CONTENTSCONTENTSSuddenly some of the Air Force guys at Stoney Mountain started carrying revolvers. That was kind of a scary thought. All those inexperienced guy carrying guns. One night the Sergeant (there was only one on the base) was showing another guy how to load the revolver in a room off Ops, when the gun went off accidentally, firing through the wall into the Ops room. I have noticed different letters in the guestbook that refer to Cuban Missile crisis. It probably stands out in everyone's memory
During my year at SCS-500 (Winisk) in 1964-65, I spent as many of my days off as possible flying in the helicopters or the old twin-engined Anson ("Bamboo Bomber") operated by TransAir. In all, I made 67 trips. I visited every DDS from Site 412 in the east (located on Bear Island in the middle of James Bay) to Site 524 in the west (just inside Manitoba).
One such flight was particularly memorable. At approximately 10am on a clear, calm morning, pilot Pender Smith lifted off from Winisk airport, carrying myself and one other passenger, bound for Site 503. We never got there.
About 5 minutes into what would have been a 15-minute flight, the helicopter's engine quit cold. As you may know, a helicopter doesn't just fall out of the sky when the engine quits. However, ideally it needs short ground-run to make a good emergency landing. In this case, the "ground" being muskeg and bush, a ground-run was not possible. The end result was the helicopter was totally destroyed. We literally rolled it into a ball.
CF - JTH Crash site photo
Photo of CF - JTH before its unfortunate end
All three of us walked away without a scratch. Although we weren't more than 5 miles from the airport, walking back was impossible due to the muskeg. Another helicopter had gone further east a little earlier and we knew his return path would bring them within a mile of our location. So, we readied the flare gun and waited.
After about 2 hours, we heard him in the distance. We let him get as close as we dared, fearing if their viewing angle became too great, they wouldn't see the flares. Just to be sure, we sent up 3 flares as quickly as we could re-load and fire. It turned out our fears were unfounded. Both the pilot and the front seat passenger saw the first flare the instant in cleared the trees!!
After our return to the airport and a cup of coffee, the pilot insisted I go for a ride with him in another helicopter. This was a wise thing he did. Although I was a little shaken by the crash, this ride was the best medicine. Three years later, after leaving the RCAF, I obtained my Commerical Pilot's license (on airplanes) but my plan to become a helicopter pilot was ultimately thwarted by a slight vision problem in one eye.
For me, the MCL was an adventure -- one I shall never forget. I was fortunate enough to obtain a set of the official crash photos and also we cut out the piece of fuselage that has the registration letters painted on it. It hangs on the wall here in my computer room.
Cal Booth
RCAF FtrCOp
In late 1961 or early 1962, an incident occured that brought the "Cold
War" a little closer to home for me. I was working the midnight shift,
alone, at Bird, suddenly the radio came alive with a voice calling "Anthrax
Control, Anthrax Control this is Baker 58, do you read?" I responded, saying
I read him 'loud and clear', how me, over? He could read me 5x5 then
proceeded with his message/request. He wanted me to contact his home base
and requested an immediate return to base and clearance to go to 'angels 75',
the reason was that he had 'a red light on'!!! I contacted his home base and
after explaining everything to the Duty Controller and exchanging correct ID
and authorization, time codes, got the necessary clearances.
I called Baker 58 and after exchanging the correct authorization, time codes,
give him his clearance to return to base and climb to angels 75. I then
requested the type of aircraft, he replied that Baker 58 was a Baker 58.
It was then I realized that I had a SAC B-58, Hustler, aircraft that was
carrying A or H bombs that had a red light on. The red light could mean
anything, from something minor to something much more serious.
I did not hear of any B-58's crashing or digging a big hole in Manitoba
anytime after that incident so I assume the plane and crew made it back to
base without further incident, but it did make the 'cold war' more realistic
for me.
Carl.
It was on a graveyard shift at Winisk. Around 2am, a very bored Canadian Marconi tech wandered into the Ops Room with his coffee and sat down in front of the centre console. A few minutes later, one of the links was triggered. While I was up to tend the chart recorder, the tech reached up and grabbed the VHF Air/Ground/Air microphone, hit the push-to-talk button and said, "Hello world, this is Winisk -- Over", and returned the mic to its hook. A few seconds later, the VHF speaker came alive with, "Hello Winisk, this is the world -- Over". The Tech's jaw nearly hit the floor. The look on his face was absolutely priceless. I immediately recognized the familiar radio sound of a PanAm "Clipper" and about five minutes later, he called in with a position report -- (for those who were there) passing over "Big Owl Radio". Ahhh, the good 'ole days.
Cal
218 Was the first site to be unmanned. There must have been a new tech on the Testboard, I was at 215,and this is what I heard on the EOW.
"218 300"
"218 300"
This went on for some time
"218 300"
Unknown Voice. "218 is an unmanned site"
"218 218 300"
Unknown Voice "218 Iis an unmanned site"
"218 218, Is that 218"
Unknown voice. "Yes and us machines don't talk to humans"
Anybody on the line knew that the voice was Maurice Stawnyczy
I heard from Dan Stawnyczy and he told me that his Dad Maurice passed away in 2004
Eric Defrae
How many people remember the pop tune "The Pub With No Beer"? It was my birthday, and I had been flown in from one of the sites. After a meal, it was all down to the bar for a drink. Later I sorted out my change and put it in the juke box, selecting the above record..........seventeen times . They tried disconnecting the machine, but as soon as it was reconnected up came that record.
Stan Coker
In 1957 Ed Bustin, my cohort at DDS 218, left the MCL. A not so subtle rumour had it that two technicians manning a site near Hopedale, Labrador were at odds. My great fortune was to have one of the protagonists, Morris Stawniczi (?) arrive at 218, complete with .22 calibre rifle. We immediately agreed that each day we would take turns working outside the building. Morris wanted this arrangement, having had a belly-full of conflict at his previous site. After all, personnel had no choice in selecting co-workers. We were tossed together ad hoc. Sharp differences could arise between a pair of strangers, and why not? Thus the "war within".
The work scheme was short-lived, although it continued in a general manner, as was necessary. On occasion, when supplies were low, one of us would take the rifle and hunt ptarmigan to supplant our stock of food. This was necessary in winter when weather conditions were such that the 'chopper' was grounded for up to two weeks at Knob Lake.
Morris and I were very compatible, although he professed to skate on the right wing of the political spectrum and I, the left. Indeed, we frequently chided and insulted each other and as often as possible found differences on a wide range of topics. Nevertheless, I found it difficult to believe that laconic Morris could not adjust to the peculiarities of anyone, including the obnoxious. And I'm sure I was obnoxious at times, especially when our pet dog and I played hide and seek in the equipment room. When I opened my scalp on the edge of jutting equipment during one chase, Morris scanned the gaping wound and in derision, stated: "Red suits you!"
