Grostenquin, France

Looking Back

With the passing of the years our stories should probably be regarded as colour pieces rather than history. Certainly there is true historical content, but with the passage of nearly fifty years memories and sequence become a bit selective. Perspective comes into play too. We saw things from different angles depending on what type of job we were doing. Like the blind man and the elephant. It depends where you are standing; at the tail you find a rope, at the leg a tree, at the side a wall. My sense of recall is still fairly clear and the precision is helped along by my photograph albums. I did not know then that I was writing a diary of sorts, but luckily I made notes which have kept me on some semblance of track.

We see and remember what is important to us. My Grostenquin experiences flow from those of a Supply Tech, and I remember them from the perspective of a junior NCO. We were the "doers" rather than the planners. We were told to execute a certain task and we did it.

In 1952 the RCAF consisted of less than 20,000 people. The advent of Korea and the expansion related to NATO was just beginning. Consequently our ranks were charged with greater responsibility and tasking than was common in other forces. For instance, I recall being sent on a POL course where I and other RCAF NCOs sat in a room with Captains and Majors of the USAF. We were all doing, to a degree, the same job, and the fact that ours was more hands-on helped during discussion. Then too, our numbers dictated the extent of our training, which was excellent. A lot of it was of the learn "on-the-job: variety otherwise known as contact-training. "Do you think you can do this job?" "Yes!" And off we went to do it. As long as we didn't screw up we were left alone. If a problem arose we mentioned it to higher authority and it got solved one way or another. And it worked.

Largely the people in the various trades lived together and associated closely. So, while the pilots flew and the squadron airmen got on with their various specialized jobs which was simply, to keep the aircraft flying, we in the HQ units got on with ours, which was to provide them with the wherewithal to do it. They lived and played with their bunch, we with ours. The various messes and clubs based on rank brought us together on a social basis where we came to know one another, but we tended to form our close friendships from among those with whom we worked.

On operational RCAF stations the differences in rank didn't assume the stiffness prevalent in the army or the navy, and certainly was not comparable to that of the British forces. We knew our senior NCOs by their first names and assumed a relaxed attitude with our officers which was reflected in results. The best proof of that if reflected in two later experiences in civilian life. Once, years later, I was sent out to interview a chap for a job. He turned out to be my former station commander, an ex Group Captain. During our discussion when I called him Sir he replied, "Oh! That's all gone by; my name is Bill. Try it; it's not difficult." Another time when I was in the Artillery Officers mess in Ottawa with some ex-commissioned friends a uniformed Brigadier entered the bar. It was an old section commander who, recognizing me, came over, shook hands, put his arm around my shoulder and announced to the room in general, "Gerry and I used to work together. He didn't mention that he was then a Squadron Leader and I was a Corporal. The primitiveness and squalor of Grostenquin was something common to all. Instead of a normally expected low morale, it soared sky high. We were proud of the place, and it still shows. The reunions and the wry, derisive remark with which we greeted our more comfortable 1, 3 and 4 Wing comrades, which also appears as the logo on the reunion golf shirt proves it: "Get Some Mud On Your Boots."

Grostenquin began for me in June 1952 at RCAF Station MacDonald, Manitoba. The entire station was called to a meeting in the Rec Hall. Air Vice Marshal Annis was ushered in and introduced by our C/O Group Captain Blagrave. We were asked to sit down on the floor, all very unusual. Meetings with rank of this calibre always took place with all hands at attention on parade. It occurred to me at the time that when an AVM asks you to sit down he wants something. We sat, and I was in the front row.

What the gentleman wanted were volunteers for a station which was due to open in France; the forerunner of four wings which would form a Canadian Air Division, which would operate in conjunction with other NATO forces in France, Belgium and Germany. We were told that, number 1 Wing North Luffenham was already operative in England, and that the next, 2 Wing, would represent the first RCAF presence on the continent.

When he stopped talking and asked for personnel who wished to volunteer to register at a side table, I and a pal, Frank Turner, were the first in line. I never did see my posting in DROs. I went on leave in July and never knew of it until, on my return someone clued me in. We were given two weeks embarkation leave in late September and met as a group of thirty at RCAF Station Dorval on October 1st 1952. October 13th saw us boarding a North Star for the flight across the Atlantic.

Our North Star was a freight aircraft with fold-down canvas seats along both sides of the fuselage with boxes lashed down in the centre. Thus began what was the longest, coldest, most uncomfortable trip I ever took during my years in the RCAF.

Our flight plan took us through Moncton, to Goose Bay, to Keflavik in Iceland, to Prestwick in Scotland, to North Luffenham in England, to London, to Paris and finally to our destination Grostenquin in eastern France four days later.

