history tca and the jetliner

This photo of the Avro on its was snapped

Bud who built the Bush Hawk at the same time as the Avro Arrow and Jetliner program was being disassembled by Prime Minister John Diefenbacker's not so progressive Conservative government. While taxpayers paid little attention to the events at the time, the issue now rages as one of the biggest blunders in Canada's political history. The Jetliner story also escaped notice at the time and the plane was quietly sold to a scrap merchant.

That's it on the page to the left, the Avro Canada Jetliner on final approach to land on its maiden flight on August 10, 1949. Canada would be the first country in the world to put a jet powered transport aircraft into operation—whoops! that's not true. Thirteen days before the Jetliner flew, deHavilland over in the UK, rushed its nearly completed Comet airliner out onto the runway and did a quick circuit even though pieces were still missing from their plane. it then went back into the factory to be completed—"Take that Canada!" was what they were saying. Nevertheless, Avro Canada put the Jetliner in the air nine (9) years ahead of Boeing's 707—nine years before Boeing would build it's first pure jet. Canada, of all countries, was biting off a big corner of what would become a huge world market?

But hold on—what really happened: Trans Canada Air Lines gave Avro Canada a set of specifications for a jet powered transport aircraft and said build us this and we will buy a fleet of them. Avro designed it and built it with the jet engines meeting TCA's specifications to be supplied by Rolls Royce who called that new engine design the Avon. TCA applied outrageous conditions to their requirements to prevent Avro from selling the aircraft to other airlines and imposing demands outside any normal parameters applying to plane-builders When Avro said no to some of these terms TCA backed out of the deal completely leaving Avro holding the bag. Rolls Royce also had problems and Avon wasn't calling. A tandem set-up of two RR Nene engines per side under a common nacelle, acting like a twin engine aircraft powered the prototype but in reality it became a 4 engine plane. "Oh, not for us," said TCA, and returned to manage its then new North Star modified DC4 program denying any involvement in the Jetliner. Meanwhile back at Avro, Howard Hughes was knocking—he wanted 47 of the Jetliners for TWA his world class airline. it was PM John Diefenbacker's turn to say , "No way," so Hughes offered to buy the Avro factory and build them himself, but Dief still had his head in a grain elevator and refused to allow the sale—he was much too busy destroying the Avro Arrow to play ball with a funny guy like Hughes and the rest is, as they say in the House of Commons—history.

flying a PM called 'Mik e'

it was a typically cold Montreal winter’s morning, January 7th, 1966, when i got a call from Montreal crew scheduling. There was either a four day DC-8 layover charter to what i thought i heard the scheduler say was a four day trip to Las Vegas, or a dead head on that very charter with an eight hour crew rest lay-over in Vegas then bring the aircraft back to Montreal. Either way they only had two second officers on reserve and i’d have to take one of them. Since i was the more senior of the two i’d have a choice.

“Hmm” i thought, four days in Las Vegas in January would certainly be better than a turnaround, and besides, the four day expense money would come in handy. it was a time when flight attendants made more money than second officers on flat pay. By juggling what expense money i got with what i actually spent could seriously affect my take home pay in a positive way. They did not call me "Diamond Jim" for nothing, and besides, the expense money was tax free. in the background i heard a gruff voice bark, “Tell him to bring lots of money and make sure he has a passport.” i immediately recognized the snarl of that growled warning as that of my new BFF, Captain Ralph Leek now Air Canada’s DC-8 Chief Pilot. The money would be problematic all right—i didn't have any. As to the passport—yes i had one. i hung up the phone, put on my sad face and to the wife sniveled,

Lester "Mike" Pearson was a Canadian scholar, statesman, soldier, prime minister and diplomat, who won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1957 for organizing the United Nations Emergency Force to resolve the Suez Canal Crisis. He was the 14th Prime Minister of Canada from 22 April 1963 to 20 April 1968. He was also a Toronto Maple Leafs fan.

“Geez i have to go to Los Vegas for four days—they don’t have anybody else.”