Routine check of the POL tanks meant climbing on top, opening a port and lowering a plumb line. My error was to consider one of the tanks empty, save for a shallow layer of water at the bottom. The purge began just before I made the last turn on the drain plug. Morris grabbed the plug and secured it after a violent struggle with the devilish force of the effluent. Both of us were soaked to the skin and just stood for a few moments roaring with laughter. Knob Lake never discovered the reason for our excessive use of diesel, but Morris easily explained loss of perhaps 30 or 40 gallons. Now it can be told! During a short spell without smokes, in desperation I shovelled snow blocking the entrance to dormant construction tents. Perhaps the long-departed construction crew left a few cigarette butts. These I found, and obtained enough tobacco to roll for a few days, much to Morris' amusement, if not disgust. A few years later I heard a report on the radio describing the death of a technician at (I think) DDS 218, at the hands of a black bear. Apparently, the bear unexpectedly came upon the technician at those very construction tents.
I last saw Morris as he stood at the chopper pad, clutching our small dog. Two technicians on a site to the east of Knob Lake were at war and I was sent to replace one of them. Another example of the "war within".
Regretfully, I have been unable to find Morris listed in Canada411. But what is his surname, STAVNICKI, STAWNICZY, or ??. I have four photographs taken at DDS 218, including two of him posing with his precious .22 rifle. Another shows him at a water hole in winter with two buckets hanging from a shoulder yolk. A fourth photo shows him dealing with a broken track on the Cat tractor.
We very much enjoyed the rugged terrain and our simple Siberia-like life, but agreed that the MCL was one hell of a waste of public funds.
Many co-workers on the Line have faded from memory. Not Morris. He was a pleasure to know, a quiet, philosophical creature, and a fine chap. Morris, gdzie jest ciebie?
I am grateful to Eric Defrae for his poignant story "Us Machines".
John K. Leslie
There were three of us at the site at the time, it was 11 at night and we were having a smoke outside. Someone pointed at the sky and said, “what the hell is that”, it was like a shooting star but much slower. There was nothing on the radar. I called Operations and reported it, and was told that they were going to make out a UFO Report. I told them that I did not want to get mixed up with spaceships, and to forget it. I was asked, “Was it flying?” “Yes” I replied. “Did l know what it was?” “No” I said. “So it is an UFO!”.
After two more night sighting 5 minutes later each time I gave up reporting them.
By this time the EOW was humming about spaceships that had landed at 309. Even on 4380Kcs sites were telling choppers not land at 309, as the Purple People Eaters, were there. (Remember the song?) It was getting really bad. Over and over I was asked, “Are the space people still there?”
The last straw was when a chopper landed, and a guy jumped out with a very cheap camera (with flash bulbs) and asked, “Is this the site that sees the UFO’s?” I was on the verge of saying that they are asleep, and get very mad if I wake them, but thought better of it.
The last I saw of him, he was standing in the chopper taking pictures.
A few days later Operations called and asked if I was the guy the reported the UFOs. (Oh God now what?) I pleaded guilty, and was informed that it had been identified as SPUTNICK 2. Wow and we were the only ones that saw it.
After that there was no more talk about UFO’s, back to peace, but never quiet on a DDS
Eric Defrae
After 47 years, I guess I can fess up to a long-forgotton crime - theft of Federal Government property. Surely the statutes of limitations have run out by now.
"Red Nick" Nicholson and I were on the same wave (5th.) of MCL trainees at 407 St. Lawrence in Montreal. After training, he and I were both posted to the Great Whale Section (400) in July, 1957.
While we were waiting for delayed chopper transportation to our designated sites (me - 330 and him 410) because of fog, the powers that be (our Bell Ops. manager) decided to volunteer Nick and me to the NCO Mess manager to help stack stuff in one of their warehouses. The summer sea lift was on and freight was being unloaded from a ship anchored well out in shallow Hudson Bay to a converted WW2 vintage landing barge and then fork lifted to the various warehouses.
Now Nick and I loved to down a few? beers now and then and indeed , during our 6 months of training in Montreal, we had done that many times- especially at those two taverns across from the school on St. Lawrence..
And, would you believe what they had us stacking in that warehouse? BEER! Thousands of cases of Molson and Dow and Labatts. Nick and I saw the possibilities immediately. As soon as the fork lift guy left a load, we would stack the cases as quickly as we could and then sit back and enjoy several cans from our unlimited supply. This went on for most of the day.
Needless to say, we were feeling pretty good at the end of our shift. And readily volunteered for similar duty the following day. Unfortunately, that was not to be as the fog lifted and off we went to our postings.
However the kicker happened after supper that first evening. When Nick and I went to the NCO Mess, the manager singled us out and gave us free beer all evening for the wonderful job we had done.
If that isn't proof of a Divine being, I don't know what is.
Matt Mullaly
It was late in the evening in the Traffic Control Tower at Great Whale back in 1958
Suddenly a voice on the VHF alerted the sleepy tech on duty.
VOICE: 400 XXX123, how read? Over.
400: XXX123, I read you 5 by 5. How me? Over.
VOICE: Strength 3 and you're breaking up. Over.
400 (in a pleading, defensive tone): Perhaps you're farther from me than I am from you? Over
Matt Mullaly
Both the NCO (which included al non-management civilians) and officer's messes (which included civilian managers and civilian pilots and the Mountie and the RC priest and the Protestant minister and the two female school teachers) at Great Whale followed Quebec law by closing at midnight, with last call around 11:30.
On a particular Saturday night, one of the Bell techs (Bill) discovered that even though last call had been sounded at the NCO mess, the Officers Mess had been granted an extension to stay open until 2:00AM for a special party. When he became a "little" vociferous in demanding equal treatment, the top level Bell manager at the site (Gibbie) was summoned to the NCO Mess and he proceeded lay down the law. After some preliminary discussion, the conversation became a little heated:
Gibbie: Listen, you punk, when I was your age, I was working on the (WW2) Alaska Highway Project.
Bill: Why the @#$% wern't you in the service like my dad?
By the following week, Bill was back on his old Bell job in Montreal.
Matt Mullaly
The vital stocks for both the NCO and Officers' mess in Great Whale River arrived on schedule via the sea lift of 1957. After a little while it was noticed that the odd can of Molson's ale was "off". This was then quickly remedied by a replacement can by staff. However, as more and more cans were found to be somewhat less than desirable and more "free" beers being given out, staff became concerned and notified Molsons in Montreal.
Molson's sent a representative to Great Whale, who quickly became the most popular guy on site as he gave out copious quantities of free beer and, of course, replaced any of the "off" stuff.