In Iceland Murray Bond and I decided to explore. Two USAF B36 SAC bombers were parked some distance away and we decided to walk over. As we came close a jeep came careening towards us with two men in it, one of them standing up. The biggest black man I have ever seen was behind twin .50 calibre machine guns and we were looking straight down the muzzles.

"Who are you?" "RCAF" "Never heard of it, Where you goin?" "Over to look at that air plane." "You get your ass out of here or you gonna get your head blown right off!" We believed him.

I have no idea why we stopped in Prestwick, and we spent a night in Luffenham. Someone said we stopped in London to pick up crystals which would allow communication with Orly airport in France, our next stop because Grostenquin runways were unserviceable for night landings. We boarded a bus and were driven into Paris by a kamikaze French driver who dumped us out in the middle of Place Pigalle, directly across the street from Le Moulin Rouge. Our hotel was called La Place Blanc which I remembered from a Hemingway novel. Big time stuff.

The first thing we wanted was food; something other than the box lunches we had been eating for four days. Several of us found a small restaurant manned by a chap who spoke English. He produced something which to this day is the finest dish of ham and eggs I have ever tasted.

We didn't waste much time sleeping that night, and it was a tired bunch who assembled for departure the next morning. We finally made the short flight to our final destination where our adventure began in earnest.

We arrived in Grostenquin on October 16, 1952. In process of being built, the place was a mess. I resembled a war zone with the churned up mud, pools of water and skeletons of buildings. The Sabres, having arrived a few days before our particular draft, were parked on the apron and the hangars were reasonably complete, as were a few of the barrack blocks and the three supply section buildings.

The immediate impression was MUD! Lots of it. Poles, some supporting large pipes were much in evidence, and this was a bit puzzling. We discovered these to be the pipes which would conduct the steam to heat our buildings. All the buildings were flat-roofed with shiny aluminum siding.

We were preceded by a few chaps who had lived in Metz for a while prior to taking up residence at GT. When they arrived is still a mystery to me. A few others had preceded our draft by a few days, arriving on the Leap Frog mother aircraft. Following us another draft arrived on October 25th having sailed over on the SS Columbia.

The length of our postings varied depending on whether or not we was married. Single men had two year postings, while the married chaps drew only one. Some of the married fellows brought their families over at their own expense, living in small trailers on base or in the nearest habitable town.

A year or two ago I secured a copy of my records from NDHQ archives. I discovered that I must have been shanghaied by Headquarters Supply. According to official records I was posted to 430 Squadron and it was a full year before I was posted to Headquarters Squadron. Probably by then it was simply too late to bother changing things.

We were assigned billets where Murray Bond and I moved in together. The rooms contained simply a bed and a mattress, nothing else.

The inventiveness of a group of airmen never ceased to amaze me, and I had seen this work on other advance parties. There was a mountain of wooden boxes nearby. Within an hour our rooms were livable, with large boxes for desks, small ones for seats and medium size ones for bedside tables and storage.

There was no electricity and no heat. The light problem was partially solved with candles. One of the memories which stands out best was coming into our room one dark evening to find Murray sitting at his box-desk writing his wife. A candle glued to the bill of a base ball cap provided the light . The heat problem was partially solved by the installation of Herman Nelson heaters at each entrance. They did an acceptable job of heating the halls and we got some heat in the rooms by grabbing a nozzle and redirecting the airflow. The temperature would raise by a few degrees and then a neighbour would snatch it to heat his own place. I have a fuzzy memory of some sort of furnace being installed at our end of the block which was supposed to pump hot water through the radiators, but I don't recall it working very well. This situation led to a great deal of togetherness: visiting by candle light in one warm room. And there was sharing. I recall Bill Moore receiving some tinned lobster from home and he cut his hand rather badly opening the tin. He bled into the lobster but we ate it, blood and all.

We finally did get heat and light but a good deal of the primitiveness continued. Rats were common in barracks. The Canadian variety of rat couldn't hold a candle to these fellows. They were as big as a medium sized cat and they gnawed their way through solid cement. And they were bold. I remember Corrie Corfield, deathly afraid of them, hunkered down by a rat hole holding a club. He got quite a few that way too.

The station still belonged to the French when we arrived, and French airmen were much in evidence, most of them armed with sub machine guns. Some of our French-speaking lads shared rooms with them. One incident in our block could have been very serious. A French airman was sitting on a top bunk with his weapon across his knees. His room mate asked him how it worked. He simply flipped off the safety and pulled the trigger according to reports. One door down an airman had just sat up in his bunk and the burst went into his pillow. Most French troops were conscripts and they couldn't care less.

