G/C JD "Red" Somerville was not only a wartime Mosuito pilot, but a pre-war flier from way back. He may be the oldest to have flown Sabres in the RCAF on a regular basis. He had soloed in 1929 from Toronto's famous de Lesseps field, and through the thirties did considerable barnstorming, and worked with 110 "City of Toronto" Squadron (Aux) as an aero engine mechanic. He spent the early war years instructing in Canada, and when finally posted overseas seemed "doomed" to Bomber Command. Doomed, for he had his heart set on Spitfires: In an attempt to rectify what I deemed to be a serious error on somebody's part, I went to London to talk with Air Commodore Wilf Curtis, the sneior RCAF officer there, and my former OC from 110 Squadron".
Curtis explained, "They're too hot, Red. The guys who fly Spits are 19 and 20 years old". Sommerville was disappointed, but Curtis did agree to have him posted to night fighters. Somerville continues:
My wartime operations were all on Losquitos, first in the UK, then in France and Germany. I also checked out on such types as the P-47, P-51 and A-26. The 2800-hp engines on the A-26 were huge, and noise unbelievable. Take off, wheels up, climb speed. Fifty feet up and I see a small T-handle labelled Control-Lock. I think. the Americans have done it again: a mechanical device to hold the aircraft in a steady rate of climb while the pilot attends to more important things. I pull the handle - it locks the flying controls and closes the throttles! My right hand is a blur as it snaps the T-lock and shoves the throttle open again.
After surviving various such shenanigans, Sommerville decided to stay in the post-war RCAF. In 1948 he checked put on the Vampire and in 1951 was made station commander at St. Hubert. For Red Somerille, the timing of this posting couldn't have been better, for the Sabres were just beginning to appear.
The earliest Sabres at St. Hubert had at least two idiosyncrasies which only the first pilots to fly them experienced. The first was the hydraulic elevator control which was notable for removing any "feel" for the pilot. On takeoff, for instance, the fledgling Sabre driver would pull back on the pole. Nothing seemed to happen. Pull... nothing.. PULL! Then he abruptly went flying.
The stick was fitted with a bungee spring device which allowed the pilot to overcome tne hydraulic control, but it required several pounds of pull to do so. Responding to complaints from pilots, Canadair reduced the pull required to about a half pound.
The second curiosity was a toggle switch on the panel, used to prevent compressor stall. The pilot was to open this switch before slamming the throttle open from, say, idle to bore. Sometimes this detail was overlooked, leading to engibe flame-out.
The Sabre was a very stongly built fighter. One day Ronnie Found of 410 Squadron crash landed at Dorval following engine trouble. His Sabre slammed through the orange and white checkered ILS shack at the end of the runway. The Sabre was totally destroyed, but Found survived - saved by the solid framework around him, but also by his hard hat.Hard hats were a novelty in those days, and many pilots turned theirs into "objets d'art" with their names and various graphic designs painted on. Not everyone was sold on their effectiveness. Ron Found was glad he was wearing his, though. When he crashed, he was thrown forward. His hard hat took the brunt of the ensuing collision of man and machine. Some years later I experienced a strange feeling when I recognized Ronnie Found's battered crash helmet lying in a bin in a junk store.
As "station master" at St. Hubert, I could always find time to phone one of the squadrons and ask if there were any "spare" Sabres in need of a pilot. I often found myself test flying Sabres back from maintenance, or as wingman in formations, which allowed me all the fun of flying and none of the responsibility of leading. Perfect!
During this time, the RAF had a small unit at St. Hubert to handle the ferrying of Sabres to England. Each new Sabre required some 10 hours flying before delivery. Again, this was ideal for me, and I had all the Sabres to fly that I wanted.