Then i thought, “Wait a minute, why do i need a passport?” *Flying airplanes into tall buildings by terrorists hadn't happened yet—back then passports were not required for entry into the USA. i scratched my head then called crew sked right back to ask, "Why the passport for a Vegas trip?"

“Vegas… i didn’t say Las Vegas you idiot i said Lagos…i think it’s in Africa or somewhere and it’s to take Prime Minister Pearson for some international conference or other,” the exasperated crew scheduler blurted out.

Yikes! Then i thought, “i have a passport alright but is it up to date?” i ran upstairs, looked at it and… crap... it had expired.

What to do… but wait… it was only 08:30 a.m. All at once, the tiny little synapses in my brain began to nudge the neurons excitedly and i thought, “i won’t need it till tomorrow morning… i know… i’ll go to the nation’s main passport office in Ottawa a scant 100 miles or so from our isle Perrot home on the outskirts of Mon- treal… a two hour drive at most… and try to BS them into giving me a rush job on renewing my passport.”

We piled the three kids into the car and off we all went. Much to my amazement when i told the sour looking passport lady i had to take the Prime Minister to Africa the next day she smiled kindly and set some secret… only known to entitled elites… bureaucratic wheels in motion and voila thanks to her, just three hours later i was holding a renewed passport in my hot little hand. We were back home in time for a late supper.

This welcoming sight at Ghana's airport did not suggest the civil unrest that prevailed.

“Wow” i thought, “This must be a very important trip indeed.”

The author apologizes for the quality of the photos. Every technical means of improving their display has been made, but they are not Press quality. They are included because of their historic importance and for the continuity of this article

As it turned out it was the first Commonwealth Prime Minister’s Conference ever held outside of Great Britain and was meant to settle the Rhodesian problem…and we all know how well that turned out…forty nine years later and the former Zimbabwe National African Union, (ZANU) as i usually did…for that would set the tone as to whether the trip would be drudgery or a jaunt. i had assumed it would be Ralph Leek and was looking forward to it. imagine my chagrin when i got to the airport and learned that Ralph was going to act as first officer while the designated captain would be Captain Bill Bell, Ralph’s boss and Director of Flight Operations terrorist leader, a de fact dictator, was still in power until November 2017… Robert Mugabe.

Late the next morning i headed off to Dorval, Montreal’s international Airport, for my big African adventure. i had not bothered to ask crew scheduling who the captain was going to be best seat in the house for the Montreal Base. i had flown with Bell on my very first trip on North Stars and was intimidated by his quiet taciturn nature. Ralph was the perfect antithesis of Bell…i could sense trouble ahead there’d be no fun and games this trip…or would there?

The airport at Accra was our alternate when Lagos reported zero viz in fog. The Prime Minister's aids were quick to inform Ghana officials of the unexpected arrival of the Canadian Prime Minister and despite the early hour Kwame Nkrumah, Ghana's president pulled up alongside the TCA DC8 in a big black limo and the two leaders had a quick meeting. A few months later Nkrumah was deposed in a coup d'état and forced into exile for the rest of his life.

Our Navigator would be unobtrusive, Don Willis, Chief Navigator Montreal base while the flight attendants were from Toronto and were supervisors of some sort. it was back in the day when Anglo WASPS dominated Air Canada’s management hierarchy. i felt a little underwhelmed being the only non-chief something or other in the crew. What surprised me most was the lack of a protocol for the flight deck crew to interact with the ViPs that would be on board…that was going to be left to the cabin crew, the public relations minions and other with me on edge trying not to make any faux pas or false moves while performing for my two big bosses, Bell and Leek, or the on board dead heading crew. The deadheads were to bring the DC-8 back to Ottawa after minimum crew rest in Lagos. My friend, Johnny Weir, was the Second officer who had been stuck with my second choice for the trips on offer. The fueling and other preparations for the enplanement of the Prime Minister, his retinue of political hacks, and the inevitable media pariahs, went off without a hitch and while night company hangers-on each vying for their own personal limelight.