Added to the mix were the Algerians who were nicknamed A-Rabs. The Algerian war was in full swing at the time. I suppose they were refugees, having found their way into France one way or another. They were intensely disliked by the French, and that dislike was returned in spades by the Algerians. We had been warned that their canteen was off limits but one afternoon a few of us decided to visit the place.

One airman from Fort Capelle, Sask. - Corrie Corfield, was one of the toughest, strongest men I have ever known. A pussy cat of a fellow, his only fear seemed to be of dogs and rats. When we walked into the canteen the place went dead silent. Always, then and thereafter, his food order was the same: "give me a metre of red wine and one of them trombone sandwiches!" Remember le sandwich jambon? An Algerian pulled a knife. Corrie simply took his wrist and squeezed until the knife dropped. He then picked it up and stuck it in the bar between them; and he then poured a glass of wine and pushed it towards the Algerian. They must have spoken a universal language because in no time they were the best of friends. The word spread quickly that Canadians were not like French troops. We got on well with them and they couldn't do enough for us when we had them on jobs. Very trustworthy chaps too.

From a supply point of view things were a mess. Wooded crates were stacked everywhere and we had no idea what any one of them contained. Every day was Christmas when it came to opening those boxes, and it was just a case of selecting a box and opening it. I still wonder why the depots couldn't have made things easier but they didn't. Years later, when at AMC, I worked on new equipment automatic supply the procedure to work through such difficulties looked easy. Maybe our fiasco precipitated that.

For the uninitiated, shipments originating at Canadian supply depots were organized by Outgoing Shipment Numbers (OGS). That is, each shipment was assigned a number, and each box was numbered sequentially with respect to the OGS. In box number one was an itemized list of everything the shipment contained. Normally not a problem. In fact it was foolproof - as long as you knew where box number one was. We simply had no idea where that box might be. They were thoroughly mixed up. The shipments left the depots in good shape, were loaded into boxcars in Canada, offloaded onto ships and routed from the French ports of entry to Faulquemont or Metz, trucked to Grostenquin and unloaded by Arab labour who stacked them on the nearest hard surface. This might be a Sabre dispersal button, a concrete floor prepared for a building or a completed hangar. When the building was required the boxes were moved yet again. The results were predictable. But it was amazing how experience mixed with determination and not a little invention eventually sorted things out.

Previous experience in the fuel handling (POL) eventually put me in charge the stuff, and another adventure loaded with problems began. There were ten dispersed fuel sites, each of four 10,000 gallon tanks scattered on the station. Getting the tanks into the ground was the first problem. Some idea of the mud's consistency can be imagined by the first attempt to bury a site of four tanks. Substantial concrete nests were constructed to which the tanks were bolted down with steel straps. Once placed, they were covered with earth. Next morning all four tanks had broken their moorings and were floating. Pretty liquid stuff, that mud.

Once a site was buried successfully a reasonably flat surface was created. That became the recipe for yet another problem. The Algerians had a habit of building fires to keep warm and a drained flat surface must have looked like a good place to build one. One day we were notified of a blazing fire directly in the centre of a partially filled tank farm, The least smidgen of vapour could have caused the grandfather of all explosions. Thankfully JP4 didn't vaporize all that easily and the fire was quickly dowsed, but it was an anxious moment.

During my 15 months at GT there was no pipeline, nor was there any proper pumping system for either unloading bowsers or refilling them. The JP4 came from Wiesbaden by tank car to Faulquemont. We sucked it out of the tank car using the bowser's pump and then trucked to the station, nineteen hundred gallons at a time, and transferred it to the tanks by the same method reversed. Even during the several war scares we experienced the French would not allow us to increase the loads for fear we would injure their roads (remember that just a few years before there were 50 ton tanks rumbling down those same roads). To fill a bowser the JP4 was sucked back out by vehicle's pump. Some head-scratching led to rigging four gasoline driven pumps of rather low capacity attached to a locally designed baffle. The wear and tear on the bowsers pumps was lessened but it was a weary job filling a bowser, and it took a longer time to fill a tank. On many occasions fuel went directly from tank car to bowser to aircraft.

Bowers getting stuck in the mud was another problem. We laid down perforated steel planking for them to drive on, the same type of which had formed temporary landing strips during the advance into Germany during the war. It was a pretty crude operation compared to what it eventually became, but again, it worked.