His investigation isolated the problem to a particular batch by the serial numbers on the cans and replacements were arranged to be flown in. It was decided that the "bad" stuff (about 10,000 cases as I remember) would be put on the landing barges and dumped in Hudson Bay. It became fairly common knowledge that not all the beer got dumped. It seems that the dumping crew (unfortunately I wasn't one of them) managed to bury several hundred cases in the fairly large beach and surrounding sand dunes. And, although the beer may not have met Molson's standards, it certainly met most everyone else's - especially if the stuff was free. And the secret was well kept.
I wonder if all the beer that was actually dumped in the bay is still there or has some enterprising type salvaged and recycled it?
Matt Mullaly
After my basic training in Montreal, I was posted to the Great Whale (400) section of the line in July 1957. And after a few days at 400, with much trepidation, I took the weekly supply chopper to DDS 330.
I was 20 years old at the time and was about to become responsible for a DDS.
Upon arrival, Don, the resident tech who was on his way home, after spending a year on the line, introduced me to my new world. Bill (he cook), the living quarters, the equipment room, the diesel room, the survival hut and the area around the site. The building was on a rocky outcrop on a small hill with lots of muskeg close by as well as some dryer areas with small stunted spruce trees.
One area that Don (about my age) particularly wanted to show me was "the bear pit" which included one very dead black bear. Here's the way Don explained it to me:
Periodically, for about a month, Don and the cook had seen a bear prowling around the site. Although they burned all of their garbage regularly, the bear continued to hang around. Don contacted the Mountie at Great Whale. He came and spent several days at the site, intending to shoot the bear. But, as luck would have it, there was nary a sight of the critter while the RCMP guy was there. And, of course, as soon as he went back to Whale, the bear reappeared.
As there was a strict rule against firearms on site, Don decided to try it his way. He rigged up a 6X6 metal grid with wires left over from those used to guy the tower. Then he put a big hunk of raw roast beef in the middle of the grid.. He wired both the grid and the beef back to a 220V circuit on the A/C power panel and kept an eye out.
Sure enough, the bear appeared that same afternoon as Don watched for it. The poor beast did the expected and, when the juice flowed, in reaction to the AC, it clenched the meat more tightly in its mouth and gripped the wire grid more tightly with its claws, thus ensuring its own demise. Don said that it was smoking at the end.
By the time I arrived on the scene, the bear, which I'd guess was relatively young (a few hundred pounds or so) was getting a tad high. And odor got higher as time passed. As a matter of fact, that part of the site stunk until the early winter snows came, which in those parts of the world was in late August.
Our instructors in Montreal had stressed that, in addition to all the techie stuff they taught us, we would need a fair amount of individual initiative to survive at those DDS's. And this was my first example of what they meant.
Incidentally, in my two years on the line, mostly at DDS's, I never saw another bear. And that's not a complaint.
Matt Mullaly
In spite of the fact that Northern Canada in the vicinity of the line contained thousands of lakes and rivers, water was always a problem at DDS's.
This was partially because the sites were built on whatever high ground was available in the selected engineering area and because much of the easily available water there was swamp/muskeg water.
Consequently, in most cases, this meant lugging water from the nearest available lake or river.
Most DSS's had a vehicle which we knew as a swamp buggy - one of the early vintage snow machines produced by Bombardier. It had a little enclosed space which housed the driver's seat and controls, two caterpillar type tracks and a shelf above each track where 45 gallon water drums could be attached. In some places you can still see similar vehicles which are used to plow sidewalks.
Ours didn't have plows and winters on the line presented specific problems for these vehicles as they easily got bogged down in deeper snow. They had a disposition to clear the snow beneath the tracks, leaving the rest of the buggy sitting on the snow - going nowhere.. In this situation, or if the vehicle broke down, as they were notoriously unreliable, the only other option for water was melted snow. This chore was performed in the diesel room which was always warm. I'm not sure of the ratio but if memory serves, it must have taken 40 gallons of snow to extract a gallon of water. It certainly seemed like that at the time.
In summer months, some relief was provided by rain water as the buildings were equipped with eavesthroughs feeding 45 gallon drums at all four corners.
Rainwater, although generally pure, has few minerals and is quite bland to the taste. On my first assignment at site 330, we added slices of lemon or lemon juice to give it a little character. Over time, Bill, the cook, and I realized that , in spite of adding more and more lemon additive, the water wasn't tasting all that good.
A little investigation of the rain barrels (they had removable wooden tops) quickly revealed the problem. Hundreds (thousands?) of dead maggots on the bottom of the barrels. The source of the maggots was determined to be dead birds which had flown into the tower or guy wires and had landed on the building roof. The pipes leading to the barrels had screens which neatly kept the rotting birds directly in the water flow.
Needless to say from then on, all drinking water on that site came from the lake, which was a half mile away.
Matt Mullaly
It was 9:00PM or so at DDS 330, on an autumn evening in 1957. Bill, the cook and I were playing cribbage and listening to the radio - probably WKBW from the Albany area, WPTR from Buffalo or WWVA (all country music ) from Wheeling, West VA, Those were the stations that we could receive fairly consistently after dark.
Suddenly there was a hell of a THUMP at the diesel room end of the building. My first reaction was "Oh s**t, diesel problem". But a visit there showed the on-line diesel unit purring like a kitten. And a walk around the building with a flashlight showed absolutely nothing.
This was more than a little disconcerting because, as far as I knew, the closest people were 30 miles both east and west at the next DDS sites. And the only bear in the vicinity, at least the only one I was aware of, was slowly decomposing outside. (see BEAR anecdote above).
Anyway, back to the crib game. About an hour later, another THUMP at the same area of the building. Same reaction - same result. Except that now I (a 20 year old rookie tech responsible for all this federal property) was getting very concerned. And who does one call for a THUMP problem - at 10:00 at night - in the wilds of Northern Quebec?
Although the THUMPS did nor reoccur, I certainly didn't get much sleep that night. The cook slept well though as he didn't give a s**t - Not in his job description.
Next morning, the mystery was quickly resolved. Two geese, on their way to warmer climes, had had an argument with the tower or the guy wires. They lost and both ended up on the metal roof of the building. No wonder they made such a noise as they were big buggers.
The good news was that we had fresh goose at 330 for quite a while. Cooking what I wanted WAS part of the cook's job description. (big grin)
Matt Mullaly
An interesting anecdote that I recall at Cape Henrietta Marie was the amphibious barge that was floated ashore to the beach (there may have been two, I can't recall). The vehicle was I believe diesel powered and about 15 feet long and designed with huge broad tires that cleared the flat bottom of the barge by no more than a foot. The intent was to transport material, e.g. oil, hardware, etc. from ships to the beach and then over the muskeg to a road where it could then be transported to our site about 3 to 5 miles inland. The cost of the vehicle must have been well over $100K. To make a long story short, the initial test run which consisted of an unloaded barge, got as far as the beach and into the muskeg perhaps another 100 to 200 feet and then bogged down. I was there for over a year and it never once moved again. In all probability it is there to this day.
