Back

We'll Make Men of You
Jack Stafford Shares the Story of his Wartime Career

Jack Stafford, the New Zealand Tempest pilot who has assisted us as an historical advisor on both CFS1 and CFS3, is a living link to the historic events underlying the Combat Flight Simulator franchise, and to the world of the fighter pilot in the piston-and-propeller era. He also remains vital and articulate. Jack has agreed to share a series of six articles he has written about his wartime experience—from training, to early missions, and through the end of the war—with the CFS community.

Here is the first of Jack's stories, titled, "We'll Make Men of You." It describes his experience as an RNZAF trainee in 1942, and how his entry into the world of aerial combat changed him and his relationship to those he left behind in New Zealand.

by Jack Stafford

I was 19 years old. I was flying a Harvard, and I was flying it well. Just imagine a 19-year-old boy given a machine that cost the equivalent of several top racing cars, with a performance that would leave those cars in its dust. The boy is taught to fly and, when he is capable, he is told to take this beautiful thing up into the air and have fun. Built only for war, it was just a magnificent, expensive, uneconomic, performance-inspired, young man's dream. So I was up into that unlimited space, with no restrictive roads, just the bright blue sky.

"Go out and practice some aerobatics," said my instructor; "I'll catch you later." No music could have been sweeter to my ear; it was like when I was a child and my mother said to me, "You can go out and play now."

I hung high in that crystal-clear Marlborough sky. I could see the magnificent and impassive Southern Alps shining white, standing like fangs in some prehistoric skull. I watched the vast and restless Pacific Ocean as it rolled in, crashing and curling against the coastal headland. I saw the Canterbury Plains stretching south, it seemed to infinity, while to the North the dark shadow that was New Zealand, my homeland, stretched on and disappeared over the horizon. My contentment was total; I loved every minute in the air and I was totally confident in my ability to handle this elegant and sophisticated craft.

Jack Stafford: Now and Then

I played with the controls: I pulled the nose up, I pushed the nose down, I rolled each way and I skidded each way, I stood her on her tail, held her up until she stalled, then as she dropped, I recovered quickly. I dived a short distance, pulled the nose up again and rolled her up onto her back. A little pressure on the stick and down I went to the earth beneath. As she fell through the sky and the speed increased she quickly reached vertical.

I maintained back pressure on the stick and she moved into the transition to reach the circular arch at the bottom of that sweet curve. As she bottomed out the G-forces took over, brutally crushing me down onto my seat. The controls gently overcame the G's and the machine rose, leaping towards the sun like a demented rocket. Oh God, it was just so good! I rolled vertically upwards, a victory roll, I yelled with joy, exhilarated beyond belief. The speed lessened and I soon hung upside down in a sloppy half roll, during which I lost 100 feet, putting me in almost the same position from which I had started.

I was so filled with joy, so excited that I sang, I yelled, I even tried to yodel, I was so inspired. Like a lark rising high in this cloudless heaven I chirped my pleasure to the world. Overcome by the happiness I was experiencing, I prayed "Please, God, let me spend my life playing in this heaven; let this last and last forever."

I had spent the vital days of 1940, during the Battle of Britain, at school in Auckland. Old boys, who only a year or two before had stood where I was now standing, died daily in the ferocious conflict played out in the indifferent European sky. To experience this period in history filled me with a determination and forged in me a resolve to get into the air and into combat. With thousands of other hopeful youngsters, I volunteered to fly with the Royal New Zealand Air Force. I was certain that I would be chosen, and I was sure that I would eventually become a Fighter Pilot. I would—I must—wear those wings.

Welcome to the Air Force: Jack meets the "Neanderthal"
I entered the Air Force in 1941, but didn't start my training until March '42 when, with some 150 other bewildered boys, I stoically suffered the wrath of numerous NCOs who marched, ran, and bullied us for hours every day. The object of their performance was to "make men out of us," they said. One particularly brutal Flight Sergeant marched and ran us, on one occasion, to almost total exhaustion. He was built like a gorilla, with short black bristles atop his flat skull. With his Neanderthal brows, his half-hidden cold blue eyes, and his murderous mouth, he presented a formidable sight. He marched us, he taunted us, he left-turned us, adopted a belligerent posture in front of us, and then dressed us down, telling us what we were, and what our mothers probably were. He gave a short character description of the fathers that we obviously would never have known, then he called us to attention. He yelled at us to stand like men.

"Look proud!" he screamed. "Don't look at me, you idiots! Look above me, look at the sky. That's where you're going. Don't look at the ground, that's where I'm staying."