We were always hungry and messing arrangements were primitive. Originally what would eventually become the Works and Bricks building was the spot where all hands, officers and other ranks ate. It also served as a canteen, wet and otherwise. In October the sun sets early, and while we didn't eat in the dark it was almost dark. Mules from the hangar line were driven down and parked outside with their headlights shining through the windows. I remember the food as top notch. Since some recall it that way; perhaps the answer lies in the fact that we were young and healthy and any thing tasted good.

The canteen was almost a home away from home, warm, cozy and the beer was cheap. I remember a particularly good rice beer and that was puzzling. Wonderful stuff that, with each bottle wrapped in its own little straw mat. Rice beer in France? Only later did we discover that the stuff came all the way from Indo China. After the French defeat the source dried up.

And speaking of beer, who can forget the Neufang variety and the ball team which originated as a result: the Neufang Clowns, Their uniform was a tee shirt with a Neufang bottle tipped at 45 degrees; a single drop emerging.

Getting to the mess presented a problem. There were two approaches. One was to navigate a slippery board walk to the door and the other to cross a concrete foundation that ran kitty corner across the ell of the building. The resulting triangle formed a little moat, always full of water. We generally chose to navigate the concrete walk way which was easy if (1) You could see properly and (2) you were completely sober. This combination joined after dinner and a few beers with predictable results. Breakfast time next morning generally found a couple hats floating; sometimes wedge, sometimes flat.

I'm not clear on when proper mess arrangements were established, but it must have quite early. When the airman's mess did evolve I recall the food as being quite good. As far as I was concerned there was one drawback: we were drawing rations from the Americans and there was an over-abundance of lima beans. They turned up with monotonous regularity. I haven't eaten them voluntarily since.

Water was always a problem. Tap water was poisonous stuff. Drinking water in the beginning was bottled, lemony flavoured stuff which was not particularly appetizing, but most of us carried a bottle where ever we went. Later in barracks, a Lister bag was hung in the washroom. This thing looked like an oversize kit bag with a tap in the bottom. Each morning it was filled, and purifying tablets added. It took a couple of hours for the pills to do their stuff after which the "do not drink" sign was removed. On one occasion only did I drink while the sign was still there. Less than half an hour later severe cramps developed which was followed by a long-lasting attack of Montezuma's revenge. The locals seemed to drink the stuff with impunity.

A station laundry and dry cleaning facility was established quite early. Civilian employees did the hands on work but an airman ran the place. The price of dry cleaning a uniform was one dollar, while a washed and ironed shirt cost about fifteen cents. Bear in mind that a months pay amounted to about $150.00 and that most of us were sending at least something back home.

The first line of defence was warmth wherever it could be found. My work uniform was a navy turtle neck sweater under a Buchanan tartan shirt with a battle dress tunic over everything. When the time came to get back into proper uniform there was considerable grousing. Walking out dress was another matter. One would never think of leaving the station improperly dressed. Rain gear was another problem, and it rained constantly in winter. We had been issued with the new cloth raincoat which was great until it actually began to rain. Then the old rain gear looked good. In the field the new nylon parka kept one reasonably dry, and with the liner, warm in winter.

Many evenings would find a group of airmen boarding the train for an evening in Saarbrucken, a twenty five mile ride from Faulquemont. Several of us adopted a small night club as a home away from home where we could keep warm until closing time, drinking white wine until the wee small hours. Of course we drank too much of it with predictable results. Breakfast, if one could eat it, came right back up. It made for a miserable morning, but lunch always seemed to fix the problem.

Faulquemont was always a drawing card. Every evening there was a scheduled bus to town. Generally the evening would be spent in one of the pubs. The beer was good and it was cheap. We lived on the edge of champagne country, which prompted the odd champagne party. One particular brand, Museau or some such spelling, was heady stuff. We would gather at a particular pub at a specified time to catch the bus back to camp. I remember it as kind of a Dante's inferno. One chap used to blow a swig of JP4 across the flame of a lighter which produced a display worthy of an afterburner.

As I recall a movie theatre came into existence quite early, and I recall the films as being of first run quality. Probably the proximity of American stations had something to do with this.

Their proximity resulted in other things as well. An American wing commanded by General Chuck Yeager, the first man to fly faster than sound (and live to tell about it). A good deal of rivalry between our fighter jocks and theirs developed. This resulted in our being "bombed" with thunder flashes. Their Marauders would swoop over at low level and drop the things. They made a resounding bang and the noise inside our aluminum huts was a bit like living in a tin can. A humorous incident involved one of their visiting aircraft. While the crew was being entertained in the Officers Mess the maintenance crew on the hangar line painted their air plane pink. Some say it went back with big stars on it, others say the decoration was RCAF squadron decals.

