $4.80, and allowing for inflation, would be equivalent to $50.00 today.

Drew and I returned to Pershore and Drew moved to officer's quarters. We resumed training in earnest and our only breather was at Christmas. Most of the British guys went home and the Canadians stayed on base. I found it a very lonely time although we were all in the same boat. It was the first time that most of us had ever been away from home at Christmas. Still we were the lucky ones when we realized that by 1942 it was already the fourth Christmas overseas for the First Division Canadian Army guys. Of collision a lot of the soldiers had British girlfriends or wives by then. Not many of our aircrew bunch were getting themselves involved - the future was so uncertain. One exception was my old friend Johnny Boivin on one of the courses ahead of me at Pershore. One day in the mess, a pretty WAAF waitress was pointed out to me and someone explained that she was Johnny Boivin's fiancé. That seemed okay to me until I learned that this young WAAF had already married two Canadians stationed at Pershore earlier. In both cases these unfortunate young airmen had got the chop and Johnny was all set to be her third husband. Whether they married I don't know for sure but Johnny Boivin's plane crashed a few weeks later in the Welsh hills, while based at a Bomber Conversion Unit in Yorkshire. All the crew died.

After Christmas we continued to flying as often as weather permitted. We celebrated New Year's Eve by starting out on a night training flight which was to terminate with some practice bombing at a range in near Pershore. One feature of night flying that bothered me was hearing the squeakers that created a high-pitched intermittent sound, warning that your aircraft is approaching or perhaps already inside a concentration of barrage balloons. This was a dicey situation due to the heavy cables suspended from the balloons and so designed that they could easily bring down a low flying enemy aircraft. By the same token they could be equally damaging to friendly Flyers. We didn't hear any squeakers this time, however the weather turned so bad we had to find our way back to base and cancel the practice bombing. By this time it was too late to do anything very exciting to welcome in the New Year. I didn't drink - the pubs were closed anyway by this time. One character in the neighboring hut did his bit by firing flares down the chimney.The multicolored cartridges fired from a Very pistol produced a pyrotechnic display and 1943 really did come in with a bang.

We completed another three cross-country flights and were gaining experience all the time. I had every confidence in Drew's ability and my only fear was the danger of a midair crash. Much of our flying was in and out of clouds and there were so many airbases in England that the potential for collision was very real. We were doing well as a crew and with only about two weeks left at OTU we were briefed for a Bullseye exercise on the night of January 15, 1943. A Bullseye exercise was designed to simulate operational conditions as closely as possible. For example we carried a full load of bombs even if they were sand filled, we flew as high as the tired old Wimpy could manage, and we were to be intercepted by friendly night fighters and searchlights along the way.All of this was pretty exciting and we thought we were big-time.

We took off just before 6 PM - darkness came early in January. The sky was clear with no moon and there was no snow on the disregard. The takeoff was uneventful and we were now getting used to the slight rise in the runway that gave the sense of premature liftoff as we hurtled across it. For the first hour the flight went smoothly as we flew a normal cross-country exercise from one turning point to another - it was still too early in the Bullseye flight to be confronted by friendly night fighters.

There was no warning of impending trouble, no explosion, not even more vibration than usual - the Wimpies assigned to the training units had been through the wars literlly and did some shaking to show their age. It was now about 7 PM and I was standing beside Drew looking around for other aircraft when I noticed a flame from the starboard engine. At first I thought it was a normal condition as part of the combustion process, but then realized that we had a fire on our hands. I pointed to the engine and Drew immediately shut it down and feathered the prop to reduce drag. At the same time he pressed the Gravenor switch which activated a fire extinguisher in the engine. The flames died down a little but within seconds flared up again with a vengeance and soon began to lick away at the fabric on the wing. Drew tried every trick that he knew including diving the aircraft to hopefully extinguish the flames. All this was to no avail and the fire in the engine and the wing area continued to spread.

At this time we were losing height rapidly and Drew gave the order to abandon aircraft. At the same time he called "May Day" which Is the international distress call. I buckled on my chute and went down to the escape hatch in the nose. The hatch cover came off easily and I sat on the ledge and dropped through. It is something you do without thinking about. I have no idea whether I counted three before pulling the ripcord but I could feel the jerk and the beautiful white canopy blossomed overhead. I was floating down about 2000 feet above terra firma. Almost immediately the aircraft plunged into a field of short distance from a small village.

I landed softly in a meadow near a hedgerow and heard a rustling on the other side. Although thinking it might be a farm animal, I called out anyway. What a relief to hear a London accent on the other side and to recognize the voice of Don Burge our rear gunner. Together we walked up the hill with our parachutes slung over our shoulders. As we reached the top of the hill, even in the blackout, we could see that the village consisted of only a few houses, one or two shops and of course a pub. We went inside where there was plenty of activity and lots of chatter. The locals in this quiet part of England were quite excited about the air crash which they heard just moments before. I was about to call the base to report the crash, when in walked Eric and Rex accompanied by the Home Guard. These were civilian reservists always on the lookout for downed German aircrew. We were not far from Coventry, and although the large scale air raids by the Luftwaffe were a thing of the past, there were still scattered attacks. When our aircraft was seen to crash, the Home Guard was taking no chances and out they rushed in case it was a Jerry kite that had gone in.