His last words were quieter; a softness came into his voice, almost compassionate. I looked at him with interest. Had he at one time dreamed of being a pilot? Had he wished for a life in the air? How many boys had he marched, frightened, and bullied? Did he read the casualty lists published daily, and recognise with sorrow many of the names? Did he perhaps weep? For an instant he looked almost human, but the moment was short-lived. He barked, obviously embarrassed at the humanity he had shown, and quickly resumed his revolting disposition. He returned us to our billets at a fast trot.

The days passed. We continued to run, march, and study for hours every day. It was two or three days before we finished the physical part of our ground training course when "Neanderthal" marched us around the town and into the Government Gardens, where he halted us. He stood in front of us and adopted his most truculent posture. I suddenly realised that we were halted in front of the Ward Baths, between the baths and a large ornamental pool. I felt uneasy.

"Now,"said this unpleasant man, "Word has reached me that someone among you lot has decided to throw me into this pool. Would that person please step forward and chuck me into the water?" There were a few muffled mumblings and much shuffling of feet but no one moved forward to take up the invitation. The Sergeant removed his shirt, displaying a gross and hairy body that made him look like his cave-dwelling ancestors.

"No Sergeant's stripes," he bellowed. "No rank difference. We are all the same. Now's your chance." Still nobody moved.

"Right!" he screamed. "Any two of you?" He was reaching a killing frenzy. Still we stood in silence.

"Right!" he screeched, almost apoplectic. "Attention. Right turn, quick march, double march. Left right left right. Move it!"

It was a subdued group that was dismissed at the billets. I felt that he hid his pleasure in this little victory rather well. But I noticed the creases of amusement around his eyes. What a pitiful man! Give him a gun and give his opponent a gun and see who was the toughest then. Make it even; take away all physical advantage. Doing him over had been considered, but it would have been at a time and place of our choosing. He bluffed us; he had total control, and that made him feel good—it didn't make him popular.

We were examined, finally, and the marks were pinned up on the wall for all to see. Those who failed were remustered to other positions in the Air Force. Some transferred to other branches of the service. Some of us passed, some of us didn't. In a matter of weeks those who were successful began flying training; I was posted to Bell Block in Taranaki.

We travelled first down to Wellington and then back up to New Plymouth. The inevitable trucks awaited us and conveyed us to the Bell Block Airfield. Now I felt I was really in the Air Force; this was it. All around the field stood Tiger Moth aircraft, while overhead they buzzed and droned. In my imagination these pretty little biplanes became Sopwith Camels or SE5s from World War I, resting from or going out to battle. Perhaps the Red Baron awaited them with his Spandaus loaded and his triplane trembling with eagerness. We all stood fascinated by this introduction. A Sergeant showed us to our comfortable billets, two beds to a room, and each hut close to an ablution block—it was heaven. A few days settling in and then we were all in the air.

Flying the Tiger Moth
My instructor was a tall, pleasant, fair-headed guy, maybe a year or two older than me. He gave me confidence and seemed pleased with my progress. I had flown dual for seven hours when he taxied back to the takeoff point, climbed out of the Tiger with the removed joystick in his hand and said, "Off you go, Staff; you don't need me." With joy in my heart I turned into the wind. I looked around for other aircraft; it was all clear, so I gave her the gun and I was in the air, oh happy day. I completed the circuit and landed. I taxied back to my instructor, who shook my hand and said, "Good show, Staff." I could have kissed him. Most of our course had, or soon would, go solo. Some were grounded, some chucked it in, one or two were killed. The wing fabric from one of these crashes still covers my logbook.

My instructor seemed very successful, but they gave me some new instructors and he was given some difficult pupils. One of the new guys I got was a disaster. He was mean-faced, tall and gawky, and had all the personality of a gum boot. He grunted, bleated, and moaned about everything. His dislike of me was obvious and heartily reciprocated. My flying fell off and he seemed determined to get rid of me. I was set down for a Chief Flying Instructor (CFI) test. This normally would be the end of the course for a pilot, and I would be remustered as an Air Gunner or posted to the Ground Staff; to me that would be a death sentence. I was called out from a lecture to take the test with the CFI. As I left the room all the trainees on my course called out, "Good luck, Staff!"

I was buoyed by their support.

The Tiger sat out on the grass with its engine running, the Squadron Leader in the cockpit. I climbed into the other cockpit wordlessly and put on my helmet. The instruction came in a surprisingly friendly voice: "OK, son—taxi her out." In a minute we were in the air.

Gentle instructions followed: "Steep turn to port, steep turn to starboard. Let's climb to a safe height, stall and recover. OK, climb up again, spin, and recover. Let's try a loop." All seemed to go well, and my confidence grew.