Another story involved George Morrison a 25 year old Site Engineer at Cape Henrietta Maria. George was a Nova Scotian and a recent graduate of Dalhousie University. As was usual each morning, George dopped by the equipment room to shoot the breeze and have a cup of coffee. As I recall, he wasn't there very long before he fell to the floor and died from what appeared to be a massive heart attack. We attempted all the artificial respiration techniques we knew, but to no avail. Probably it would not have helped George, but in the situation we felt helpless and frustrated by the slow response we received from the medical people located at the SCS in Winsk. In fact, it wasn't till late in the afternoon (approximately 8 hours later) before a plane arrived with a doctor who pronounced him dead. That day, moral was pretty low amongst our group of about 25 site emplyees and Winisk became the target of our frustration. The feeling was that nobody cared about us at 410. as a result rumours started, one of them being, "did you hear that poor George was sent home COD".
Susequent to the death the only contact I had with George's family was a response to a letter I received from his sister wanting to know the circumstances surrounding his death.
As I recall there was a second death at our site which involved a construction worker who fell in the process of working on the tropospheric 10K antenna. I believe he worked for Dominion Bridge. However we were not very involved in this incident.
Another experience we had involved our cook Cliff who worked for the catering outfit (perhaps Crawly MacKracken). In the process of moving the kitchen and eating quarters from the temporary location to the new facilities, Cliff took it upon himself to issue an edict that noone was to have any coffee, or food, until the move was completed. This of course didn't sit too well with our crew who were used to having their morning brews. Threats were made by the two sides in this dispute and I became involved when one of our staff said, "I had better talk to Cliff because I'm going to kill the bastard if he doesn't smarten up". At this point I approached Cliff and suggested that the guys were quiet willing to make their own coffee and I guaranteed him that noone would get in his way. Cliff then issued his second ultimatum which was, "if the guys get coffee, then I quit". My response was, "its your choice Cliff". And quit he did. Now that wouldn't have been so bad as we could have had another cook from the SCS within a day or so, had the weatherman cooperated. This was not the case and because of inclement weather it took about 5 days before the new cook arrived by plane. Cliff sat around on his fat a** for the five days and did nothing. As I think of this now, it is a wonder that Cliff wasn't killed.
Rene Trumpler
Booze at DDS's was strictly verboten. And, of course, being forbidden fruit made it that much more desirable. Generally, in my time there, most of the sites were indeed dry. I occasionally had a buddy smuggle a few beers from the mess at Great Whale and send them to my site but that only teased. And knowing the guys working at Whale had full access to a wet canteen didn't help.
Mechanics visited the sites at regular intervals and spent a week or two performing routine maintenance on the three diesels. And it was Ken, a diesel mechanic, who taught me about the mysteries of distillation. Raw materials were locally obtained - sugar, tinned fruit, fruit juices, molasses, yeast - all easily ordered from Whale. Fermentation was accelerated by locating the batch of mash in the diesel room, where it was always warm - and soon smelly.
After about a week, the stuff was ready to be "processed". Again, the necessary equipment was readily available - a sealed metal container and a length of copper tubing formed into a spiral. This spiral was then placed in a pail with one end connected to the metal container and the other end protruding through a hole near the bottom of the pail. The mash was put in the container, which was then put on a burner of the electric stove in our kitchen and the pail with the copper spiral was kept filled with cold water.
Then, physics worked its magic. I would guess that we obtained about a half gallon of alcohol from the five gallon batch of brew. There was a rough and ready method to test the condensing booze, which was generally known as "doppler juice". That was to set it afire with a match. When the output of the still no longer burned, the alcohol content was considered too low and the process was halted. I learned later that this process probably indicated an alcohol content of 90% or so - pretty deadly stuff. I've heard that on occasion, a little doppler juice in the carburetor was actually used to help start vehicles on cold mornings.
However, when mixed with fruit juice (roughly 10 to 1 ) , it was quite palatable as before, during and after dinner cocktails.
Ah, the joys of a misguided youth.
Matt Mullaly
One day in 1958, the chopper from 300 had flown out to 321 stopping at the various sites between 300 and 321 to deliver supplies, mail, personnel,etc.
321 was the western extremity of the Marconi section at the time and consequently was commonly used as a lunch and refueling stop by the helicopter crews. Unless weather changed, they normally flew back to 300 after lunch.
Whenever a chopper took off from a DDS, the tech there would normally announce that fact on the order wire. the common communications (party line type) channel between major site sectors. In my case, at DDS 324, all sites between 300 (Knob Lake) and 400 (Great Whale River) inclusive could speak to each other and be heard by everyone else in that sector.
The chatter after lunch that day went something like this:
Tech at Site 321: 318 - 321
Tech at Site 318: 321 - 318
321 : The chopper is on the pad ready to leave for your site.
318: Roger 321.
321: He's just lifting off the pad.
318: Roger 321
321: Holy !@#$, he just crashed.
318: Roger 321
And indeed the helicopter had lifted off the pad and come down with a BANG. Apparently, the accident investigation committee subsequently determined that the problem was either water in the aviation gas (av-gas) or someone had inadvertently filled the fuel tank with diesel oil - I don't remember.
But I'll never forget that that exchange between 321 and 318.
Note: There were no injuries in this incident.
Matt Mullaly
In the spring of 1958 I was posted to DDS 324 - the furthest site from Great Whale - our Sector Control Site.. I was a young 21 year old Bell tech and responsible for the site and the cook was about 40 and a veteran of Northern bush camps. And he didn't appreciate being "told" what to cook and when by a young kid like me. But, whether he liked it or not, that was what he was there for.
He and I had absolutely nothing in common and a growing animosity soon developed. Unlike a quarreling married couple who were together through choice, he and I were there, 24 hours a day, simply because of a throw of the dice.
One of my escape ploys was alcohol. As, I had learned how to brew booze at my previous site, I put the necessary ingredients and hardware together. And, of course, I was aware that this was against the rules although no one had ever explicitly told me that and I hadn't asked. And I shared the resultant booze with the cook although I ensured that both his and my consumption rates were reasonable, which didn't always please him. And, day by day, our relationship deteriorated.
The chopper from Great Whale flew to our sites about once a week and as it arrived and left each site along the way, the resident tech would alert the tech at the next site to be ready to collect the mail, food, maintenance parts, etc. with minimal delay for the chopper people.
On a particular day, not only did the guys at the other sites relay chopper /departure information but they said that there were two of our bosses on it - our immediate supervisor and his boss. Something big going on here as those guys never left the comforts of Great Whale.. And they didn't even leave the aircraft at any of those sites. But, when they reached 324, they all came off the chopper. And that's when I knew that I had a problem.
Shortly after their arrival, my boss and his boss took me aside and asked me where the still was. I quickly realized that they knew and that the only other person who knew was the cook, who was "interviewed" in another room.
