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Leaving A Contrail

Excerpt - Supporting the Royal tour of 1959 as a member of 412 VIP Squadron in Ottawa

Another memorable flight, but for a completely different reason, was one in support of the 1959 Royal Tour. Queen Elizabeth and the Duke of Edinborough were on an extended tour of Canada, including the Calgary Stampede. I was assigned to a Dakota support aircraft that pre-positioned part of the RCMP motorcycle escort team. In fact, two teams of two aircraft leapfrogged the Royal Flight, positioning the motorcycles and drivers prior to the Royal arrival, thus permitting the drivers to familiarize themselves with the Royal route and to be at the airport to provide the Royal escort. It was a month-long commitment and we became well acquainted with the assigned RCMP members.

The Calgary Stampede visit occurred towards the end of the tour agenda. We had pre-booked our accommodation and other requirements well in advance, and arrived two days before the Royal Flight. As crew, we had a couple of days to relax and see the sights. The RCMP escort team reviewed their routings and joined us at the hotel shortly before supper hour, bringing a supply of beer. We had already purchased our supply and all proceeded to get in the Stampede festive mood.

At mid-morning of the following day, we were joined by our bleary-eyed RCMP friends to head down for Stampede flapjacks and bacon. Since the time was past noon back in Ottawa, we considered it not inappropriate to have a red-eye as a pacifier before loading up on flapjacks. Well, one red-eye led to two and to three, and by the time we managed to get going, the pain had gone and the party was on again. A decision was finally made to head for the Stampede grounds and take in the horse races.

We arrived at the entrance in a pleasant and somewhat boisterous mood. The late morning crowd was streaming in, causing line-ups at the ticket windows. Next to the entrance was an amputee-busker playing his guitar and singing cowboy songs. Our senior RCMP member decided to join in, flopping down on the ground and singing in questionable key. We threw some coins into the busker's guitar case for the first few minutes, but the busker was not appreciative of the assistance our friend was trying to provide and attempted to discourage him with words. Our friend was not going to be easily dissuaded and, every time the busker became visibly annoyed, our friend would toss in a dollar bill and continue singing. This bought him an extra 15 minutes and would have bought more time except that we became impatient and convinced him to get up and check out the "ponies".

Excerpt - In Mali West Africa, flying our Minister of External Affairs on a French West African tour in 1975

After a couple of restful days at the hotel pool, we were on our way to Bamako in Mali, our last stop in Africa. As I recall, the city was quite austere, the capital of a poor landlocked country. The following day we were scheduled to depart for Las Palmas in the Canary Islands following a lunch that the crew was directed to attend. Normally, we would not have accepted as time was required to prepare for pre-flight activities such as flightplan filing and weather checks, but for some reason the minister's co-ordinator insisted, perhaps because it was the last official function in Africa. We therefore pre-filed and left one crew member at the airport to keep an eye on aircraft servicing and ensure the air conditioner was positioned and activated before the passengers showed up. The rest of us attended the luncheon, in civilian dress at the request of our co-ordinator.

I sat at the luncheon between two big, stoic officials with whom it was rather difficult to communicate. My mind was on the upcoming trip and I picked away at the main course, a stew-like concoction that did not look appealing nor taste appetising. Someone had remarked that it was meat from a monkey, stewed up with some mashed vegetables. I recall some sharp small bones, and was suffering through the course that my table hosts were devouring with a great deal of relish. Suddenly, one turned to me and asked what the pin on my lapel represented. I replied that it was a replica of my squadron crest and he immediately asked if I could let him have it as a souvenir. He was huge and ugly and there was no way I could quickly figure out how to gracefully refuse. So I did the cowardly thing, removed the pin, which I had paid good money for, and handed it to him. His expression of gratitude nearly ruined my day. He asked if I was enjoying the food, likely their national dish and again, the coward came out and I replied with a feeble, "yes". In his magnanimity, he immediately gestured for the waiter and had him heap my plate to overflowing with the monkey stew. My face must have turned green but I soldiered on, slowly shovelling the horrid stuff into my rebelling stomach. It was with great relief that I got out of that dining room and into the safety of the airport. But the lunch kept coming back on me for the duration of the six-hour flight to Las Palmas.

Excerpt - Visits to Pakistan and Israel in 1978 during a global tour while attending National Defence College

Whereas Islamabad was boring, one of the highlights of the entire course was a field trip to see the Khyber Pass, as guests of the Khyber Rifles. On the selected day, we were flown to Peshawar, gateway to the pass. As we boarded the waiting bus and were welcomed by the army tour guide, it was clear that the mood of the people was different from that in Islamabad. No bobbing heads here, all the men, and even the youths, had a rifle in hand and looked like they were not subservient to anyone. On our way out of town, the tour guide cautioned us not to take any photographs of women as we had now entered a region where tribal rule based on Islam prevailed, and Muslim laws do not allow photographing someone else's woman. Cameras down, except for scenery and donkeys.