I had the pleasure (with some anxiety thrown in) of making several trips in RAF Sabres as far as Goose Bay, a distance from St. Hubert of 673 miles. That was just about maximum range of the Sabres with their underwing tanks (100 gallon). Our track was down the north shore of the St. Lawrence to Sept Isles, then inland across Labrador to Goose. There were no alternates and weather was often marginal. Normally a pilot would hold over the beacon for snow showers to subside, but not with our RAF Sabres. We arrived at Goose with perhaps 10 minutes fuel remaining. It was scary. Later on, the Sabres carried the big 167 gallon underwing tanks and upped their reserve to 30 minutes on arrival at Goose.
My luck with postings continued and in August 1953 I was promoted to Group Captain and named station CO at North Luffenham. There I was reunited with many old friends from 410, 439 and 441 Squadrons, which had earlier formed at St. Hubert. On each squadron were 18 Sabres and 24 pilots. But the actual number of drivers present always fluctuated; thus by having my name in three different flight rooms, I managed to log as much Sabre time as did squadron pilots. Later on, I did some extra flying testing Sabre 2s overhauled at Ringway, near Manchester, for the Greeks and Turks.
One day I was flying a solo trip in one of the refits. On the tail was the bright red and white Turkish flag. It was beautiful and sunny over eastern England and those were the days when air fighting was not a pre-arranged thing. Anyone was fair game. To be bounced was to be embarrassed, a terrible loss of face for the peacetime fighter pilot (in wartime he'd be dead!) All the more reason that I, a veritable "senior citizen" in the fighter business, should not be caught unawares.
For the day-fighter pilot, lookout was everything, and this day mine was better than that of the crew of a USAF B-57. They should have caught me before I turned in on them, but didn't, and they didn't even notice as I came up on their starboard wing. There I sat, waiting. Finally the navigator glanced over and gave a "Hi y'all" wave. He looked back into the cockpit, then whirled in a classic double take. That red Turkish emblem! For certain it flashed through his mind, "That's a Russian out there!"
Every fighter pilot has his embarrassing moments. If you're lucky, nobody's around to see your mistake. But if you're leading a four-plane and three others and maybe the boys in the tower witness your gaffe, then you're apt to find yourself buying drinks-withour-end afterwards. It happened to me.
When 1 Wing moved across to Marville, I was posted there as Station CO. We were flying Sabre 5s, and the 6s were beginning to arrive. Everyone was anxious to fly the 6 with its beefed-up Orenda 14, but 1 Wing would be the last to re-equip.
In 1956 I was vacationing with my family in the German Alps. There I happened to meet A/V/M Godwin, AOC of the Air Division. I asked him, "How about dropping off a Mark 6 at Marville?" and thought no more about it until, lo and behold, on the next delivery of Mark 6s, one spiralled down and landed at Marville. Naturally, I had my name on it and was ready to fly as soon as maintenance completed its acceptance check.
Of course, the bathtub-size underwing tanks were removed, so I was to fly the Sabre 6 "clean". This was all I could have hoped for, as I roaded away from Marville. What a rate of climb! Even better, I soon spotted and surprised a section of French Mysteres, beautiful airplanes but, I can tell you, no match for the Sabre 6. The French were not too keen to mix it up so, after a short joust, I headed north for home.
Now I consulted my fuel gauges. I was low, so quickly called Marville. Tower came back with the runway in use. A few minutes later I called "Initial", pitched over the runway, dropped the gear on the downwind, and was on the final descending turn toward blessed asphalt, "Base, final.." I wanted landing clearance. What I got back was, "Sir? We don't see you!"
I was seconds from landing at a French military airfield under construction. The runway heading and dispersal were just like our own. I rechecked my fuel and decided that the embarrassment of landing here would be less hard to take than landing in some farmers field as I struggled back to Marville. So I transmitted, "I'm landing at this French base 20 miles south. You'd better send someone to get me." It cost me a fortune in drinks at the Mess that night.
By the time I had ended my tour in the Air Division I had logged 625 Sabre hours. I loved that airplane.
Updated: May 14, 2003