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When I was Young

The last of RNZAF Tempest pilot Jack Stafford’s six stories describes an idyllic interlude after the fighting in Europe had ceased. In it Jack learns the joys of a far different kind of flight, in gliders, soaring silently above a now-peaceful landscape.

by Jack Stafford

The war was over; had been for some little time. Even though the fighting was finished, the evidence of battle remained. Bailey bridges spanned the many streams and rivers, while the remnants of centuries-old bridges lay nearby in ruins. Towns were just rubble; a few walls still stood here and there, but many areas were virtually obliterated. This testimony to all the violence and destruction of combat was everywhere for all to see.

Our squadron, on the other hand, was housed in comparative luxury on an ex-Luftwaffe base that had never been bombed. Its beautiful mess and billets made a great change from the privations of Holland and the canvas walls of other German bases we had occupied. I was flying with an RAF fighter squadron equipped with the wonderful Hawker Tempest. Our job would hardly have been considered recreational flying by most people, but once the shooting stopped, we flew and fought each other in practice dogfights, enjoying it as a sport.

Flying a Tempest was not always easy at first, but once you became competent you came to appreciate its outstanding qualities, and when you became an expert you loved it; it was a dream. At low level nothing could touch it, but you could never take it for granted. It roared and snarled, it swung violently on takeoff, it stalled without warning, and it was almost impossible to recover from an established spin.

On the other hand, the Tempest responded like an angel to the slightest pressure on the controls at high speed; it zoomed like a rocket and it dived like a falcon on a duck. Its four cannons gave it devastating firepower, and ground targets disintegrated in a well-aimed burst. It did, however, glide like a brick.

The antithesis to this outstanding and massive fighter sat in the large and undamaged hangars on this German base. Gliders and sailplanes such as I’d never seen sat on their bellies, or on little trolleys, waiting to be appreciated and loved. The assortment was substantial—large ones, small ones, some with an unbelievable spread of wings, while others by comparison looked dumpy. The first British air force personnel to occupy this site obtained help from captured Luftwaffe ground staff to restore them to a serviceable state. Some had been flown, and our own ground staff was now more than competent to maintain these sailplanes.

While the gliders sat there, I walked past them for several days. My interest quickened; I was taken by their beauty and frailty. Frail they were. The Tempest was anything but fragile, and the contrast attracted me.

A glider brings with it the problem of getting it into the air so it can glide. The Germans had thoughtfully provided us with a small Focke-Wulf Fw 44 radial-engined biplane. They called it Steiglitz (Goldfinch). It was a beautiful little aircraft, and I loved to fly it. They had also provided us with a powerful high-wing monoplane, the Fw 56. This they called Stosser (Falcon), and its performance was outstanding. We adapted both as tow gliders.

There was also a large multiple-drummed winch coupled to a gearbox, which presumably would tow a glider across the field with increasing speed as the gear ratio was changed. Once airborne the coupling would disengage and the pilot would be left to his own devices. We never used it, as the two Focke-Wulfs were much more convenient.

We sometimes used a small frame-and-wing glider, much like a modern microlight, that could get airborne behind a jeep as it ripped around the perimeter track. This was great fun and sometimes worked, but the glider didn’t survive the rough treatment.

Curiosity finally prevailed; I had to fly one of the sailplanes. A friend towed me high into that calm and peaceful German summer sky. I disconnected and looked around for the airfield. I didn’t need to worry, as I wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry. I just seemed to hang motionless in the air. I moved the stick forward and back, and the beautiful bird elegantly answered the command with flawless sensitivity. I gently touched the rudders; again the sweet acceptance of my merest suggestion.

It was a fantasy. I had an unbelievable amount of time to do everything I needed to. The response was definite but languid. I pulled back on the large wooden knob situated where a powered aircraft had a throttle and she slowed, seeming to stop. I moved it forward and she gently advanced. It fascinated me, and the silence was glorious. I played with it like a child with a toy. I pulled the nose up and stalled it, and she simply dropped forward and glided away.

This was wonderland. I glided on and out over the Luneburg Heide. I experienced an updraught, and like a glorious albatross she soared without effort for a hundred or so feet. Time passed in complete contentment as my altitude gradually decreased. In comfort I moved back toward the airfield and made my approach. With plenty of height over the perimeter track, it was easy to coax her to a landing close to where we had taken off. I felt that I had truly experienced the freedom of the skies.

We were all caught up in the gliding craze. We taught a lot of the ground staff to fly, and I don’t know how many blissful hours I spent in the cockpit of those sailplanes. I also spent many hours flying the tow planes.

Occasionally I flew up to Denmark, where my old unit, 486 Squadron, was based. It was good to meet up with my New Zealand countrymen. I flew an Me 108 on this trip, and really loved the experience; the 108 was an exceptional little aircraft.

Abandoned Focke-Wulf 190 fighters at Kastrup, Denmark

Some weeks later our squadron was posted to Denmark and, to be honest, who would want to stay in the dark, unfriendly atmosphere of shattered Germany when the sun, the food, and the social welcome of Denmark beckoned? It was, however, the end of the glider enlightenment. It was back to the Tempest with all the attendant excitement of its great performance. The exhilaration of its aerobatics, the violence and the physical effort of practice dogfights, were as competitive as ever, but unlike real combat, a mistake did not cost you your life. Our attitudes were once again dominated by the demands of military flying, but I never forgot the happy and peaceful hours I spent in those gliders.

Now I’m an old man, and I love to spend time at the beach. The sun is a delight on my ancient bones. I go into the surf and revel in the delicate taste of the salt. I am invigorated by the crash of the waves and I forget I’m old. I leave the water contented, lying on the sand while through my sunglasses I look at that beautiful New Zealand sky. I see the little fluffy white clouds hanging motionless. High in the air, at a level with those comforting clouds, small specks wheel and dip with effortless ease, playing, lifting, dropping, always in total control, the movements of the wings imperceptible. These are the seabirds, the travellers of the oceans. Independently they conduct their lives; independently they die when their time is over.