The flight preparations were normal for the ferry flight to Ottawa descended on Ottawa we were off to see the wonders of West Africa.

Everything ran smoothly until it was time to call Santa Maria in the

Nkrumah and Lester Pearson were close allies from a friendship developed during previous Commonwealth Prime Minister's Conferences. Pictured here in a photo taken by then Second Officer Griffith who snapped this from the airstairs of the DC8.

Azores for a position report on HF, (High Frequency) radio. Ralph tried several times and each time he called Santa Maria his gruff voice got louder and louder until he was shouting and spitting into the microphone. Nobody answered.

Finally Bell quietly said,” Look Ralph, how about letting Jim try… your voice is a little too rough and loud…you might be distorting the signal”. With that, he looked back at me and winked. So i picked up the mike and took up Ralph’s quasi liturgical i thought, “i’ve somehow got to put this magnificent sunrise into words”…but words failed me…sorry you’ll just have to picture it yourself. My thoughts were interrupted when Lagos radioed that they were fogged in and we would have to land at our alternate, which was Accra, in Ghana, until Lagos cleared out. There was a flurry of exchanged messages between ATC, (Air Traffic Control), chant, “Santa Maria… Santa Maria… Santa Maria!”…nobody answered me either. the PM’s aide in the cabin, us, flight dispatch and so on. The delay was expected to be two or three hours at least. After we landed, we were directed to a semi-deserted part of the airport, a set of airstairs were attached and the door was opened to let in our first breath of African air. it was like opening the door to a sweat scented sauna. Moments later an unescorted black Limousine drew up to the bottom of the stairs and even though it was only 7:00 a.m., out stepped the President of Ghana, Kwame Nkrumah. Lester Pearson descended the steps alone; the two embraced and shook hands. That both leaders had a genuine affection for each other was clearly evident. Off they disappeared in the limo in a cloud of African dust. it did not take long before a string of hacks... taxis, not the political kind... arrived and began hauling the various groups of the entourage to destinations unknown. i thought, “Hmm, they must be putting in some new runway lighting”. i was later to learn that these were in fact trenches being built to defend the airport’s perimeter in case of attack.

Just after we made landfall i remember seeing my first sunrise over Africa.

Unbeknownst to us, just days later, Nkrumah would open the largest hydroelectric dam in Africa, and just months after that he would be overthrown and forced into exile until he died. Also unbeknownst to me at least, either by design or pure ignorance, i wasn’t to know that many African countries including Nigeria were in political turmoil and on the brink of civil war.

The weather cleared in Lagos and the scramble was on to locate all the passengers and get them back to the plane. Again, many messages passed from Bell to the PM’s aide and vice versa with me in the middle as the round up became quite hectic. At last everyone was onboard… or so we thought.

An iconic TV presenter and political news commentator of the day was missing. Bell kept urging the PM’s aide that we needed to get going as we were all well over our duty day and the DC-8 was urgently required back in Canada. The PM apparently was just as adamant that we wait for the errant reporter. Finally, a beat up taxi pulled up screeching to a halt at the bottom of the airstairs in a cloud of unrelenting African dust and out rolled the newsman drunk as a skunk. He could barely stagger up the stairs and as it was my assigned duty to close the main cabin door i was there when he reached the top step.

As he flicked his cigarette butt over the side he leered at me and said in a loud voice, “See sonny! Even the Prime minister of Canada waits for me”.

My first impulse was to grab him by the scruff of the neck and kick his sorry derriere back down the stairs, but i was dog tired after being up all night well into noon. instead, i said nothing while shutting and latching the door after him. i was losing my naiveté fast about respected public icons and was beginning to realize many of them had feet of clay.

The short routine flight to Lagos took only 40 minutes and about the only thing that i noted was, as i looked out the captain’s side window on the landing roll, there were some excavations going on beside the runway.

The first person to bounce through the door as i opened it was Arnie Sorensen, an extraverted lanky Yankee from St Paul Minnesota, and the Lagos Station Manager for Pan American Airways. Arnie would be the genial host for our crew layover for the next four days and we babes in the woods came to rely on his wisdom of the local colour and culture.

