Men of Victory Become Men of Waste! ! !

Men of Victory Become Men of Waste! ! !
I was surfing the channels here on Canadian Television, when I came upon a the I_Channel, one of the many I pause on, then continue on with my searching for something to watch- when a story caught my eye, one of a war hero named George *Buzz* Beurling. At first it appeared to be a story on a WW2 war hero, not that different from many of the stories I had seen while growing up, war heroes, war zeros, they had all become a blur over the years, but this Beurling character was different, he was awarded at the start of the documentary, with parades, people saluting him, only to be ridiculed later by his own country that had once welcomed him home with open arms.
George Frederick Beurling was born in December, 1921 in Verdun, Quebec, in a very firm Brethren Christian’s family. He never took on smoking or drinking. He was a loner, a poor student and definitely not a team player. Almost everything associated with his childhood had one common denominator: desire to fly. He manifested this by haunting the nearby Carterville airport and making airplane models, which he tried to sell to get money for flying lessons. He started to learn how to fly at the age of fourteen. At sixteen he soloed in Gravenhurst, Ontario, where he went after quitting High School.
In spring 1940 the RAF was recruiting experienced pilots in Britain. That spurred Beurling. In May he boarded Swedish ship Valparaiso, loaded with explosives and destined for England. After a few "close calls" in convoy, ship arrived in Galsgow. Once there - within hours - Beurling presented himself at nearest RAF station. He was ecstatic to hear that he more then qualified. All he needed was a proof of age, and he did not have any! Young Canadian received another mighty blow. Frustrated and very angry he boarded another ship and returned, by convoy, to Montreal. With birth certificate stored as a treasure, he returns to Scotland in September, again traveling as a seaman. He enlisted in RAF Volunteer Reserve. Full year later, he was recommended for a commission. Beurling turned it down, and was posted to line squadron No. 403, as a Sergeant-Pilot. Four months later, he was transferred to No.41 Squadron, refusing a commission at the same time. On his third mission, a sweep over Calais, Beurling shot down a Fw-190. This happened while he separated himself from his flight, where he flew "tail-end-Charlie".* Two days later he did exactly the same thing. On any given opportunity to jump an enemy aircraft - which he always saw first - he promptly abandoned his formation. Discipline flying was not his style. For this he was scolded, reprimanded and then removed from almost all combat flying. His comrades treated him like a leper. His only solace was flying squadron's liaison Tiger Moth; which he did with a fury. Eventually, he asked for relocation.
He joined Squadron No.249, with S/L Stanley Grant as commanding officer and F/L P.B. "Laddie" Lucas his flight commander. Canadian Robert McNair (who was the other flight commander) did not want Beurling in his flight. He had a very firm, negative opinion about him. Other pilots described him to Lucas:

"...the chap's a loner. Can't be relied on. He will either shoot some down or 'buy it'."

After a straight talk with Beurling, Lucas decided to give him a chance. Later he recalled:

"I felt I was in the presence of a very unusual young man. He didn't give a damn for me. A youngster really, who was champing at the bit to get to it, to get an airplane and have a go."

Beurling was assigned to fly with Lucas' good friend: Raoul Daddo-Langlois. When asked his opinion about Beurling after couple of flights, the latter replied:

"God Almighty, he's quick and he's got the most marvelous eyes but, he's a hell of a chap at being able to keep with us."

After nearly a month on the island, Beurling had almost nothing to show for. In one of the six patrols he flew at that period, he shot down one Bf-109, which got its whole empennage blown off from a single burst of his guns. Since no one saw it crash; he was credited with only a damage.

