Glyn Jones鈥檚 approach to life is to take it as it comes. He鈥檚 103 years old and lives comfortably in a Sidney care home, so it looks as if that鈥檚 working out for him.
His outlook comes partly from his character, partly from circumstances that developed more than 70 years ago, when he was ferrying brand-new bombers from Montreal to Britain during the desperate rush to defend against the Nazi onslaught.
He鈥檚 wary of talking about it, because he鈥檚 shy about attracting attention to himself. But he delved into those memories recently to give a taste of what that aspect of the war was like.
鈥淢e as an individual, you can make a story out if it,鈥� he said. 鈥淏ut I was just a little part of it.鈥�
Born in Wales in 1910, he was a radio (Marconi) operator working on vessels in the Maritimes when the war started. He was exempted from military service because of his work. But his sense of adventure was triggered when he saw an ad from the Atlantic Ferry Command, looking for flying crew.
Unprepared for war, Britain was desperate in the early days for aircraft. U.S.-built planes were being moved as cargo via sa国际传媒, despite the U.S. neutrality law that prohibited involvement. It was a scant, unsatisfactory effort. North Atlantic air travel was in its infancy and little thought was given to flying the badly needed bombers to where they were needed.
Some historians give Lord Beaverbrook, Churchill鈥檚 aircraft production minister, the credit for taking the chance and making the ferry operation happen.
Jones recalls what a rag-tag operation it was when it started.
They asked for his navigation certificate and he didn鈥檛 have one.
鈥淭hey said: 鈥榃e can鈥檛 take you unless you take a test.鈥�
鈥淚 said: 鈥業鈥檒l take the test.鈥� I felt confident enough I could pass it. So I passed the test and he said: 鈥極K, now you鈥檙e a radioman-navigator.鈥� 鈥�
His first 10 flights were on Hudsons, sitting in the co-pilot鈥檚 seat. 鈥淪o I learned a lot about flying.鈥�
He did about 40 flights during the war, flying all manner of aircraft from Montreal to Prestwick via Newfoundland and occasionally Reykjavik.
It was hard, dangerous work. They were crossing the North Atlantic, mostly at night.
鈥淓very hour we鈥檇 send out a call sign in Morse code, so a station in England could hear it. If that disappeared, they knew you were gone.鈥�
It was dangerous both ways.
There was a haphazard return route that used whatever was available.
Twice he returned by ship, but mostly it was by air. They used two old Liberators as return shuttles.
He was bumped off one return flight for scheduling reasons.
鈥淚 said OK. The next morning at breakfast somebody said: 鈥楧id you hear what happened to the Liberator?鈥� 鈥�
It had crashed, with no survivors.
Later, he was bumped from another return flight for a VIP passenger. 鈥淭he next morning I heard the plane crashed on takeoff.鈥�
It deepened his belief that it was best to just go along. 鈥淚 never fought anything or tried to change anything. Anything that came my way was fine,鈥� he recalled. 鈥淚f it comes, take it.鈥�
He recalls the Yogi Berra aphorism and laughs. 鈥淚f you come to a fork in the road, take it.鈥�
Dozens of crew members were lost in those crashes. Historian Carl Christie wrote in Ocean Bridge, The History of RAF Ferry Command, that 500 crew members were lost in the ferry operation all told, 200 of them Canadians.
(One of them was Nobel-prize-winning scientist Sir Frederick Banting, discoverer of insulin, who was a passenger on one flight that crashed in 1941.)
Christie said Friday he believes now that loss figure was underestimated and losses were much higher. They were a motley assortment of Brits, Canadians and Americans, most of them civilians, who stepped up when needed.
Jones, the quiet-spoken centenarian describing that remarkable aspect of the war, was a delight to meet.
I鈥檒l be thinking of him and his long-lost colleagues on Monday.