At the ramp, the formalities for greeting Pearson were short and sweet... an absolute minimum of welcoming ceremonies. instead, the ViPs were quickly whisked off in limousines with the usual camp followers trailing behind in grubby cabs. The prime ministers of Australia and Britain were about to land while the others had already arrived. Bell rounded up our crew and the deadheads then scampered off to the nearby airport hotel for some 'zees' leaving second officer, Johnny Weir, to monitor the re-fueling for the DC-8’s return to Montreal. i decided to stick around and keep John company.

The refueling job done, we sat around the ViP lounge with Nigerian cabinet ministers and their lackeys who were robed in garishly coloured tribal dress. They were joshing each other and laughing while they sat with their bare feet up on the coffee tables quaffing cocktails, awaiting the arrival of Prime Minister Wilson from Britain. We were hoping someone had thought to order us a cab to take us to the hotel… in vain as it turned out… nobody had.

Lester Pearson travelled with an entourage of aids along with Canadian Press representatives. One particular high profile press person proved to be less than popular for holding up the flight from Ghana to Lagos, declaring to the author that even prime ministers waited for him. Pictured here Pearson with an aid at the airport in Lagos.

Six days later some of these guys wouldn’t be laughing…they’d be dead.

Johnny and i felt a little conspicuous... two pale faced Caucasians in drab navy blue uniforms lost in a sea of brilliant colour and being completely ignored. At last, the only person in the lounge wearing western clothing, a natty middle aged African in a Saville Row business suit, seemed to sense our plight, came over and in accented British upper class English introduced himself. He gave us a warm welcome, the Nigerian Minister of Education was, along with the Prime Minister, among the first victims of the Nigerian government to be executed by the military junta whose coup d’état had taken place the day after we left. it was on the short cab ride to the hotel that certain inconvenient truths about African realities dawned on me. Burnt-out overturned vehicles on the side of the road and Nigerian soldiers with WWii Lee Enfield 303 rifles at the ready on every street corner were got us a cab and sent us off to join the two crews already snoozing in bed at the hotel. We later learned that this soft-spoken gentleman who was a bit of a clue…that and the ever increasing stench of raw sewage and human sweat the closer we got to the city. it sort of dashed my romantic il- lusions of what i thought Africa would be like. Although, if anybody had said that four years later i’d see Canadian troops on Montreal streets i’d have called them a liar.

What was left of my first day in the Dark Continent was spent trying to snatch some sleep in the unaccustomed humidity of the hotel, which was on par with any second rate American motel and included a cranky air conditioning system. Later that evening, i hooked up with a couple of crew members for supper then hit the sack again.

Bright and early next morning

Ralph called with the news that the DC-8 had made it back to Canada. He wanted to know what was i going to do for the day? Arnie, the Pan-Am guy, had told Ralph the best way to do any sightseeing would be to rent a cab for the day, but warned that there were places we should definitely avoid for our own safety. He gave us the name of the cab company used by Pan Am’s visiting executives and added that if we were interested he’d take the whole crew to a night club to show us the local bar scene after supper. Bell and Willis begged off the sightseeing venture saying that they had some work to do…what that might be since our only means of escape, the DC-8, had left us stranded. i couldn’t imagine nor did i care what they were up to although, later, i had cause to ponder on just what it was. in fact, it took two cabs to get us all on the road. A couple of flight attendants stayed behind although i couldn’t for the life of me see why anyone would want to miss the opportunity to share the sights, sounds and in the case of Africa, the smells of a distant culture. We did the Zoo, the beach, the local country side and a quick drive-by of the downtown without seeing any more evidence of political unrest. i’m pretty sure Arnie had briefed the cabbies to steer us clear of any danger. i realized that given the trenches beside the runway, the burned out vehicles and the heavy military presence near the airport it kind of indicated that the rebels had considered the airport a significant strategically important piece of real estate to capture if trouble started. i began to miss that lovely allegorical chunk of our homeland… the newly branded but now distant Air Canada DC-8

Arnie Sorenson's Austin was not only underpowered but had been vandalized with a slashed tire, making it a questionable means of escape from the bar where we encounteredsome extremely dangerous events unfolding in a country on the brink of civil war.