The big day came on July 6th. Beurling flew in one of the eight Spitfires, intercepting three Cant bombers and thirty Macchi 202's escorting them. Spitfires dived on them from 22,000 feet, with sun in the back. Beurling sprayed one Italian bomber with bullets and went after the fighter, which plunged down trying to escape. Beurling caught up with it at 5,000 feet, and with two short bursts of fire scored a perfect hit. At Takali, he found his Spit full of bullets holes. Since it was his flying day, for next sortie he took off in another aircraft. On his third fly that day - a patrol with three other pilots - he split the formation of two Ju-88 and twenty Bf-109F's. Typically for him, he "yahooed" through the opposition and went after the lonely prey. During this lone-wolf performance, he easily finished one Bf-109. Thus, he achieved a status of an ace. However, he was snubbed by his fellow pilots for individualistic performance, and celebrated alone.

After every successful sortie, Beurling promptly recorded all the data of his victories in his black notebook. He analyzed it and invented a set of formulas and graphs, which involved speed of aircrafts and angles. This served him to become (in opinion of many of his contemporaries) the best "deflection shooter can be." These mathematical calculations, together with lizard-practice-shooting, showed his great devotion to the science of killing. He was a zealot when it came to aircraft's guns, and had stuck to his armourers rather than his squadron mates. Since he did not drink and constantly talked about shooting and killing - occasionally adorning it with the Bible verse - the other pilots withdrew from him. When waiting for combat flying, he always checked all the guns in aircraft designated to him. He was obsessive about it. The same time George was completely unconcerned about his tidiness and exceptionally imprecise in his discipline. He was also very eager to fly missions. Unlike many others, he never complained about having to sit in the cockpit while being in readiness. He seemed to be indifferent to scourging sun and foul smell of cordite, glycol, and grease, sometimes even vomit and urine.

Around that time he got his first nickname: "Screwball." In his book Malta, Laddie Lucas recalled: "He possessed a penchant for calling everything and everyone - the Maltese, the Bf-109s, the flies - those goddamn screwballs.... His desire to exterminate was first made manifest in a curious way. One morning, we were on readiness at Takali, sitting in our dispersal hut in the southeast corner of the airfield. The remains of a slice of bully-beef which had been left over from breakfast lay on the floor. Flies by the dozen were settling on it ... Beurling pulled up a chair. He sat there, bent over this moving mass of activity, his eyes riveted on it, preparing for the kill.
Since being awarded the Distinguished Flying Medal in July 1942, Sergeant George Beurling had destroyed nine enemy aircraft, bringing his total victories to seventeen. One of his exploits was the destruction of four enemy fighters in one day. During his brief combats he also damaged another two unfriendly aircraft. His courage and determination were source of inspiration to all of the Canadian people, the narrator announced, then, the story took a downward spiral, one of distain and immense dislike.
Beurling became a darling of ruling party and protégé of Prime Minister, Mackenzie King. During the tour to help sell the war bonds, he took pleasure of being a star. He also scored a lot - this time with the ladies. In Vancouver, before a large audience - many of whom were RCAF aircrew - Buzz all fired-up, vividly portrayed the moment when one of his fellow pilots burned in crashed Spitfire. He was talking with glee using very inappropriate words. Almost everybody just got-up and left.

After short flirt with sales, Beurling was sent back to England and became an instructor. His reputation proceeded him, and RAF was disinclined to send him to the front. He was desperate to go back to fighting, and constantly requested to be posted to an operational squadron. RAF constantly refused. Finally, in September, 1943 he was transferred to RCAF , and No.403 Squadron,(127Wing) which flew Spitfires IX. His main job there, was to teach young pilots how to shoot. But he also flew missions - and continued to be himself. During one mission over France, thanks to his supervision, he spotted enemy aircraft, peeled off, shot it down and returned to the airfield with the squadron. When he reported one enemy plane destroyed, his commandeur, Hugh Godefroy was stunned. Beurling not only did not inform his flight about the spotted plane, but also abandoned his position, exposing others to greater risk. His gun camera, when checked, showed clearly one Fw-190 exploding in mid-air.