Weekends saw as many of us leaving camp, again with the idea of warmth uppermost in mind. This generally meant a hotel in Nancy, Metz, or somewhere in the Saar; perhaps a German city within easy distance. Belgium, Luxembourg or even Holland were popular destinations. . One weekend a few of us spent a couple of nights in a cheap hotel in a building which was once area Gestapo headquarters. Easy to believe. The place was nearly windowless and all the doors were iron.

We were paid in American scrip. This was only good on the station but there was no trouble exchanging the stuff for French francs for off station purchases. In countries other than France exchange was not difficult. A kind of black market currency exchange in Luxembourg was popular. A thousand French francs cost $3.50 American. One could buy dollars on camp in American Express travellers cheques, journey to Luxembourg, buy French francs with them and get well in excess of the French exchange rate. French elections occurred with monotonous regularity during which we would be confined to camp and the resulting political situation made the French franc soft currency. I remember a day in Switzerland when I exchanged French money for Swiss, having dinner and, on the way out reversing the process and winding up with more French money than I had to begin with. Certainly money didn't seem to be a problem. The dollar was strong and the European economy weak with the result that prices were cheap in comparison. At that time we were the best paid troops in Europe, our dollar being at a premium to American money.

On Christmas 1952, a number of us were flown to London by Bristol Freighter which ran a regular schedule between Langar and GT. I cannot remember where we landed; Langar perhaps, Manston maybe, but somehow Frank Turner and I somehow managed to obtain British money and travelled by train to London. Thus began an unusual experience.

We arrived in London on the evening of December 23 and finding a hotel room was impossible. Finding ourselves in Trafalgar Square we simply walked down a street. Frank stopped and pointed at a sign. Downing Street! We approached a Bobby and asked the inevitable question: "Where's number 10?" He pointed at a window and said "Mr. Churchill is asleep in that room and you buggers keep quiet." We explained our plight and he directed us down the street to The Overseas League where, luckily, we found a room.

The next morning the secretary of the club telephoned saying that Mr. Harris would like to meet us in the bar. Strange; we didn't know anybody named Harris, in fact we didn't know anybody in London. After a fast shave an no breakfast we found the bar and were introduced to Air Chief Marshall Sir Arthur Harris; Bomber Harris himself! We were the first RCAF he had seen since the war and it didn't seem to bother him in the least that we were simple airmen and not officers.

Sir Arthur was Chief of the Air Staff, RAF then. The Overseas League was his club. He treated each of us to a double scotch - early in the morning and before breakfast - and did we have any plans for Christmas dinner?. I don't remember disgracing myself, but I do remember leaving that bar the worse for wear.

We met in the dining room for dinner on Christmas day to discover that he had arranged company for us: two Canadian girls on the loose from the Canadian High Commission at Canada House. I still have the dinner tickets, but was too stupid to ask Sir Arthur to sign them.

I have always wondered how many Canadian airmen have had the privilege of dinner with Sir Arthur Harris, Christmas or otherwise. There was no lower rank than we were then, and no one of higher rank than he. I discovered something that has stood me good stead on many later occasions when interviewing senior government officials was part of my job. The higher up the ladder they are the easier they are to talk with. Perhaps that's how they got there.

For the remainder of our five day stay in London we literally dined out on Sir Arthur. He arranged tickets for us to attend the perennially popular BBC Ball Room, and among other things I remember seeing my first big stage show at Drury Lane; South Pacific.

Many years later, when the green uniform appeared a letter from him was published in The Ottawa Citizen. It gave his address and I wrote thanking him again for his kindness to two rather lost and lonesome Canadian airmen. I received back a short handwritten note in which he went way out of his way to prove that he did remember the occasion.

I have since lost track of Frank and have posted a note on the web site in search of him. If any readers of this story know of his whereabouts I would greatly appreciate knowing.

The remainder of my 2 Wing stay is filled with many memories: the Coronation followed by a memorable two week leave in Stratford-on-Avon, trips all over Europe, but above all, the people who inhabited the place. The WDs, those sterling women who must have been hand picked, arrived to both work with us and provide us with what we missed most; quality company with wholesome Canadian girls. They remain a lasting memory. As is common in most military organizations, friendships developed which last to this day, even though we seldom meet.

But the early days had ended and life settled down to near normalcy. In January of 1954 my time with 2 Wing ended with my posting to 441 (Silver Fox) Squadron at North Luffenham. There I stayed until October of 1954 when I was posted back to Canada.

The guys and girls of the early days at 2 Wing are still very firmly implanted in my memory, and the adventure was something only a few of us were allowed to experience.