Night fell abruptly like the final act curtain at the end of a stage play. Without the extended twilight we so much enjoy in our northern climes, i was truly amazed at just how fast it happened. it was the closest i’d ever been to the equator, and sadly, i didn’t know at the time that i would never be destined to venture into the southern hemisphere in my sixty years of flying. in fact, Lagos was as close as i ever got to it.

True to his word, Arnie showed up with his car and two cabs. We all pushed off to the nightclub including our illustrious leader, Captain Bell and navigator Willis. The place resembled a bar like any Montreal bar… bare tables, dim lighting, surly waiters and dirty floors… except that there was no roof over the thing and the floors were actually dirt. We were literally al fresco under the stars. The evening passed in the usual bonhomie that exists amongst airline crews thrown together on a layover. When everyone was getting ready to leave, Arnie, Ralph and i stayed behind for the infamous, one more beer, while the others toddled off to the hotel in cabs. Arnie said he would drive us home in his circa 1955 Austin.

We were just into our beer when suddenly a striking looking, tall African strode into the bar dressed in what i now recognized as the standard attire of a local tribal chief… brightly coloured sweeping robes. What set this guy apart though was the beaded Muslim Taliyah or skull cap he wore and the two hefty guerillas that shadowed him...obvi- best seat in the house ous bodyguards. The bar babble went suddenly and ominously quiet as 'beanie boy' snapped his fingers at the headwaiter for a table. Arnie gulped and silently mouthed,

“We gotta get outa here…NOW.”

At the time, i did not appreciate the urgency of Arnie’s mimed message.

We slipped out a side door and jumped into Arnie’s car. For some reason Arnie insisted i drive. Maybe he thought that with my recent stint in ireland i’d be comfortable driving on the left side of the road or maybe he thought i’d had less to drink. Either way he was mistaken. For a moment i dithered with the four- on-the-floor gear shift lever of the shaky old Austin. Thinking i was putting the thing into first gear i’d actually put it in reverse. i stepped on the gas. Backwards we shot stopping only when the back wheels lodged themselves into an open sewer. Now Arnie was in a real state of anxiety and ordered Ralph out to help him push us out of the ditch. As we finally pulled away, i sensed that even this antique relic was more underpowered than it ought to be. Now on our way, i had time to do a quick instrument scan and to my dismay, the needle on the gas gauge was bobbing on empty. i spotted a gas station and pulled in only to discover why the car was under performing … one of the tires was slashed. i stayed in the driver’s seat with the engine running while Arnie ran inside to palaver with the gas station attendants. Ralph jumped out and began to fill the tank. There was a lot of yelling coming from where Arnie was when one of the attendants charged out screaming at Ralph, “Stop! Stop!”

“Oh Yeah? Watch this!” Ralph bellowed like a wounded bull as he took the cigar he’d been smoking out of his mouth. He poised it menacingly over the pump nozzle stuck into the open gas tank. it was an unmistakable gesture that if the guy approached further he’d drop the cigar into the tank. No one knew it wasn’t lit…not even me. it meant Ralph was now, metaphorically speaking, holding an unloaded gun to hold off an angry mob. it was enough to stop them, momentarily at least. Arnie appeared at a dead run from what was now a crowd of very excited onlookers…Ralph just dropped the nozzle on the ground still spewing fuel as he and Arnie jumped into the car shouting in unison. “Go Go Go!” i stomped on the gas. This time i had it properly in first gear. The steering was hampered by the slashed tire of the sluggish car. i side swiped the air compressor for inflating tires beside the gas pumps and knocked it off its pedestal sending a huge geyser of dust and small stones into the night sky. i’ll never forget the image of that bunch of gyrating Africans yelling, cursing and wildly gesticulating with their arms like some primeval tribal ritual. The entire dance macabre was back lit by the gas station lights reflected in the rear view mirror of that old Austin.