Entering the pass, the road started climbing and became a ribbon of gravel hugging the mountainside with constant hairpin turns. I had chosen the shotgun seat and, on many occasions, was out in space over a deep valley as the corner of the bus protruded out during a turn. It was an awesome trip, about two hours each way, with a member of the Khyber Rifles regiment standing on ceremonial guard every couple of miles. The mountain sides were magnificent in their austereness, barren except for patches of what looked to be inedible shrubs. There was some sign of life in the valley, but limited to flocks of sheep and goats. Throughout the region, it was difficult to visualise that this land could support anything more than the little that we saw. The arrival at the Afghanistan border was a pleasant relief from the bumping and the turning of that mountain road and we were happy to debus and, amongst other things, to relieve our jostled kidneys.

After an interval of time for the guide's comments and for some photographs, the return trip began. Thankfully, there would be a second break shortly, a stop at the Khyber Rifles regiment officers' mess for refreshments and lunch. It was a unique privilege to be given the opportunity to visit this historic location. Located about 30 minutes from the border, it is an isolated army base with the camp followers' cluster of shops, homes and service establishments stretching along the road from the entrance for some two to three miles. Inside the camp was order and quiet and we were escorted directly to the officers mess for the lunch. The beer was wonderful, but the food was handled with care by most of us, relying on the familiar and safe-looking items on the table. The adventurous claimed they did try the sheep's eyeballs, softly sautéed in steaming goats' milk, I suppose. After an hour of small talk and sustenance, we continued our bus ride to Peshawar and on to Islamabad.

We spent the remaining days in Pakistan touring every conceivable facility, including an experimental farm surrounded by the abject poverty of the region When we bade Pakistan farewell, we did so without remorse, but with very vivid memories of the magnificent trip through the haunting and historic Khyber Pass.

I looked forward to the visit to Israel, a six-day stay in this historic and tortured land. Our headquarters would be Tel Aviv, but we would be in buses for a good part of the time. The day after our arrival, we were given a terrific tour of much of northern Israel, beginning with a visit to the Sea of Galilee, then up-country to the Golan Heights, a drive parallel to the ‘good fence" with Lebanon and a stop in Nazareth on the drive back to Tel Aviv. It turned into a long day, but with exceptional guides whose briefings made the history come to life and who knew all the facts and had all the answers. During the drive through the Golan, we picked up an extra guide, an army tank officer who had served with great distinction and who had lost a leg during the 1973 battle with Syria for the Golan Heights. His briefing was superb and we came away from the area with a better understanding of the problems underlying the unrest.

The stop in Nazareth was in response to a strong plea from the course members, one readily acceded to by the driver and guides. It was a moving experience to visit the town where Jesus lived, and to walk the streets and look at the surrounding scenery and contemplate His presence two millennia ago. We had arrived in the early twilight and left town after dark, as the lights came on and the townspeople were going about their evening routine. The field trip was memorable in itself; the icing was the evening stop in Nazareth.

Excerpt - Serving as a Canadian military attaché in Czechoslovakia in 1981

Incidents in work of this nature were not uncommon. Almost every Canadian attaché assigned to a country behind the Iron Curtain has a story or two to tell. I am no exception and in the line of duty in Czechoslovakia was manhandled, tear-gassed, and forcibly hosted in a Czech police station. This incident became a public diplomatic issue, with Margaret Thatcher, the British prime minister of the day, releasing some details of the incident to the press to show her displeasure with the Czech rulers. Her protest on behalf of the British air attaché, who was my travelling companion that day, far exceeded anything mounted by the Canadian authorities under the leadership of Pierre Trudeau, who had little use for Canada's military except for its value to him during his personal confrontation in Quebec during the Quebec Crisis. Canada had no intention to protest; however, the Thatcher release resulted in extensive coverage in Canadian news media, including CTV National news, with claims that a Canadian attaché was being detained in Czechoslovakia and might be declared persona non grata by the Czech authorities.

The Canadian External Affairs department scurried around to placate the Czechs, not wishing to disturb the relationship the Trudeau government maintained with the socialist states. My ambassador was not at all pleased with the lack of support extended to me and verbally encouraged me to even the score with the Czechs by being even more diligent at collecting information. He, however, had no advice on how to generate support from the Ottawa masters.

