I glance at the instrument panel as my little airplane purrs along. It is important to maintain the correct altitude. Airplanes fly east at odd altitudes and west at even altitudes. Presumably there is 1,000 feet of separation, but a good lookout is essential.
Today the air is smooth as glass. There are few clouds and no wind. I never tire of viewing God’s creation from the air. I check my track with reference to roads, railroads, villages and lakes below. When I pass airports, I keep a special watch for traffic. Today I notice several airports in the shape of a triangle. None of them are close to a town. There are deserted buildings and some concrete foundations next to the runways.
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These airports were built quickly during the Second World War to train pilots for the Allied war effort. The Prairies offered flat land, big skies and generally favourable weather. The area was a natural for flying schools. During wartime the skies were full of yellow airplanes as budding pilots learned manoeuvres they would need in combat over Europe. When the war ended, these airports stayed open and training continued for a few years. The Commonwealth Air Training Plan brought hundreds of candidates from other countries for flight training in Canada.
If the runways and deserted buildings could talk, there would be stories to tell, not all of them recorded in history books. I have heard some of them in Legion Halls. More than one WW2 pilot has told me about the farmer who left the doors open on both ends of his barn, and “I flew right through.” I know the wing span of those training airplanes and the size of barn doors built in the 1940s. I am a doubter, but it makes a good story for November 11 after the cenotaph observance. When the veterans brag about driving a farmer’s daughter home after the dance, then sneaking out of the practice area with an airplane to “shoot up” (read “showing off”) over her father’s farm the next day, I feel the nostalgia.
Some of those pilots were my instructors when I was learning to fly. They were disciplined and passionate, and they expected their students to do well. When they were sent into combat, they were young and vulnerable, and far from home. It must have been very difficult when some of their compatriots did not return from a mission.
I look down at the Global Positioning System mounted on my control column. The map displays numbered roads and my latitude and longitude. It even displays the names of lakes and towns. None of this was available to wartime pilots. When they got lost during training, they read the name of the town off a grain elevator and tried to orient themselves. It was a different matter when they were picking their way across the English Channel and back again with primitive radio aids, their vision obscured by fog and cloud.
Each year Armistice Day becomes more important to me. I am glad to hear the stories of the veterans again. They are growing older and there are fewer of them. When they talk, I can hear the roar of big radial engines, feel the thrill of spinning to avoid enemy fire and holding opposite rudder when landing in a cross wind. I say a prayer of thanksgiving for the privileges they bought for me and succeeding generations.
Suggested Scripture: Psalm 18:31-50, Isaiah 25:1-10
Bishop Rod Andrews is with the Anglican Diocese in Saskatoon