Back at Arnie’s house, now that his car was hors de combat, he ordered a cab to take us back to the hotel, but the adventure was not quite over. As we headed home, Ralph decided to take an interest in the local upcoming national election, quizzing the cab driver on the finer points of voting procedure. The driver absolutely insisted we go to his house for a drink. By now i was getting a little worried but Ralph seemed to feel it would be discourteous and offensive to the driver if we didn’t accept his invitation…that and the fact we could both use another drink…so we went. Although i was very nervous it turned out the driver was quite an interesting and obviously educated guy. it wasn’t till sunup that we finally got home to the hotel after spending a few hours learning the ins and outs of what was really going on in Nigerian politics. i can’t speak for Ralph but needless to say my third day in Africa was pretty much a dead loss although i did manage to buy a few trinkets with my limited resources to take home. Tomorrow, if the DC-8 made it back, we’d head home to dear old Canada a little older, a little wiser, and for me personally, a little less naive.

Next morning, i was relieved when Arnie called to say there were no apparent repercussions from our nocturnal escapades, that the DC-8 was due to arrive soon and he would drive me to meet it. The rest of the crew would come to the airport later in cabs. He helped me refuel the plane then carried on with the other duties he had to preform to prepare for the airport arrival of the many ViPs but not before he told me that part of his Pan Am duties was to warn incoming flights about any imminent security threats. He did this by slipping a secret code word into the normal arrival radio messages. Hearing this word an incoming flight would automatically divert to a predetermined safe alternate. Thankfully he’d been advised by local authorities… he carefully omitted to name them…that for the next few hours at least there were no immediate threats. if Bell, Ralph or Willis knew about this procedure they certainly hadn’t told me. in fact, there was a lot that i had not been informed of… and by the way, Arnie never did tell me the secret word.

The Prime Minister and his entourage arrived as did the other commonwealth heads of state at about the same time. They seemed like stampeding horses bolting from a burning barn trampling each other to get out as quickly as possible. Maybe they knew something i didn’t. We left around noon and because of the short runway at Lagos it meant we’d not be able to go non-stop to Ottawa. Flight Dispatch had pre-planned a re-fueling stop in the French colony of Senegal at Dakar, the most westerly city in continental Africa and the only one with a long enough runway. it took about four hours to reach Dakar in clear weather and while at both Accra and Lagos inbound the receptions were rather muted making the Zouhave colour guard that greeted us on the ramp at Dakar all the more magnificent. it was a scene straight out of Arabian Nights.

The Zouhave were an elite unit of the French colonial armies recruited from Algeria. The scene was perfection with the late afternoon sun setting off their uniforms of bright red voluminous silk trousers billowing in the gentle sea breeze, gold braided navy blue jackets, topped by tasselled red fezzes known as 'chichi' while they presented arms with gleaming scimitars. The Zouhave were also known for their precision drill and on this afternoon they did not disappoint.

The meticulously dressed French Governor of the colony greeted the PM and perhaps because of Canada’s special relationship with France the two were heavily engaged in urgent conversation as they went about the usual diplomatic protocol of inspecting the Zouhave colour guard. Pearson, as anxious as he was to get home, was hurriedly briefing the Governor on the results of the Lagos conference.

We finished the refueling at the same time as Pearson took his leave and on the taxi out for take-off Ralph and i had our heads buried in the DC-8 performance charts. We were right on the max take-off weight for the runway length and temperature limitations but to be legal we had to fudge the headwind component from the fast dying sea breeze as the sun rapidly set. The initial climb would be over the ocean and we hoped some adiabatic cooling from the Atlantic would waft in over the runway. With Bell’s approval of our numbers off we went.