The political attitude was, "Do your job but don't rock our boat and if you do we shall not be happy with you". Unfortunately, many of the senior officers picked up on that attitude – do not do anything to embarrass our political masters. Yet many of those politicians were, and are, a far greater embarrassment to Canadians in their juvenile antics during Question Periods in Parliament and in other public venues. Whereas trained members of the military or police thrust into exceptionally complex circumstances need make only one perceived misjudgement to be crucified in public, satisfying the appetite of the voracious press to chew on raw meat, yet keeping the attention away from those who assign the people and the tasks. Our political masters understand loyalty as flowing only in one direction, bottom up.

The day of my incident started with my RAF colleague arriving at my front gate at 0600 on the 4^th of February, 1981. We had a fairly extensive day of travelling ahead of us and wasted no time in getting out of the city, heading south towards Ceske Budejovice, where, incidentally, a particularly fine beer comes from. Budvar is the origin of the Budweiser name in beer and the Czech variant continues to be much superior to the diluted, pasteurized version sold in North America. On this day, though, beer sampling was not on our agenda. We had reports of a new radar in the vicinity of Ceske Budejovice and were keen to determine the validity of the information.

The four-hour trip to the site was uneventful and only one policeman took note of us as we motored through one of the enroute towns. The weather was typical February in Czechoslovakia: grey skies, a degree or two above freezing with light winds. Good for travelling and good for camera work.

We arrived at our target prepared to be extremely cautious, knowing that security would be in position to discourage loitering and photography. Driving past it, we made our observations regarding the equipment and chanced a few photos for the experts to interpret. We did notice a ditch sentry was located in a camouflaged site beside the road, as well as normal observation towers at the radar installation manned by soldiers on the lookout for prying eyes. The drive along one side, then the other, of the installation took no more than five minutes, after which we drove out of town and turned down a trail into a wooded area where we parked out-of-sight of the road. After pouring a coffee, we discussed what we saw and dictated our findings into our respective tape recorders.

Within five minutes, we had an unexpected visitor. A black Lada came up the trail, stopped 10 feet in front of us and one of the two occupants jumped out and photographed the front and back of our car. The driver then backed the car to the edge of the woodlot and an occupant jumped out, flagged a passing van and drove off at high speed. We felt uncomfortably trapped, and perhaps even in some danger, so we decided to get out of the spot if there was room. Driving up to the Lada, my colleague veered at the last minute and had barely enough room between the trees and the Lada to make a rough exit. "Rough" because the ground was uneven and may have rocked the car sufficiently to make light contact with the Lada, although later we did not find any scrapes or dents on the British embassy vehicle.

On reaching the main road, we headed north, followed at a distance by the Lada which the driver had backed out of the woods in a hurry to determine our departure routing. After a few kilometres, he gave it up and we continued northward, knowing that the alarm would go out very quickly to intercept us before we reached Prague.

We continued to discuss our courses of action and agreed that we should return to Prague; however, we could not agree on whether we should work on the return trip or go back as quickly as possible, attempting to avoid the major towns and roads. We reached a compromise and decided to check out a couple of enroute targets, but to press on in the direction of Prague.

Within 30 minutes, we were flagged down by a policeman, who checked out my colleague's identification, then waved us on. They were obviously forming a plan to bracket us in at some point. We stopped for a quick lunch, then made our way past an air force base, where the occupants of a police car going the opposite way did a quick double-take and the car an even quicker 180. We were flagged down at 12:30 PM as we entered the small village of Sudomerice. After checking our identification, we were told to wait as there was a report of an accident in which a British car was reportedly involved.

The next two hours were a jumble of activity. Police cars arrived with both civilian and uniformed occupants, who would ask some questions, then depart. We argued that if there was a problem, their channels of communication on diplomatic matters was to take the matter up with their Ministry of Foreign Affairs, which would get in touch with our head of mission. We insisted that they had no right to detain us or to prevent us from driving a vehicle duly registered as a diplomatic vehicle. We also had them check the car for dents or scratches and got agreement that it could not have been in a recent collision. Finally, at 2:30, two additional cars pulled up, this time purposely blocking us at the front and rear. By this time, there were close to a dozen military and civilian personnel on the road and the townspeople, no doubt, wondered at the events taking place as the charade unfolded. Well, so did we – but not for long.

Again, a policeman approached my colleague and requested to see his identification, and then asked that we accompany him to the police station to answer some questions. Again, we refused to unlock the doors or to go with them, reminding them of the diplomatic protocol. When my colleague rolled down the window a bit to pass his requested identification, a metal tube was quickly inserted and tear gas started coming in. Gasping and with teary eyes, we begin exposing film and clearing other bits of information to get rid of certain data. Noting our actions, the driver's window was quickly shattered by a revolver butt, the door forced open and we were physically and roughly removed from the car and forced into separate police cars. I was placed between two burly uniformed men who held my arms tightly as the car started up and sped towards the police station in Bechyne. After a couple of minutes, I suggested that I was not about to go anywhere and that they could loosen up their grip, which they did.