Forced Landing
We flew on straight and level, the Squadron Leader piloting. Suddenly he cut the throttle. "Forced landing," he said. I looked below; a large uncluttered paddock lay beneath us, with no cattle and no obstructions, level and smooth, the perfect landing site; it must have been all of 20 acres. I glided down towards this ideal target, but I had miscalculated.

As I crossed the boundary fence I was still a couple of hundred feet in the air. "Shit, I've blown it!" was my thought. As I crossed the other boundary I was still 'way up in the air. Ahead lay a miserable, small, rough-looking paddock with a large hedge on the near boundary and a tree somewhere near the middle. Desperately side slipping, I cleared the hedge and guided the little Tiger away from the tree.

I was right on the stall only a few feet off the ground when the voice from the back seat said, "I've got her." The throttle was opened wide, and we rose swiftly over the far boundary, climbing quickly and in silence—me with my unspeakable thoughts of this disaster and the Squadron Leader with a sense of amusement that I knew nothing about until months after.

"Was that the paddock you chose for your forced landing?" said the voice. "Yes, sir," I lied like a flat fish. "Well, the landing was OK, but you are the worst selector of landing sites I have ever flown with" said the CFI. Nothing further was said or done and we flew back, with me again in control. We landed and climbed out, removing our helmets. We walked to the dispersal, side by side without speaking.

Smiling at me, the Squadron Leader said, "You'll be OK, son." The sense of relief was unbelievable. I silently lifted my eyes to heaven and said, "Thank you, God."

The annoyance of the repulsive squirt who was my instructor was obvious, but he said nothing. We flew together in a most unsatisfactory alliance. He walked from the aircraft after one flight in his normal bad-tempered manner and I watched him waddling away with all the grace of a crippled duck. "How I'd like to mark you on the rugby field," I said to myself.

Within a week, this instructor was exchanged for a more mature man, a pre-war pilot who was all I could wish for. My life was changed. This instructor arranged for me to be posted to Woodbourne to fly Harvard advanced trainers—my dream had come true.

Many months later I was friendly with an instructor who had been at Bell Block. He told me how the CFI laughingly described in the Officers Mess the lying young so-'n-so who pulled off a very difficult stuffed-up forced landing while taking a CFI test. His instructor had recommended grounding, but he himself did not consider that an option.

Woodbourne for me was just heaven. Perfect days followed perfect days, the sun seemed to always shine, and my contentment matched the weather. Finally winter moved into spring and on into summer. So passed those wonderful days as a Pupil Pilot in Blenheim.

"Beating up" Tophouse
I had been very fortunate in getting a Rotorua boy as my instructor. He was full of fun and, as far as I could tell he didn't take anything very seriously. When my flying reached the competent stage he would take me low flying on Lake Grassmere. I would fly and he would fire a revolver at the wildlife on the water.

I don't think the wildlife ever realised that this was happening. He knew a barmaid at Tophouse and on a couple of occasions during night flying, we flew up there and he would say "I've got her." Then would follow the biggest thrill I had experienced during my short flying career: an aerobatic display with the landing lights blazing.

As we passed the chimney, on one occasion he exclaimed, "Shit, that was close!" Unless you've seen George Bertram beat up Tophouse you've never really seen a Harvard reach its limits.

As for me, sublime confidence ruled; I never considered the thought of George making a mistake. He really taught me to fly to the limit. That was what the war was really about. To me, "Hori," as George was known, was the greatest!

Another top instructor was a good-looking guy called, as I remember, Roy Mansill. He was in the same mould as George Bertram, and it was always great to fly with him. He flew me under the telephone wires in the low flying area. One or two of the other pupils had been taken under and I pestered Mansill to take me. One day in the low flying area he flew down parallel to the telephone wires then almost before I knew it he neatly slipped under. He didn't offer to let me have a shot, however.

A Hard Fact of Air Force Life: Pilots are Expendable
One episode startled me, and its effect stayed with me for a long time. We had a young pilot in our course named Charlie Rickey. He was a most pleasant, gentlemanly person, and I considered him a friend. He was tall, fair, and good looking. Slightly built, but athletic, he was a most affable companion. I always enjoyed his company. Charlie was killed in an air accident. I think several pilots were chasing each other around the valleys and peaks and there was a misjudgement that cost Charlie his life. I heard that his plane lost part of a wing and went in.

Charlie had been gone for some time when I was called to the Flight Commander's office. I marched in. The Flight Commander was sitting at his desk with his head down and I stared with amazement at a chart on the wall behind him. The names of all the pilots on our course were arranged vertically on the board, separated by horizontal lines marking each pupil's progress. Charlie's name was still there with a red line through his progress description and in large bold letters was the word "WASTAGE."