We rolled and rolled… and rolled. Bell rotated but the main gear stayed firmly on the runway. i had my sideways second officer’s seat swiveled forward but of course i couldn’t see over the nose so had no idea how much runway lay ahead. Finally, the main gear lurched off at the same moment as i saw out of Ralph’s side window the sea sliding by beneath us. i have often thought, since that day, how cavalier we were in calculating those take off numbers with the life of highly respected global peacemaker, Lester Pearson, Canada’s greatest Prime Minister, in our hands.

The night was black as pitch; the air was silky smooth, and we were homeward bound. it had been an hour since the hot, heavy, runway limited take off from Dakar’s Yoff airport. Now, at top of climb with the takeoff adrenalin rush well behind us, we four, the Bell, Leek, Willis and me, the lowly, second officer, were settling in for the long dreary eight hours of flight ahead of us.

The cockpit lighting had been dimmed and now ensconced in my little sidesaddle cocoon heading home i was reflecting on my audacious Nigerian antics, when suddenly my thoughts were interrupted by a message from the cabin. The Prime Minister would like to know the score in the hockey game. i shouldn’t have been surprised knowing the PM’s well documented love of hockey, particularly the Toronto Maple Laughs, his favourite team. This was after all, Hockey Night in Canada.

Always anxious to please, i twiddled the dial of my radio compass repeater, got lucky and picked up a clear skip signal of the CBC and Foster Hewitt’s unmistakable funky twang. The rest of the cockpit crew seemed totally absorbed in trying to establish contact on HF with the Azores for further clearance. i boldly told the PM’s aide that if he wanted to go ahead and invite the great man to come up and listen to the game on the radio i was sure he would be welcome. i knew i was usurping Bell’s prerogative but what the…all he could do was fire me. Moments later a very tired PM, sans his trade mark bow tie, inconspicuously stole into the cockpit. Without a word i motioned him to my seat, passed him an extra headset then together we listened to the end of the game. Once it was over i tried to steer the conversation to ask him, pilot to pilot, about his flying experiences. All i knew about him was that i had heard he had been a pilot during the First World War.

What i did not know then was that shortly after his first solo he crashed while landing a Grahame White trainer, writing it off and injuring himself enough to be shipped to London to recuperate. While there, on a night outing from the hospital he had been whacked by a double decker bus on the Edgeware Road in a blackout during a Zeppelin bomb raid. it aggravated his injury enough to be invalided back to Canada ending any hope he had of being a pilot. That might explain why he was reluctant to discuss his short-lived flying career. in any case as soon as he recovered at home the plucky fella volunteered to go right back into the fray where he had formerly served as a stretcher bearer for two years in the Balkans prior to his being selected for flying training.

Over the years i’ve always treasured my few minutes of sharing the simple pleasure of listening to a hockey game with a truly great Canadian even more so since the setting was in the confined darkened cockpit of a DC-8 in flight over the Atlantic. in the crowded cockpit, there were five us, but i felt like there was only just him and me. What struck me most was his modest dignity and unassuming manner. in spite of our age difference, he spoke to me as an equal in his quiet voice. i’ve always marveled at how this soft spoken, lispy, middle class son of a preacher became such a giant in global geopolitics not to mention his celebrated achievements as Canadian Prime Minister. As for the game… do you believe it??? The Leafs actually won!!!

The rest of the trip was routine except me fretting about whether my few souvenirs would exceed my customs limit. i did not see how they could be with the small amount of cash i’d taken with me. That was just one more thing i had not been told… on arrival the aircraft would have diplomatic immunity thus would have no customs inspection… so i needn’t have worried. i watched incredulously on our arrival in Ottawa at the unloading of sacks of pineapple and god knows what else from the DC-8’s belly cargo holds that the PM’s hangers-on had brought with them from Nigeria. No wonder we had just squeaked off the runway at Dakar we were probably at least five thousand pounds overweight.