After a dressing down by my bosses and being told about the evils of drink and threatened with immediate expulsion back home (this from these two guys who frequented the Officer's Mess in Great Whale every night) I was told that there was another "problem". They said that the cook had just quit and would I be willing to stay at the site until they sent another cook.
Seeing that I seemed to be between the proverbial rock and hard place, I agreed.
Long story short. I spent three weeks alone at that site. In spite of regular requests (after two weeks, daily requests) to my boss, they just couldn't seem to find a spare cook. In retrospect, It's fortunate for both them, Bell and indeed me that I didn't have an accident out there alone. Part of my regular activities included using the swamp buggy for various site work as well to go to the lake for water.
I knew that I was being punished and by the second week, in frustration, I stopped washing the dishes. As there was a copious supply of dishes at all the sites to cater to visiting maintenance crews, chopper crews stopping for meals, etc. , the site had plenty. When, after three weeks, they finally sent a replacement cook, upon entering the site, the first thing he saw was the great pile of unwashed dishes. He wanted to quit right then and there but as the chopper had already gone, he was stuck there. He turned out to be an OK guy.
By the way, the day they visited, my bosses took my still with them. I often wonder where it ended up.
Matt Mullaly
Part of my tour on the line included a stint traveling alone to each DDS in the Great Whale (400) sector to update the various equipment with the latest hardware modifications. That was a wonderful job as I got to visit every site in the sector and spent a week or so on each. This allowed plenty of time to get to know each tech/cook team (and their ideocryncies) and to explore the countryside at each site. In the 400 sector, the environment varied from muskeg (324) to hilly and relatively dry (330) to proximity to a large river (the Great Whale) at 342 to the Hudson Bay shore (406) to a small island in James Bay (409).
Upon arrival at one site (403 I think), both the tech and the cook quickly made a point of letting me know that, in addition to being religious, they were teetotalers and didn't appreciate alcohol or respect anyone who used it. I was non-committal but I could see that this wasn't going to be a fun week.
On my first evening there, when supper was served, they bowed their heads and one said grace. There was a glass of fruit juice in front each of us, which was normal as we didn't drink the local water on most sites.
I took a slug of my juice and BINGO!!!. My drink, as I quickly discovered that it was 10% fruit juice and 90% doppler juice (moonshine). Of course, their claim to holiness had been a ruse and we all thoroughly enjoyed the humour - and the booze.
Rather than being a trying week, that one turned out to be one of my most enjoyable ones.
Matt Mullaly
It was one of those great winter days, blue skies, no wind. Another tech and myself were down at the airstrip at 410, when we saw smoke far out in the Bay. A ship? But the bay was frozen solid, nothing open for a ship.
We talked about it for awhile and thought that the best thing was to tell no one, as they would think that we were "bushed"(nuts), and l was thinking of the UFO at 309, so we kept quiet.
Some months later one of the guys was going on leave and we had a little party. Someone, who had a little to much to drink, jumped up and said that he had seen something that no one else had, and very proudy he said that he saw a ship in the Bay in the winter.
Someone else said he saw it too, then another one, and another.
It turned out that we ALL SAW IT but no one had said anything.
Eric Defrae
I had been a site tech for almost two years when Marconi took over SCS sites 400 500 & 600. There were lots of promotions, and among them was Morris (The Ukrainian). Although we had a rocky start we became great friends and remained so for the next 15 years.
A few days after the takeover I was sent to SCS 600, and at lunch met the Bell techs who were packing to go home. They were a great bunch, One of the fellows who joined the group found out that I was a "new" Marconi tech, and started to tell me horror stories. When I told him that I thought that I would be going on to a DDS site, the horror stories got worse. He proudy told me he had been here four months, but never been on a DDS site. He told me that he would give me three months and I would quit, I didn't get a chance to say anythng.
The next day I was given the last four eastern Manitoba DDS sites, and was dropped off while the chopper went on to pick-up the crew. It was great to see how flat Manitoba was compared to Labrador.
The first thing I did when I went inside was to look in the freezer. I saw beef, milk, pork and bacon. As I closed the door I stopped dead. MILK !! Good God it was fresh milk. I couldn't belive it. In the living quarters were pleanty of books, and as I looked in the diesel room I remembered that the site was on well water and there was a FLUSH TOILET. WOW!! No more melting snow no more catching rain water from the roof, and scopping the dead birds out of the drums. No more calling for a water lift.
And then the rest of the crew arrived, Glen the cook, Gordy diesel man and Bill the electrican.WOW !! no more cooking for myself. It was like staying at a 5 star hotel, and getting payed.
It was a few months later, I think that it was at 530, Glen who slept in the small hut, he had gone for the night when one of the guys saw a wolf come on to the site, as if he owned it, (and maybe he did). He kept walking around the hut where Glen was, we hoped that he didn't leave the hut. After awhile the wolf left.
In the morning Glen came in and asked if we'd seen ALL the wolves. He said he'd counted 12. He looked sad when we told him that it was just one that kept circling the hut.
I called Morris at 600, and asked if could he bring some "extra equipment" to the site. It went very quiet. I told him to send the model 303, then he knew that his rifle was the "extra equipment". The following day he arrived with the "extra equipment". We took a walk, circled some trees and came back on our same path. There were our foot prints AND the wolfs. He had been following us. We didn't have the "extra equipment" with us so it did not take us long to get back to the site. We never saw the wolf again until the next month, when we tried to give him the hot foot. But that's another story.
Eric Defrae
DDS 342, April.14, 1957, Sunday, Weather clear and sunny.
"After lunch 4 of us (F-B foreman, electrician, laborer and myself) decide to take a walk, snowshoes and all. We left about 1 pm and headed off toward a small mountain about 2 miles distant. When we got there about an hour later we could clearly see site 400 about 5-6 miles away and after a short discussion decided to strike out for it. About an hour later we arrive at the river (Great Whale) but separated from it by 2 100' cliffs covered in deep snow. We throw our snowshoes over the edge and climb down, rolling most of the way and getting thoroughly drenched in snow - in the boots, in the parka, in the pants, etc. - we continue along finally arriving at about 3:45. Met with a few of the guys who didn't really believe we had come on foot, had a bite to eat and half an hour later set out for the return journey with 342's tower as a guide. This leg of the trip was twice as tough as the first leg due mainly to fatigue and the fact that we had to climb back up those cliffs. Darkness set in but we had the tower light to keep us on course and 3 hours later made it back - dead tired, feet soaked and blistered, barely able to walk. The cook made us something to eat and I went straight to bed."
John Rowe
On the 1st of April 1955, I was transferred from Greenwood air base to a helicopter squadron at RCAF Station Bagotville, Quebec. We were to provide air support during the construction of the Mid Canada radar lines along the 55th parallel.
A mixture of WW11, Korean War veterans and young airmen like myself who had joined the air force in the early '50's made up our squadron. Many of these men remain my friends after more than fifty years.