I was incensed. How could anyone refer to Charlie's life as "wastage"? He was one of us; we were brothers, comrades. Ready to fight for each other to the death. The Flight Commander looked up. He spoke to me, but I hardly heard him. He gently reprimanded me for something or other but it all paled to insignificance beside what that chart revealed to me.

Our position in the scheme of things was clear. We were expendable. I could not believe this callous disregard for a well-liked colleague. I was dismissed. I didn't mention the incident to anyone. The Commander was oblivious to my feelings. This small experience changed my attitude to Air Force life. It was one of many that finally made me what I became.

The New-Minted Pilot Finds Alienation at Home
It was over; I was a Pilot. I didn't realise it, but of course it was just the beginning. Now my thoughts were on the moment of truth, which would arrive sooner or later when I met the enemy. I put all that behind me and I journeyed home to Rotorua on final leave.

Splendid in my blue uniform with those coveted wings on the left breast, I was very pleased with myself. The days passed pleasantly and quickly. I fished, I hunted, and I wandered in the bush at Kaharoa. With my father, who was just turned 40 years old, I climbed through the bush on hunting trips, and spent days and nights out on the farm.

I could hardly believe the gulf that had developed between me and most of the people with whom I had been so close only 12 months earlier. My single-minded devotion to the Air Force was beyond them; they could not understand my experiences in the air.

At first I was keen to discuss my flying in great detail, but I couldn't get through to them; our lives had taken different paths and nothing was the same. I found it very hard to accept that their interests were still centred on the weather, the stock, the fragile old fence on the back boundary, who would be at the dance on Saturday night, and so on.

Christ! Didn't they realise what an exciting world it was? If I spoke to people about life in the Air Force they would listen politely, but before long their disinterest became obvious and they would remember that the ewes had to be shifted in the top paddock, or business had to be done in town. I must have been a bore.

This was not where my life was to be lived; the sky had captivated my soul and it was there I must live or die; life without the experience of combat would be a living death.

Finally the leave was over. The days had passed quickly, and I was called to Wellington for embarkation.

With relief I travelled to Frankton Junction to catch the Limited Express. One or two of the other pilots from Hamilton and Auckland were on it. It was a great pleasure to talk again about our mutual love affair with flying. We dozed and read; we had railway coffee in railway cups that were almost as large as the "Jerry" under my grandfather's bed. The coffee washed down the thick railway ham sandwiches. The night wore on; sleep came to us all and we awoke to observe the final hours into Wellington.

We had been ordered to report to the Air Department. We were given vouchers for accommodation in various hotels, all first-class. Each morning we reported to the Air Department, where we were instructed to report next day, same time. When we got to Wellington I found out a small group of Blenheim girls had come to see us off.

One of the Auckland pilots had been writing to a girl and had sent her a telegram saying we would be in the capital city. We were glad of their company, as the city had a large number of American Marines in residence and they had dominated the young women.

We spent every day with these girls, and most nights went with them to the Majestic Cabaret. It was all most pleasant; the girls were great to be with, lots of fun. They were faithful to us, although the American boys tried hard to separate us. What happened after we left of course, I never knew, and I never cared. No doubt human nature did what human nature always does. While we were together they gave us their undivided attention and I appreciated that; what more could you ask?

Shipping out
Many days passed and then, without warning, when we reported to the Air Department, we were instructed to get our gear from the hotel and report back. We were loaded into a truck and taken out to Rongotai, where we were subjected to short lectures, prodded and poked at, and given some money. Then we climbed back into the truck.

We were driven to the wharf and marched on board the Akaroa, a small tramp passenger ship. We were four to a cabin and very comfortable. The Prime Minister and the Minister of Defence came to the ship, gave short, unctuous, and insincere speeches, and then scuttled quickly from the ship back to the security of their homes.

The evening wore on, and we were all quiet. Some pilots wrote letters, hoping to get them ashore; some played cards. I mostly sat in silence and thought. Strange and unfamiliar sounds came to us from the upper deck as we sat around the lounge. Bells rang, voices with strong English accents—accents that we were unaccustomed to—gave orders and the ship slowly and quietly slipped away from the dock.

People playing cards stopped; we were all silent, each young man quietened by the importance of this moment in his life. Like assassins in the night we stole down the harbour. It was very dark; no flicker of light betrayed us to the shore. A high, thin layer of cloud obscured the stars and the sound of movement along the waterline of the ship seemed indistinct and muffled. It was solemn, brooding, yet strangely dignified. I felt slightly insecure and apprehensive.

I could not know then that three long years would pass before I again returned to this harbour—or that in a matter of months many of us would be dead. The graveyards of Europe would be the final resting-place for a large proportion of my comrades.