The ferry flight to Montreal went by in the blink of an eye and soon i was heading home bleary eyed to ile Perrot. The kids were asleep and i spent the next hour or so trying to stay awake while telling my wife about the exciting trip. At the time, my biggest take-away was the flight deck interlude with the PM but later in life i reflected long and hard about how so many of the illusions i’d had of religion, racism and politics that i’d been brought up with in Winnipeg might have been dashed forever by my experiences on the trip

Epilogue

in the context of today’s overwhelming security, it is hard to imagine what the people who organized this conference were thinking. Who, what, and where did they get their military intelligence…and yes i know, military intelligence is an oxymoron. They must have known how precarious the Nigerian situation was. Further, i would have to wonder why they would leave Canada’s political elite stranded in a country on the brink of civil war with no means of escape. We never went back to the Lagos airport during our stay so i cannot say whether Prime Ministers from the other Commonwealth Countries or the British PM were left without lifeboats of either military or civilian aircraft. interestingly enough the British newspaper, The Guardian, quoted on January 10th that Pearson had offered to send an RCAF plane to pick up the Zambian African delegates to attend the conference one of whom was Robert Mugabe. They also reported that British PM Harold Wilson did send a plane to Malawi for a delegate.

Therefore, their military must have been lurking around somewhere close by. We certainly never bumped into any other commonwealth military or civilian flight crews on our layover.

i cannot speak for the rest of the crew but i was told nothing about what to expect in Africa. Nobody had even asked if my inoculations for tropical diseases were up to date. i was struggling in a new job to bring up a young family in a new house and political affairs in Africa were not anywhere on my radar. i suspect Bill Bell and Don Willis might have known something which is why they may have seemed reticent, a little anti-social and kept themselves aloof on the lay over. i also have a funny feeling Ralph was kept out of loop for reasons i can only speculate on.

Lingering questions remain which will never be answered for me. Was Arnie doing double duty as Pan Am’s station manager and the American State department? The cab drivers English was not great but imbedded in his lexicon were phrases that did not match his profession as a cab driver. He was clearly punching above his weight. There was no wife or evidence of a family at his house which given

Hard to believe today but during TCA's start-up years they had to advertise the idea of taking an airplane rather than a train across the country. it soon became obvious to a doubting public that 9 hours in a North Star beat 4 days on a train to get from Vancouver to Montreal what we could see would have been out of his financial league anyway. Was he sent to spy on us or was Arnie keeping us out of harm’s way? Although i am grateful that there were no consequences why was there not even a mention of our wild moonlight caper either from the police or the company? i guess i will just have to add some of my African adventures to the long list of events in my life that remain unexplained as i moved along in my aviation career.

As to the success or lack thereof of the conference, Britain's Prime

Minister Wilson stated in the Guardian newspaper that, “The conference ended in unity even euphoria.” While the Americans did not have a horse in the race this being a strictly Commonwealth gig, they did have a dog in the fight…their Rhodesian mining operations. The Financial Times quoted that unnamed American officials had quipped, “The Wilson solution was fanciful and irresponsible.” and dubbed it, “The Tar Baby option.” best seat in the house

So far, history seems to have swung to the American view. Still it ain’t over till it’s over.

The Canadair North Star was a 1940s Canadian development, for TransCanada Air Lines of the Douglas DC-4. instead of radial engines used by the Douglas design, Canadair used Rolls-Royce Merlin V12 engines to achieve a higher cruising speed of 325 mph (523 km/h) compared with the 227 mph (365 km/h) of the standard DC-4. Ordered by TCA in 1944, the prototype flew on 15 July 1946. The type was used by various airlines and by the Royal Canadian Air Force (RCAF). it proved to be reliable but noisy when in service through the 1950s and into the 1960s. The development of the North Star created much controversy in the House of Commons with many members voicing dissent for use of the Merlin engines. Not knowing what they were talking about never bothered politicians so the argument raged while the aircraft proved itself as a most reliable and profitable choice for TCA. it remains a question why a few years later the House did not give any consideration to the fate of Canada's Avro Jetliner, which would have put TCA into the history books as the first airline in the world to employ pure jet powered aircraft and would have bolstered rather than help destroy Canada's then burgeoning aircraft manufacturing industry.