unpleasant should a fire break out. However, the most important point was that I was not going to be washed out of my flying course and merely faced a delay of one course, about six weeks.
Finally, the great day came for the wings parade. It was already getting late in the war, and I was concerned that the fighting might end before I could get to a fighter squadron. After rehearsals for the wings parade, we were at last ready for the ceremony, which came after eighteen months of hard training, dropping off, by the way, three-quarters of those who had appeared at the beginning for the aircrew medical and aptitude tests.
My mother and my brother came for the ceremony, and Leon and his wife gave me a silver identity bracelet wishingme luck. As it turned out, we both needed luck in the final months of the war, for Leon never made it and I very nearly didnât either. I was awarded the rank of second lieutenant, and though I wore my rank proudly, it was nothing compared to the wings on my left breast. I was graded as a fighter pilot, a target for which I had aimed for years.
KITTYHAWK
From the advanced flying school, I was posted to the Operational Training Unit (OTU) at Waterkloof near Pretoria. Here we were treated as officers and gentlemen, having rooms with hot and cold water. We ate in a mess at separate tables with food served by waiters. By this time I had bought a small secondhand Morris Eight car and could drive to Johannesburg on weekends and often again during the week.
At Waterkloof I flew my first fighter aircraft, the P-40 Kittyhawk and the Hawker Hurricane. The high performance of these fighters was exhilarating after having flown only training aircraft. As they were single-seat aircraft, we immediately went solo with surprisingly few mishaps.
To me the exâBattle of Britain Hurricanes faded quickly into the background after flying the Kittyhawk. This aircraft seemed to kindle in me, and I believe in most of us, a blind faith and affection. Being American it had most of the human comforts that could be crammed into a restricted fighter cockpit, including enough leg room and ample space on either side of the pilotâs seat. The canopy also could be rolled back to leave a comfortably large aperture when enteringor leaving the cockpit. The Kittyhawk was a beautiful airplane with classic lines. The pointed nose, painted like the gaping maw of a shark, and the large tail made her stand out among other fighters. The history of her almost identical sister aircraft, the Tomahawk, used by China in the war against the Japanese invader in 1941â42 by General Chennaultâs Flying Tigers, lent a special aura to the Kitty.
OTU was great, and here I experienced my first real blackouts when pulling out of high-speed dives. But by far the best part was the dogfight training. We were encouraged to practice by selecting a partner and entering into a mad pursuit of one another, twisting and turning, diving and zooming in the skies. This routine, made more precarious by the large number of dogfights in the same general area, did sometimes claim victims.
One of our instructors was Lieutenant Robinson, an experienced fighter pilot. Despite his English-sounding name, he was a dyed-in-the-wool, wiry Afrikaner who, during his tour of operations in North Africa, had been shot down in error by a P-38 Lightning flown by a U.S. pilot who was new to operations in the area and mistook him for a Jerry. Poor Robbie, after having survived a tough tour of operations in North Africa, was killed when an OTU pupil collided with him over Pretoria, his hometown.
After the OTU course, we received embarkation leave before departing for Egypt to await a transfer to a squadron. Leon had just completed his third tour of instructing at various training bases in South Africa and got a posting to an OTU in Palestine before transferring to a bomber squadron.I gave up my embarkation leave to leave for Cairo in the same aircraft with
Finally, the great day came for the wings parade. It was already getting late in the war, and I was concerned that the fighting might end before I could get to a fighter squadron. After rehearsals for the wings parade, we were at last ready for the ceremony, which came after eighteen months of hard training, dropping off, by the way, three-quarters of those who had appeared at the beginning for the aircrew medical and aptitude tests.
My mother and my brother came for the ceremony, and Leon and his wife gave me a silver identity bracelet wishingme luck. As it turned out, we both needed luck in the final months of the war, for Leon never made it and I very nearly didnât either. I was awarded the rank of second lieutenant, and though I wore my rank proudly, it was nothing compared to the wings on my left breast. I was graded as a fighter pilot, a target for which I had aimed for years.
KITTYHAWK
From the advanced flying school, I was posted to the Operational Training Unit (OTU) at Waterkloof near Pretoria. Here we were treated as officers and gentlemen, having rooms with hot and cold water. We ate in a mess at separate tables with food served by waiters. By this time I had bought a small secondhand Morris Eight car and could drive to Johannesburg on weekends and often again during the week.
At Waterkloof I flew my first fighter aircraft, the P-40 Kittyhawk and the Hawker Hurricane. The high performance of these fighters was exhilarating after having flown only training aircraft. As they were single-seat aircraft, we immediately went solo with surprisingly few mishaps.
To me the exâBattle of Britain Hurricanes faded quickly into the background after flying the Kittyhawk. This aircraft seemed to kindle in me, and I believe in most of us, a blind faith and affection. Being American it had most of the human comforts that could be crammed into a restricted fighter cockpit, including enough leg room and ample space on either side of the pilotâs seat. The canopy also could be rolled back to leave a comfortably large aperture when enteringor leaving the cockpit. The Kittyhawk was a beautiful airplane with classic lines. The pointed nose, painted like the gaping maw of a shark, and the large tail made her stand out among other fighters. The history of her almost identical sister aircraft, the Tomahawk, used by China in the war against the Japanese invader in 1941â42 by General Chennaultâs Flying Tigers, lent a special aura to the Kitty.
OTU was great, and here I experienced my first real blackouts when pulling out of high-speed dives. But by far the best part was the dogfight training. We were encouraged to practice by selecting a partner and entering into a mad pursuit of one another, twisting and turning, diving and zooming in the skies. This routine, made more precarious by the large number of dogfights in the same general area, did sometimes claim victims.
One of our instructors was Lieutenant Robinson, an experienced fighter pilot. Despite his English-sounding name, he was a dyed-in-the-wool, wiry Afrikaner who, during his tour of operations in North Africa, had been shot down in error by a P-38 Lightning flown by a U.S. pilot who was new to operations in the area and mistook him for a Jerry. Poor Robbie, after having survived a tough tour of operations in North Africa, was killed when an OTU pupil collided with him over Pretoria, his hometown.
After the OTU course, we received embarkation leave before departing for Egypt to await a transfer to a squadron. Leon had just completed his third tour of instructing at various training bases in South Africa and got a posting to an OTU in Palestine before transferring to a bomber squadron.I gave up my embarkation leave to leave for Cairo in the same aircraft with
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