Once established at Bagtown, as most called it, my sergeant sent me to the flight line where I was to meet the NCO in charge of maintenance who's name completely escaped my mind by the time I reached the hangar. A man standing behind a desk asked if he could help me and I said I was looking for the Flight Sergeant but I'd forgotten his name. It sounds like the name of a bird I said.
What is your name he asked? LAC Cyr I replied. Well, LAC Cyr I am the bird you are looking for …. And, the name is SWAN, and don't you ever forget it, for I am never going to forget yours.
He asked me to make a tent that could be used as a shelter when our technicians were servicing the helicopters away from base. He also said to send my sergeant to his office when he arrived.
When the sergeant arrived he walked over to a helicopter that was undergoing routine maintenance and climbed up on top and stood looking at the rotor blades. He told me to get him a long steel bar from the tool crib and hurry back. When I returned he was standing on the floor and ordered me to take out an eyebolt that was on top of the rotors. We can put a hole in the tent and that will help secure it when the bolt is back in.
That's not a good idea Sarge I said. That bolt is there to hook a sling to when the mechanics are removing the heavy component. We could damage it if we try to remove it. That's an order he said, just as FS Swan appeared. What the hell is going on here Cyr he asked? When I told him, he chewed the Sergeant out and told him to get out of his hangar and never return.
A man by the name of Caius Blackett and I made a crude cover and packed it for the trip north. When the squadron flew to Knob Lake on the 1st of May both of our names were on the manifest. We flew out of Knob for a month, ferrying men and equipment to the radar sites before returning to Bagotville when another crew took over. During the next three years we saw much of the sub-arctic as we continued working on the radar lines.
In January of 1956, the squadron moved to Rockcliffe, near Ottawa and my name was with the advance party. I knew by now that FS Swan never forgot my name. Nor me his!!
We never used the tent I made with the help of my friend.
Roger Cyr
March 23, 2002
In June or perhaps it was late May of 1956 and I was back at knob Lake for the third or fourth time. After almost fifty years I have a difficult time remembering all the trips I made into the Eastern Sub Arctic during the two and one-half years I spent with 108 Comm Flt helping build the Mid-Canada Line.
An H-34 Sikorsky out of Knob Lake with three crew members aboard experienced engine trouble and sat down hard on the shores of one of the many lakes that dot the northern landscape. A camp containing civilian workers was near by and they were able to find shelter and get a message through to Knob describing their predicament.
For reasons known only to powers far removed from the rank of LAC it was decided that I should be flown out to "guard" the helicopter that lay on it's side in the water and muskeg of an un-named lake along the 55th parallel. "We will be back to get you tomorrow." The crew of the H-21 told me as they flew away over the lake and sparsely wooded hills in a westerly direction.
Fifteen minutes after leaving me to fend for myself they too experienced engine failure and smashed into a small clearing wrecking their machine and seriously injuring one of the civilian workers who they were transporting to Knob Lake.
Finally on the fifth day another H-21 arrived and I was on my way back to Knob. Not so I was informed, for it was then that I learned of the plight of the other helicopter and the reason I had been left so long "guarding" the helicopter in the lake. I was dropped off at the latest crash site to help with the salvage operation. When I arrived the H-21 was on its side with a long jagged gash down the fuselage where one of the blades had pierced the metal and severed the arm of a civilian worker.
A Tech Rep who was based in Ottawa and two senior officers were inspecting the damage and they recommended the chopper be airlifted back to Knob and eventually Ottawa where a more extensive inspection could be done. Although I cannot remember the Tech Reps name, he and I had met during the previous winter when he smashed into my new car in the Squadron parking lot. He was from the southern USA and had never experienced a Canadian winter!
It took us the better part of three days to winch the fuselage into a position where we could remove the engine and rotor heads. We prepared the helicopter for transport back to Ottawa and I returned to Rockcliffe having completed my tour at Knob.
I had been back at the squadron a week before the helicopter arrived looking more beat up then when I had last seen it. Senior Officers and Technicians arrived to inspect the damage, and when the Tech Rep recognized my face he called me aside and said, "you dropped it." "It did not look like that when I inspected it at the crash site." "What am I going to tell my Company and especially Squadron Leader Heaslip." "This looks very bad for me suggesting to them that the ship could be repaired."
"I was not there when it was airlifted out." I said. They all left for a meeting in the CO's office.
That afternoon I received a phone call from the Squadron Orderly Room requesting my presence in the CO's office. I had a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach as I stood at attention in front of S/L Heaslip.
"Good to have you back Cyr," he said. "I had a phone call from you mother when you were in Knob, she hadn't heard from you for a while" "You should write home more often"
Photos of the damaged Aircraft
Roger Cyr
May 2005
In 1956 The Maple Leaf Hotel sat on the southeast corner of St. Laurent Boulevard and Montreal Road in what then was known as Eastview. This became a favorite watering hole for members of 108 Comm Flt from the nearby airbase at Rockcliffe.
When the Squadron moved from Bagotville in January of 1956 the advance party was billeted there for approximately one month. It was not long before we became friends with the proprietor, Bob Simpson who played football for the Ottawa Roughriders.
One of the many problems crews had when returning from northern duty on a weekend was with banking. This was long before ATM's and if one returned to home base late Friday night or even Saturday cash money would be in short supply. We often pooled our few remaining dollars to have a party at the Maple Leaf with other crews who had been at Winisk or Great Whale River when we all got back from the north.
We had in the squadron a man from the city of Verdun who had a taste for the "Demon Rum" and the ladies. Not necessary in that order, but since he had been at Whale for a lengthy spell the latter was foremost on his mind.
I had arrived from Knob Lake late on a Friday and moved into the Hotel for the weekend where I planned to enjoy the pleasures of one of the many ladies who frequented the establishment. On Saturday just after lunch the person in question arrived along with perhaps thirty other unshaven, insect bitten members of our squadron and they immediately took up residence in the bar and began drinking and relating their stories with the men from Knob Lake. It was not long before their cash was depleted and many drifted away back to base or to the Hotel Office in hopes that Mr. Simpson would honor their cheque for twenty dollars.
The Hotel was booked and our friend had to secure lodging at the tourist cabins across the street. A considerable length of time had passed and when he had not returned to the party we became concerned that he may have fallen asleep. Another man whose name I cannot remember and I walked across the street to his cabin. The shades were up and we could see our friend walking back and forth clad only in his underwear. He was speaking in French with a young lady who wore tight fitting yellow toreador pants and a white sweater that emphasized a pair of 38's concealed within.