Beurling continued to be rebellious and obstinate. He could not accept his place in a back row, where he wasn't greatly appreciated. Thus, he showed-off. Beurling accepted a promotion to Flight-Lieutenant just because it made him responsible for the squadron's Tiger Moth, and Godefroy became main target of his hostilities. He violated direct orders and using this trainer, he performed a lot of stunt flying. In result he was put under open arrest. Still, there were people willing to put-up with him. In November, "Buzz" got transferred to 412 Squadron, stationing in Biggin Hill. Massive fighter sweeps which the squadron flew did not "turn his crank" and he continued to play a lone-wolf. In December he got his last (32?) victory; a Fw-190. Then he came up with a plan to form his own circus of long-range Mustangs. Idea was, to gather few desperadoes like him, go over to the continent, and shoot the living hell out of anything that moves. Although he lobbied quite hard for it, his project did not got any support. Only days before D-Day, Beurling was granted an honorable discharge from RCAF and returned to Canada.

After-the-war Beurling was a very mixed-up guy; unsteady and unconventional; with bizarre and sometimes suspicious behavior. When the news of Jews looking for former fighter-pilots reached him, George went nuts. Although initially wasn't wanted, he got drafted by Israelis to fight for their new, independent state. His way to Palestine led through Italy, as part of the clandestine operation. He sojourned mainly at Urbe Airport in Rome.

There were a few Norduuyn Norseman, which loaded with arms were supposed to be flown to Palestine by volunteer pilots. On May 20th, 1948, Beurling died in one of those Norseman, which crashed at Urbe during a training (?) flight.

Absolutely nothing is clear about this crash. The plane was probably sabotaged. Investigation never really happened. Also, there are few different versions about who died with Beurling in that crush. Sometimes it is American pilot, sometimes British, and one source mentioned three ex-Luftwaffe pilots being in that plane."

George Beurling treated like war excrement in the end, a need to his country when deemed him necessary, a embarrassment when he did not live up to hype of what a hero should stand for.
War does a funny thing to people, it pulls the masses together as a country, begging on lean times, asking people to provide support for a cause that no one of sure of, but everyone is sure they should stand behind, no matter the outcome, no matter the toll on human nature, no matter the tears of families left behind to bury what remains of their memories.

Diner Nights and Classic Cars

Diner Nights and Old Cars

Alrighty then, still living in Canada, middle of May upon us and things are still slow on the growth front of economics, so there are few means of entertaining ourselves, outside of the TV, computers, WII games, you get the drift. I am still one of those dying breeds that hangs on to the blurred hopes that social gatherings and family get togethers will make a comeback.

So being that I am also one of *those* people that is hanging on to few hopes and objects, like a few classic cars, we, ( me and the Mr.) were invited out to a friend’s new diner car restaurant. You know, one of those old railways looking car diners. Actually a dining car (American English) or restaurant car (British English), also diner, is a railroad passenger car that serves meals in the manner of a full-service, sit-down restaurant. Very cool really, hamburgers, fries, milkshake, all the goods that makes a diner what it use to be. With that said, we loaded up in our 75 Dodge Dart, drove the few miles down the winding road to a fun filled evening with people who are looking a social get-together. Lo and behold, the music was playing, the waitress was taking orders, people were all talking at once, in their separate booths and a good time was to be held by all.

Before actually sitting down to enjoy the good food, beverage and people, one could walk about the large parking lot of the diner, with ewwwwws and awwwwws of others classic cars, a Viper, 1970 Chevy short box truck, a 1963 Corvette, 1930 Ford Roadster, 1933 Anglia, the list was endless over the chatter of energized voices of trading stories of restoration of this bumper, or that chrome, or the 75 Dodge Dart that remains in prima condition, like is just rolled off the assembly line.
It is a good feeling in these down days of spiral trends, Fox worthy news always seeming more depressed than the day before, that people can find a reason to gather, to visit and to just get together, to enjoy a old way of being, just getting together without a whole lot of reasons, other than to just enjoy being with other people who share a common bond, the need to be with others.

I am Viesta and I am out