The villagers soon started plying the downed airmen with drinks. Of course I was too pure to partake of the demon rum - after all, I had signed the pledge at Welcome Sunday School. We were all relieved to be alive and our only concern was whether Drew had time to bail out. Our worst fears were soon realized when we learned that our pilot and good friend had in fact died in the flaming wreck. I call the base at Pershore and spoke with the officer in charge of operations. I will always remember the first question. "Was the aircraft damaged?" It was only later that he asked about the crew. Perhaps it was not intentional but it seemed that the decrepit old Wellington was a higher priority than the crew inside.

We learned that the little village where we landed was Orton-on-the-Hill on the Warwickshire border. The name didn't mean anything at the time, however on a trip to England in 1977, Enid and I were told by a villager that Handel often spent time at Orton-on-the-Hill where he was inspired to write some of his famous compositions.

After a couple of hours, a vehicle arrived from RAF Bramcote which was a base a few miles away. It was a makeshift ambulance into which Drew's charred body was placed. Some callous official suggested we could all ride the same vehicle but this was soon countermanded and a lorry appeared. We four survivors piled in and headed for Bramcote which turned out to be an OTU much like our own. The personnel were mostly Polish airmen training to bomb Germany which suited them just fine.

At Bramcote, quarters were found for us and a RAF Medical Officer came around to see us which was a nice touch. He asked how we felt and since no one had so much as a twisted ankle, he didn't get much business. He gave us some sleeping pills and suggested we take them. He was probably right since it was only now that we realize this business of flying can be downright dangerous. For some strange reason it hadn't quite registered that we had narrowly escaped with their lives and had lost a close friend in the space of a few seconds. Without knowing it we were likely in a mild state of shock.

As far as I can recall I slept fairly well and had no recollection of what we did the following morning. After lunch transport arrived from Pershore and we headed back to base. There were tarpaulin sides on the lorry, however as we passed through Coventry we could see the devastating results of the Luftwaffe attack some two years before. Further along we realize that we were in Stratford and my thoughts went back to Port Hope High School and Miss Hagerman my English teacher. She did her best to make Shakespeare interesting and here I was visiting the bard's hometown if ever so briefly

We arrived at Pershore around dusk and all of Drew's friends, especially the pilots crowded around to find out what happened to their 19-year-old friend. It was fresh in our minds so was no problem to recount the sad details. It was then that we learned there had been another fatal crash on the same night when a Wellington pranged on the edge of the Pershore airfield. The crew, from another course, was practicing circuits and landings and the pilot and two others were killed. The pilot F/S W. J. A. Duplin and a gunner Sgt. W. E crisis. Barr were RCAF and the other fatality was RAF. The dual crashes set the stage for a large military funeral a few days later. Drew, a recently commissioned officer and the three NCOs were buried in the military section of the Pershore town cemetery. I didn't know at the time that Norm Snelgrove, a good friend from high school was already buried there after his fighter plane slammed into a nearby hill just three months earlier. Our crew was given four days leave and I went to London.

Upon returning we learned that our navigator Eric Antrobus had decided to pack it in - he was so shaken that he wanted out of aircrew. This took a lot of courage on his part since refusing to fly was a serious matter and the term "lack of moral fiber" or LMF carried demeaning overtones whenever an airmen grounded himself. I don't know what happened to Eric- he disappeared from the station one day without saying goodbye to any of the crew.He would lose his Sergeant's stripes for sure and I presume ended up in some ground trade. He was a nice chap and I hope he got along okay.

About this time I learned that early as a result of my bailout, I could apply for membership in the Caterpillar Club.

This was news to me and I visualized that there would be a building somewhere with a lounge, library, dining room, bar etc. where members could meet. I soon found that it was not that kind club. The Caterpillar Club is on paper only and is a massive registration of all those who have saved their lives by parachute. The organization is under the auspices of the Irving Air Chute Company. When an application for membership is received and verified a handsome laminated wallet size card is issued by Irving in the name of the applicant. The real prize is the gold Caterpillar pin with ruby eyes awarded to members and usually worn on the lapel. The pin is inscribed with the members name and is a point of instant recognition all over the world. I applied for and received my Caterpillar pin and it is still a valued possession to this very day.

When we were on leave there were more fatal crashes involving Pershore aircrews. From our own course Joe Cornfield and his crew (five in all) were killed on a night cross-country flight. At the time it was said that they flew over a prohibited area on the east coast of England and were shot down by one of our own night fighters. Postwar records simply show that the aircraft broke up in the air so I'm not sure what really happened. The gunner in that crew was a guy named Snyder from Kansas. I knew him well - he was in the bunk next to me on the Awatea on our way overseas. Ten others died when two Wellingtons collided in broad daylight over the bombing range. They were on the course behind us. Such loss of life was tragic, and we weren't anywhere near Germany yet.

The three of us remaining of our original crew of five, flew some cross-country flights with training instructor pilots. After a week or so we were assigned another pilot Maxwell, an Englishman, who had joined the RCAF in Vancouver from the Merchant Marine. It never worked out. We did four night cross-country flights and he repeatedly said that he wanted to be transferred to daylight bombers. Apparently Max knew something the instructors hadn't picked up. His landings were terrible, however we graduated from OTU with him as our skipper. I had serious misgivings about his competence but there was nothing I could do. We also picked up another navigator to replace Eric Antrobus.

On February 10, 1943 our crew was posted to 427 Squadron, 6 Group, RCAF.