We drove at very high speeds, in a cavalcade of five or six cars. It may have been exciting to them, but I was very uncomfortable, still gasping with watering eyes and with a deep cut in my left palm from being pulled out over the shattered window glass. The blood was flowing freely and my heart was racing, presumably from the tear gas as well as the excitement. Not only was I uncomfortable but also somewhat miffed that I had not forced the decision to head directly to Prague rather than continuing with a half-assed mission. It seemed to me that we might have been able to avoid or, at the least, limit the police action by putting as much distance as possible between the incident site and ourselves. Also, the closer to Prague, the closer we would have been to the official protection system that may have kicked in earlier to minimise the incident.

When we arrived at the station, we were placed in separate, poorly heated rooms, under constant guard and with attempts made to interrogate for information regarding the "accident". Since our attaché training envisioned such incidents, the response was canned – my interrogator was told that I would only speak to my ambassador and that he was to report our detention to his superiors and ensure that the Canadian ambassador was informed. I was given some form of a bandage for my glass cuts, which eventually stopped bleeding, but continued to be very painful throughout the day and evening.

Indeed, the pain persisted for days and I began to suspect that a piece of the glass had become embedded in my palm. A week or so later, I was compelled to see a Canadian Forces doctor at Lahr who confirmed my suspicions. The process of removing the glass shrapnel was very uncomfortable for me and very frustrating for the doctor as the clear glass was difficult to spot in the open flesh. The doctor prodded and sweated for a full hour before he managed to locate the piece. He did not fully freeze my palm and thus used my sensitivity to his prodding to assist in its location. At one point, he threw his hands up in frustration, but I would not let him quit, at which time he summoned a second doctor to help out. His relief was every bit as great as mine when the stitching was completed and I was out the door. I treated myself to a couple of large Scotches that evening both in celebration and to relieve the pain.

The detention at the police station lasted for seven hours. In the early hours of the detention, I was led to a second room, where a large German Shepherd was tied to a heating radiator. The dog sat on its haunches and stirred at me as I sat at the table; however, I was not left in the room for more than a few minutes before being led out. Perhaps he was trained to sense a specific scent and I did not qualify. It was a relief to be in a room away from him. As time went by, the various police and security individuals became increasingly more civil and I was offered washroom facilities, food and drink. The guard accompanied me to the washroom and kept his eyes on me as I relieved myself, perhaps in anticipation that I might try to flush some item.

Shortly before 10:00 PM, we were led out individually to the entrance room and photographed in spite of our protests. A few minutes later, representatives from our respective embassies arrived and we were released to accompany them. Our decision was to drive back in the original car, which was missing the driver's window, but was completely cleaned of all the shattered glass. They had cleaned out not only the glass, but every bit of equipment we carried in the car including our cameras, tape recorders and other supporting gear. In spite of our frequent queries, we never did get these returned to us.

It was a cold ride back to Prague, but made bearable by the working heater &ndash and by the beer and sandwiches supplied by our rescuers. We arrived in Prague at midnight, where I had to comfort a very anxious and somewhat frightened wife. Terry had been told of the detention and was concerned that some harm might come of it, both to me and perhaps to her. She was therefore most happy to see me came through the door more or less in one piece.

The long-term result of this incident was negligible to my working relations within Czechoslovakia, although my colleague was threatened with being made persona non grata following his prime minister's public condemnation of the detention. In that regard, I was never in any danger of being sent home by the Czechs, but consideration might have been given to withdrawing me by my own government as the incident might have disturbed its coffee breaks.

Looking back

The anomaly of becoming an air force pilot was that, whereas there is a requirement in the military to train to "unit" standards to ensure a common reaction to a set of circumstances, pilots were constantly required to make specific and quick decisions to survive. As a result, they were a special breed, balancing professional individualism with military uniformity.

I still occasionally ponder the lessons learned during my period of service. Having served almost 37 years, reserve time included, and having experienced a variety of cockpit, command and staff positions, I had the opportunity to assess my fellow officers under various challenges. The reality is that the air force selects well and trains well. The air force in my early days was driven by good values such as merit and diligence and attitude. We were well taught and well led. ..........The air force without a doubt was an elitist organisation, but as such dedicated completely to the service of the country. We, in turn, relied on our political masters to look after our welfare and, in truth, we did our duty much better than they theirs...

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