When we entered they ignored us and continued arguing, and the conversation went like this:
"The price is twenty dollar in advance." I heard her say. " I only have ten bucks. I'll give you the other ten on Monday when I get to the bank." He said. "No it's twenty now or I leave." She said. "Loan me twenty Roger until Monday." "I just got in from Knob myself, where am I going to get twenty dollars?" I told him. " Hurry back to the Hotel and borrow twenty from Bob Simpson." He pleaded. "He's away on a road trip with the team" I offered as an excuse for not borrowing money from Mr. Simpson that would be of no benefit for me. "How about doing a free one then." The man from Verdun asked. "No freebees." the woman said. "Well then do it for love." He offered as a last resort.
She walked to the door, turned and said.
"Love does not pay the grocery bill."
Roger Cyr
May 2005
In May of 1955 the air force sent me to Knob Lake which is located between the province of Quebec and Labrador, right smack on the 55th Parallel. I had been in the north of Canada on several other occasions but this time I was to stay for awhile.
108 Comm Flt was providing helicopters and crews to fly and service them during the building of The Mid Canada Line. A line that was to stretch from Hopedale on the Atlantic coast to Dawson Creek, B.C. We were responsible for the eastern portion of the line.
I arrived along with twenty-five or thirty other airmen aboard a C-119 flying boxcar with enough spare parts to keep our choppers serviceable for the length of our mission, which was to last one month. We managed to erect a marquee tent to protect our equipment from the elements and went about cleaning up the landing pad of any loose impediments that would cause damage to our fleet when they were taking off and landing.
Several things occurred the first week that still sticks in my mind after the passing of fifty years. The first one is Kenny Durst speeding through the town of Shefferville towing a trailer with a load of debris from the helicopter pad and Dale Boston clinging precariously to the sides of the trailer. The safety officer of the iron ore company who thought he "owned" the town forbid him to ever enter "HIS" town again.
During the clean up of our work area one of the sergeants was directing a civilian dump truck using hand signals that were standard procedure to air force ME drivers. Unfortunately the driver was unfamiliar with these signals and did not apply the brakes when signalled to do so and backed his rig into a deep ravine standing the truck on it's end. Another unhappy incident and from then on we had to provide our own vehicles and drivers.
In 1955 helicopters were still a novelty and the local inhabitants of the area would come by to look them over. One of the choppers was slightly damaged during one such visit and I was assigned the job of armed guard during the long evening hours. I was provided with a side arm and instructed to keep the visitors away from the fleet and answer any questions they might have. Little did they know that there were no bullets in the pistol! At least Barney Fife had one bullet, even though it was in his shirt pocket!
Nearing the end of my first evening as guard one of the Corporals who flew on the helicopters came by with some locals and saw me standing by "his" chopper and inquired as to what I was doing with the side arm. "Guarding the helicopters from the "Indians" I replied.
"Do you know my name?" he asked. "Yes, it's Cpl Johnston." I said. "Well I'm an Indian and I'm responsible for this helicopter." He screamed. "Now take that gun from around your waist and get to hell out of here." "I'll speak to the Flight Sergeant about this."
I got just a little bit smarter that evening. I found out the hard way that one should always engage brain before opening mouth!
Roger Cyr
October 2005
By September of 1957 I had moved on from 108 Comm Flt to 426 Squadron based at Dorval Quebec. I still had many friends with 108 who lived in the Ottawa area and often stopped to visit with them on my way through to Brantford, my wife’s home town.
Over the past fifty years I have lost track of most of the men I worked with on the construction of The Mid- Canada Line along the 55th parallel. Recently I had the pleasure of spending an evening with a man who was in Rockcliffe during my tenure there.
Like all old air force friends whenever they get together the hangar doors slide open and the “remember when” stories gush forth as if they just happened a week ago. My friend and I were no exception and the ladies soon adjourned to another room when the language reverted to flight line jargon.
This is the story he told me and I will do my best to relate it here in hopes that it brings back some fond memories of days gone by before the onset of pollution and global warming.
The H-34’s were working out of Great Whale and one was readied for an early morning flight to a nearby radar installation. F/O Kings was at the helm along with John MacDonald as crew chief and loadmaster. Rocky Pearson was also aboard as well as three Eskimo labourers heading for the job site.
Not long after they were airborne a pitch link pin broke and the captain lost control of that particular rotor blade. It become imperative that they set down immediately and all went smoothly until the pilot applied additional power to land. Severe vibrations shook the ship and they hit the muskeg and rocky terrain with a resounding jolt.
The aircraft sustained extensive damage to the undercarriage and various other airframe components. Although all aboard were shaken, but not stirred, they were non-the worse for their experience. It seems that in spite of the seriousness of situations such as this, some humour can always be found. In this incident it was with Rocky Pearson and the Eskimos. Rocky had been sitting on a five-gallon jerry can and the indents of the three handles on the top of the can were firmly imbedded into his derrière!
Another H-34 arrived on the scene with a salvage team and they prepared to sling the damaged craft back to Great Whale where it could be air lifted to Montreal for repairs. At this stage of work on the line it was quicker to repair damaged choppers than trying to have the government purchase new replacements.
The salvage team worked quickly gathering up undercarriage parts and panels that had broken loose during the hard landing and stored them in the rescue helicopter. A technician under the supervision of Flying Officer B.B. Finn from the squadrons engineering department readied the damaged ship for the trip back to base.
All heads were tilted skywards, including the three Eskimos as they watched the damaged helicopter as it cleared the few scrub trees and started it’s journey towards Great Whale. Suddenly it began spinning and fell back on the rocks and muskeg when the cable broke. In haste, someone had neglected to attach a swivel link and the spinning twisted off the cable.
The young assistant engineering office that had supervised the work saw a promising career in the RCAF smash into the rock with a resounding crash as the chopper hit the rocks and wipe out what few trees that stood in its way.
A look of pain and disbelief came over his face as he turned to my friend and said. “This could result in the end of both of our careers.” “I’m heading north which way are you going?”
The Eskimos said “thanks anyway, but we’ll walk back to Whale” They were last seen heading for the shores of Hudson Bay.
Photo of the Helicopter falling when the cable broke
Roger Cyr
May 2007
In mid April of 1958 I was stationed at site 800 in Stoney Mountain Alberta, working as a tech rep for Bell Telephone. I was working the midnight shift on the test board in the Sector Control Building. Usually there was very little to do apart from monitoring voice traffic on the order wire and checking the fault alarm status of the sector DDS sites. It was a pretty boring routine, fortunately I liked to read so time passed quickly. This shift turned out to be a quite different kettle of fish. At two in the morning I received an urgent summons from the RCAF corporal in the operations room. He needed me in there immediately.
The Operations room was fitted with pen recording equipment that recorded signatures if there was any deviation in the Mid Canada Line Doppler signals. The RCAF operations staff were trained to interpret these signals and decide if they warranted any further alarm action. .The corporal was quite nervous, in addition to calling me he had also called his Flight Sargent who was on his way over from the barracks. I was ushered over to a pen recorder and on it were four perfect signatures in a rhombic flight formation. They had all the earmarks of fast high flying aircraft. I was asked point blank if this was the case or was it an equipment malfunction.
