We landed at Barksdale to refuel, which took quite a bit of time in the P-80. The leading-edge tanks in the wings were so long and narrow that the fuel backed up unless it was added at a low flow rate. We postponed any attempt to have the radio compass repaired till our next stop, Tinker Field in Oklahoma City, which had a major repair and modification depot. After takeoff I tried the radio compass again, without much confidence, but it remained inoperative.
At Tinker I wrote up the problem in the Form IA, carried in all AAF aircraft to record malfunctions and repairs, and asked the chief of transient maintenance if it could be repaired. He said that he could have a radio specialist there the next day, even though it was Sunday, who would try to locate the problem. We checked in at the VOQ, changed into civilian clothes, and went into Oklahoma City for dinner. As was our custom in those days, the only thing we considered ordering when eating off-base was a big steak (still B.C.). Unfortunately, the sizzling steak I ordered was sizzling so violently that it spattered grease all over the front of my new tan poplin jacket. I guess that was better for my health than eating the grease, but I didn't think so at the time.
The next morning we met the radio technician in the hangar where the P-80 was parked and explained the problem, which was quite simple: the radio compass didn't work. After copying the type and model numbers from the instrument, he went to the technical library to get the maintenance handbook, but since this was a new design, it had not yet arrived.
Undaunted, he said it couldn't be too much different from the earlier model, so he brought up his testing equipment and went to work. After spending the rest of the day trying various fixes without success, he admitted defeat and said he couldn't repair it without the maintenance handbook. We thanked him for his efforts and decided to go on without it rather than delay the flight any longer; we had already lost several weeks waiting for the specially equipped P-80 to come off the production line. Although the radio compass would have been of great value, especially over the sparsely settled country in northern Canada and Alaska, we were confident that our navigational skills were sufficient for the task.
The next morning we took off for an airfield at Kearney, Nebraska, which had closed some months earlier but would have a tank truck of JP-1 jet fuel available for our use. We landed in a strong crosswind on the only open runway. It would have been dangerous to land a P-40 or a P-51 in that wind, but the tricycle gear on the P-80 made it relatively safe. The fuel truck was there, and we were refueled in the normal time, but the external starting unit wouldn't start. We had to wait about four hours while they fixed it. Because of the delay, we had to spend the night at the AAF field at Rapid City, South Dakota, instead of Great Falls.
After arriving at Great Falls the next day, October 22, we learned that the weather was too bad in Canada to allow us to fly to Edmonton, Alberta, under visual flight rules (VFR) as required by AAF regulations for ferrying aircraft. Even worse was the news that it was expected to remain socked in for several days. We made the best of it, however, and checked into the VOQ. We changed into our civilian clothes and caught a bus into town.
Great Falls, on the Missouri River, was then a city of some 25,000. I guess there must have been a great falls somewhere nearby, but I never saw it. The country was flat and windswept, and the view was dominated by the tremendously high smokestack of a copper-smelting plant. There were evidently cattle ranches in the vicinity because many of the local citizens wore cowboy clothes that did not seem to be for show.
After dining on immense steaks in the hotel dining room, we explored the main street. In an unimpressive building that may have once been a saloon, there was a large collection of paintings by the famous western artist and sculptor Charles Russell. Up to then I had seen only a few small prints of his works in books, but these large originals were magnificent; all of them were western scenes, and I was amazed that so much action could be captured on canvas and in bronze. The scenes were incredibly lifelike and displayed the knowledge he had acquired as a working cowboy. We both went back to visit this museum several times before we left Great Falls.
Farther down the street we found a sporting goods store with a large selection of guns on display. After looking around, we decided to buy High Standard .22-caliber sporting pistols to carry on our flight. The Colt .45s we had been issued were not very accurate in the hands of unpracticed shooters. I had barely qualified with the .45, and that had been several years ago. I was certain that a rabbit could hop past me with impunity, if he didn't mind the sound of a gun. I wasn't going to try to shoot a bear with anything smaller than a bazooka, so a .22 would be ideal for my needs. It had the added advantage of being smaller and lighter than a .45 and easier to carry in a shoulder holster. Also I could carry several hundred rounds of .22 ammunition in the space required for fifty rounds for the .45.
The next morning we were informed at base operations, much to our dismay, that it was necessary to be cleared by the hospital before leaving the country. They were only interested in checking our immunization cards to make sure we were caught up on our shots. I was horrified to find I needed several shots, all for warm-weather diseases like yellow fever (with which I was always afflicted at the approach of a needle) and typhoid. I argued that I was unlikely to contract any of them in Alaska, but to no avail. The medic who was to administer the shots didn't look too sharp, but his needle did. He didn't know whether the first shot should be intravenous or intramuscular, so he made it intraboneous. The needle hit the bone in my upper arm and nearly stuck there. It was extremely painful, but undaunted, he wrenched it out and tried again, this time with more success. By the time he finished the series of shots, my arm had turned red and started to swell.
By evening, the combination of the shots and the medic's boner had taken its toll. I had a fever, a swollen and tender arm, and was for the first time praying for the bad weather to hold so I wouldn't have to fly for a few days. Fortunately, the weather cooperated. I was feeling well enough by the twenty-eighth, when we were notified that the weather was marginal but that we might be able to make it to Edmonton VFR. We took off and made it as far as Lethbridge, Alberta, just across the Canadian border, before the weather closed in and we had to return to Great Falls.
Finally, on October 30, the weather broke, and we made the 435-mile flight to Edmonton in just over an hour. After being requested to make a low, high-speed pass in our then wondrous jets and readily acceding, we landed and parked on the RCAF ramp. In the base operations office we received the disheartening news that we would probably have to remain there for several days to wait out the bad weather along our route. We checked into the RCAF visiting officer's quarters and, since it was early in the day, took the bus into town, hoping to check out some of the southern Canada belles.
Edmonton is the capital of the province of Alberta, but at that time it was not a large city. The country is much like the Great Plains in the United States, with an enormous expanse of flat prairie. As we wandered through the city I had one of my illusions shattered. On a corner was a department store that looked just like a Sears Roebuck, but the sign proclaimed it to be the Hudson Bay Company. All through my youth I had read stories of the Canadian Northwest and the Yukon, and the trappers always traded in their furs and bought supplies at the frontier outposts of the Hudson Bay Company. I had always envisioned them as primitive log cabins in the wilderness — it was quite a letdown.