A Christmas Postscript

In 1944 I found myself in Canada at an air base at Kingston on the northern shore of Lake Ontario, near the point where the St Lawrence River meets the Thousand Islands as it runs into the Lake itself.

I was there in pursuit of every young man’s dream, to one day fly a Spitfire or in my case, the naval equivalent, the Seafire. The course had been exciting and demanding and by the end of the year we could begin  to look forward to reaching the final stages and the much coveted wings.

The aircraft we were flying was the Harvard, a 550 hp advanced trainer capable of aerobatics and spins, and we spent hours alone at a safe height throwing the aircraft about as we learnt to master the beast. What better toy could be given to a 19 year old in the best of health and just raring to go.

Photographs at that time were not easy to obtain, apart from the occasional official shots of airfield, crashes etc.Before the advent of digital cameras, photography was a more complicated art and not many of us were equipped. I’m therefore obliged to the anonymous photographers who dispensed copies for despatch back to the UK  to grateful parents. (Incidently most of the photos can be enlarged by simply clicking or double clicking on the pic.)

The airfield at Kingston, Ontario

Another Harvard getting close up and friendly

Aviator on duty                                                                And off duty

I loved Canada.There seemed to be an added dimension to freedom – less formality and less deference. Rules were kept to a minimum and anything seemed possible. An amusing example of how  problems could be solved without fuss concerned the Coca cola machine in one of the hangars which dispensed bottles at 5 cents a bottle until the price went up to 6 cents whereon they simply made every 6th bottle an empty one!

I was surprised at how many Canadian men were absent from home, serving overseas in the British armed forces. The group I was in had 2 young Canadians who had found their way to England to join the Royal Navy. It was salutary to realise the vastness of the country when it transpired that one of them was further from his home than we Brits were.

Dancing at the base. This is a summer time shot with most fellows wearing  tropical gear.

So everything was going well – the days were exciting and the hospitality and the weather were just fine.

Then I met a girl. Not just any girl – there’d been no shortage of partners at the base dances – but someone I was keen to meet off-base.Her name was Connie and she was in the Canadian army. We met quite casually at a snack bar. It was the kind of place  where soft drinks and hsmburgers were dispensed.( Ontario was a dry state and the sale of alcohol was strictly controlled – there were no pubs.) Seating was arranged with tables set in alcoves, each with its own juke box terminal. When my fellow apprentice air ace and I arrived all tables were occupied except for one which contained 2 young khaki clad girls who readily agreed to our joining them.I forget what was being played on the juke box but it was probably Bing Crosby “accentuating the positive” and we were happy to follow his advice.

Canada  in winter is a delight. The snow,refreshed at regular intervals, the cold dry air and sunlit days. The young people knew how to make the most of it . Someone spent a couple of days (and nights?) plying a hosepipe on the tennis courts to create an ice rink where Connie and other Canadians could show off their skills while I wallowed about like a beached whale.

One magical evening found us on a horse-drawn sleigh – complete with jingle bells. It was a brilliant moonlit evening . The sleigh was a flat cartlike structure on skis and it set off over the countryside at a leisurely pace.. We were well wrapped up against the cold but youthful exuberance led us to leap into passing snowdrifts and then run to scramble aboard the slow moving sleigh. There must have been at least a dozen of us in pairs and as time went on most of us felt the need to keep close together – for warmth.    Eventually the sleigh ride ended at someone’s house – I know not whose – where coffee and hot sausages were freely dispensed by the hosts.

On another occasion Connie led me to the cinema at the barracks. All was in darkness and she led me by the hand to some seats which turned out to be centrally situated, near the front. At the end of the film the lights went up to reveal a sea of khaki dressed women and one solitary guy in navy uniform. The cries and catcalls that arose would have done credit to a naval barracks had the situation been reversed. I’ve long since forgotten the film we saw, but the memory of the finale lingers on together with Connie’s great amusement.

Although this is a Christmas memorial, we did not share Christmas Day. She had home leave and I went to Montreal with a fellow aviator,to enjoy the bright lights and the hospitality of a generous lady who insisted on paying for our meal. Her husband was serving in the Canadian army  and I wondered how he was faring in war-torn England.

Soon after Christmas Connie and I resumed our meetings and it was great to relax in congenial company. We were happy to stroll by the lakeside on the dark winter evenings and seemed to have a lot of talking to do – and while there was some hand holding and kissing,Rothbury was not on the agenda.

Some weeks later it transpired that Connie’s unit was due to embark for England. This seemed an odd posting since it was clear that the war was nearing the end but there it was, the date and time of departure were announced. We said our goodbyes and I gave Connie my parent’s address in case she found herself in the north of England.

At this stage in our flying training we spent most of the time flying solo and we were expected to simply book out an aircraft and put in the  hours preparing for the final tests. This made it a simple matter for me to be airborn at the appointed hour on the day of Connie’s departure, heading for Kingston railway station.

Circling at 1000 feet, the lowest permitted, I was able to see the army lorries disgorging the army girls who made their way to the waiting train. To my delight, one of the girls stood apart from the crowd and waved vigorously skywards before boarding the train. I waggled the wings and departed to do what I was supposed to do. And that was the last I saw of the delightful Connie – but not the end of the story.

Although I had no way of contacting her, she had my home address and at the Christmas  following my demob, a card arrived with a USA postmark with Christmas Greetings from “Connie and Bud”.  The following year another Christmas card arrive from “Connie,Bud and junior”

Two more Christmases announced the arrival of further additions to the family, and that really was the end of the story.

I wonder what became of the “Connie and Bud” family and where are they now?

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