As I was looking at the signature patterns the Flight Sergeant burst into the Ops room with the news that he was on the line with a American major at NORAD headquarters in Colorado He thrust the phone at me and I was informed that the major needed an immediate answer because operation Cocked Pistol was on the verge of being triggered. The major was pretty agitated and he pressed me to make a decision because he had to immediately contact SAC and scramble Canadian fighters from Cold Lake Alberta or set up an intercept from a northern US base. As far as I could make out, the recorder was functioning properly. There was no indication of any local Northern light activity and the signatures looked too perfect for possible random noise or wild life activity.
So there I was, a half baked twenty- one year old tech with a decision to make that could possibly affect the future existence of some major cities in North America. I gave my opinion that the equipment was functioning okay and that these looked like aircraft intrusions to me. The major was off the line in a flash, I and the ops crew spent the rest of the shift apprehensively waiting for news of an atomic attack in the south. Fortunately nothing happened. Later, on reflection, I presumed similar situations must have happened on all North American Radar lines.
Allan Ogston
July 2007
One of the concerns for the planners of the Mid Canada Line was the prospect of having a fire at one of the remote Doppler sites. This would create a possible security hole in the line and in turn cause a lengthy costly refit operation to get back in service. There was also the possibility that there could be a loss of life given the extreme weather conditions. To prevent the possibility of a catastrophic fire in the equipment and diesel rooms, Line engineers had developed a CO2(Carbon Dioxide) fire control system. As I reflect on it now it was sort of a Rube Goldberg cartoon concoction.. This is the way I remember it was supposed to operate.
The C02 fire control discharge system was triggered by a heat sensor installed in the ceiling of the equipment room. The theory was that when the sensor was activated a mechanical relay that operated with a huge clack would initiate the following sequence. Simultaneously, a loud warning klaxon would go off and a heavy weight would drop. This weight in turn released a bar that was attached to the nozzles of a dozen Co-2 cylinders that lined the wall of the equipment room . These cylinders were the standard five foot ones that you see welders using. When the cylinders discharged ,they filled the space with carbon dioxide gas which ate up all the oxygen, thereby starving the fire. Occupants of the building had sixty seconds to get out before being overcome by the gas, hence the reason for the loud sounding klaxon. You had to get out quickly.
In 1957 I was stationed at site 309 a Doppler radar site located one hundred miles west of Knob Lake Que. The CO2 incident happened when the equipment room was full of people. There were three people from the Marconi installation team working on the equipment bays. Mike Milinkovich the other Bell rep and myself along with the Bell section foreman were all in there idling or doing various work operations. There were also two plumbers on site, putting the finishing touches to the CO2 system. The journeyman plumber was showing the apprentice how the system worked when he accidentally dropped the weight. We went from the theoretical aspect of operation to the practical consequences of a CO2 Fire control operation. The system worked fine. The Klaxon went off with a terrific wail and the CO2 billowed out from the cylinders and quickly started to fill the room.
There was an immediate stampede by all for the equipment room door. We all converged on the door at the same time, it must have looked like something out of a Groucho Marx film. This happened in mid February so it was still bitterly cold when you hit the great out doors. We all high tailed it across to the cook tent with out our parkas and flight boots. Fortunately the cook tent was well heated by an oil stove so we could all watch in relative comfort as the DDS building became wreathed in the CO2 fumes that were pouring out of the building vents. We were uncertain, how long it would take the CO2 to dissipate and we were in a bind because the radio communications equipment was in the front living quarters of the site.
So we waited two hours before tentatively opening the front door. By that time the fumes had evaporated and it was okay to go enter the building. Needless to say. it took us a while to get our fire system back in operational mode. Everything had to be flown in by chopper so the cylinder replacement took a while. For me it was an exciting day in a place where one day morphed into the next and in time you did not even know what day it was. It was very funny at the time but I guess in recollection it could have been a lot more serious if it had happened at night and there was no warning klaxon.
There was another fire incident at western site 727 in December of 1957. That .D.D.S. did burn down. Apparently the diesel exhaust pipe that protruded through the wall in the diesel room set fire to a wooden stud that was in the wall. The fire continued to burn and smoulder until the building was consumed. Because the fire was confined to the interior walls the CO2 when it operated had no effect on the fire. My friend Rick Francis was on the trouble shooting crew that came to inspect the site and he said that the heat was so intense that it buckled the one hundred and fifty foot Doppler tower into a pretzel shaped mass of steel, Rick stayed at the site over the Christmas period. He was alone at the time and had to use of the survival hut.
Allan Ogston
July 2007
In 1957, M.C.L personnel going to the various DDS sites in the 300 sector of the Line had to fly out from Knob Lake QC to one of the support lake head supply bases. They usually flew on fixed-wing aircraft. These aircraft were equipped with either floats or skis ,depending on the season. From the lake head, they would then be ferried to a DDS site by a small two -person Bell helicopter. These machines did not have much carrying capacity so your kit bag and sleeping bag had to be lashed on the outside struts above the helicopter skids. It was an article of faith that for your own survival; you brought your sleeping bag with you anytime you flew, particularly in winter.
When you arrived at the DDS Helicopter pad, you had to be very careful when you left the machine. If the pilot was not staying, he would not shut down the engine so the rotor blades were still whirling above your head while you crouched down unlashing your gear from the side struts. You then had to almost crawl away on your knees across the pad to make sure you were not decapitated by the helicopter blades.
In those days we were in the installation and construction phase at DDS 309 so there was a lot of back and forth passenger traffic at the site by personnel involved in these various operations. On this occasion, a chopper had been called to pick up an engineer for a return trip to Knob Lake. It was in the middle of winter and it was extremely windy and cold that day so if you went out you really bundled up. This turned out to be a very important factor for our departing engineer. As he approached the waiting idling chopper, he absent-mindedly walked into the rotor blade in an upright position. He was immediately knocked for a loop and bounced off the chopper pad.
The pilot immediately cut the engines, jumped out and ran to the Doppler building for help. We carried the fellow into the kitchen area and laid him out on the kitchen table. He was in complete shock and out of it . The upper sleeve of his parka was ripped, but we did not know how serious the injury was. I must say the pilot was really cool and competent. He took charge and barked out a string of orders that we scrambled to obey . When we stripped him to the waist, we saw that the tip of the rotor had sliced into the left bicep leaving it looking very damaged indeed. The chopper pilot expertly doused it with peroxide, bandaged the wound and he put the arm in an improvised sling. By that time the shock was wearing off a little and the patient looked like he would be stable until he got to Knob Lake.
This fellow was very lucky that he had not been decapitated and he was also fortunate that he was wearing many layers of winter clothing. I never did find out how he made out after he got to Knob.
Allan Ogston
July 2007
