Baboons - Officer ticks me off - thence to Madras 

One day I was called to see the Officer i/c Wireless Section, and without any warning he quizzed me on all I had been taught at Cranwell and some practical stuff since graduation.  After the grilling, I was given my L.A.C. props to put up.  This was for Leading Aircraftsman, and

meant a little more pay.  Today, I couldn't pass that test if my life depended on it.

Wanting so desperately to fly I found it very frustrating at this O.T.U.  as almost every week I watched some Indian pilot prang an aircraft, failing to put down his landing gear.  I kept saying to myself, 'if only I had the chance'.

We had a very pleasant Christmas at Risalpur.  Quite a good dinner.  I was surprised.  We had some of the 14th Army chaps in with us, same chaps who had conducted the ground defence course I was on.  One named Ted was quite an artist and drew something for me in my autograph book.

A couple of the lads here got really sick on what we call wog whiskey.  God knows what it is made from.  Closest comparison would be drinking anti-freeze I suppose.  We threw some of it into the fireplace that was in our hut and it just burst into flame.

In the New Year Len Brown and I moved into a different hut, #29, don't know the reason, just asked to move by higher powers.   Pat Rea and Alec Cox were moved to #3 bungalow. The hot season was upon us and Len Brown and I got some relief of a posting to what is called a Hill Station, in the mountains of northern India.  Our train took us to Rawalpindi and from there a lorry took us up into the hills.  What a hair-raising journey that was on the narrow winding mountain roads.  We arrived at a place called Lower Topa and had two weeks there.  About 5 miles away was Murree, a larger village that had two cinemas and believe it or not a sort of honky tonk roller rink.  You must realize that over the decades the British forces have always taken the hot season in the Hill Stations and many things were provided for them, all to our benefit of course.  About two miles from our camp was another place we frequented called Jhikagali.  We could walk to these places in the cool of the mountains and it was very much like walking through the woods at Qualicum River campsite.  Only difference was there were baboons in the trees.  Sometimes in great hordes they would follow you.  We learned that you must not talk to them or make threats with your arms or with sticks.   We did so on one occasion and were soon experiencing much chattering and a barrage of broken branches thrown down upon us.  They also started to come much lower to the ground.   Back at camp and telling of our experience we were told by an "old timer" that we were very stupid to tease them, as when in large numbers they have no fear of attacking.  On returning to camp Risalpur after our brief respite at the Hill station, we learned of the death of a Corporal Griffiths, from heat exhaustion, when the temperature had risen to 120 F on our air strip while we were away.  We worked on "the flights" from 6 a.m. until 1 p.m. and slept or rested, in the afternoon.  It was just too, too, hot to exert oneself.  In the evening we strolled over to the canteen and drank ice cold lemonade.

About this time I had heard of transfer to the RCAF being a possibility, so filled out a form and left it with the Orderly Room.  At the same time they were calling for Observers foraircrew on Beaufighters.  I thought, what the hell, I'll take another shot at it, they might not notice my colour defect this time.  I saw my C.O. and filled out all the necessary forms, had a medical and no colour test, great,  and my application was  sent away to HQ.  I never did have any acknowledgement of either application.

Risalpur was really quite a dream of a station, other than the heat.  The food was quite good for RAF fare.  If we did our job we were left alone, and there was little in the way of bullshitty parades.  However, I did have a small run in with one of the officers.  I had been in the canteen one hot night.  I had tucked my cap in my belt, undone the

buttons at my neck and rolled up my sleeves.  After a few drinks it was time to leave.  I walked outside the way I was.  An officer on a bike was riding by, spotted me and shouted "AIRMAN! - AIRMAN!"  I stopped.  He shouted at me, "AIRMAN! You are stupid!"  I immediately got my dander up.  I spoke back to him.  "Sir," I said, "I am not stupid."  He didn't like that and continued to berate me about my sleeves being up, my neck button undone and not wearing my cap.  I agreed he was correct, but said to him, "You are quite right sir about my appearance, but I AM NOT STUPID!"  I was wearing "CANADA" patches on my shoulder, which he obviously saw.  Had I  been a Britisher I would most likely have been put on a CHARGE.  He actually apologized to me while I was putting on my hat, rolling down my sleeves and buttoning my collar.  Asked me where I was from in Canada and what I was doing in the R.A.F.  

One day a few of us had the opportunity to go along with a group of visitors on a lorry trip up to the famous Khyber Pass of Afghanistan.  We were very close to the Afghan border, just an afternoon trip.  I saw some of the memorial cairns concreted into the mountain sides,   honouring the different British regiments that had served in the days of the tribal wars.

Suddenly, when I least expected it, I was posted again.  Len Brown and Alec Cox were posted too, and on the same train.  Instead of the expected posting to the Forward Area I was sent down to Madras in southern India.   On the way south we stopped at Delhi.  Spent some time in the Wavell canteen and as we had some time there;  we took in the Taj Mahal at Agra not too far away.  Describing the Taj is very difficult.  I suggest anyone who reads this and is interested, look it up on the Internet.

It was a two-day journey from Delhi to Madras.  The train took us on a wandering, climbing, twisting trip.  I admired the British and their railroad construction.  There was no doubt that through the rail system they had established, that they built the nation; of course at the same time exploiting the place and keeping "the natives" in their place.

Late on a Saturday night we arrived at Central Station in Madras.  A lorry was waiting to take us to our station at St. Thomas Mount about 8 miles away.  We were not billeted on the actual airfield but at the Operations Room, a place called #41 Bungalow.