No Reason to Complain

By Captain Henry T. Olden

"The series of events related herein are intended to provide an outline of my 48 years as a working man."

No Reason to Complain captures Captain Henry T. Olden's thoughts, feelings and experiences of his working life, providing much more than an outline of the formative years of New England aviation. From the 1910 Squantum air meet onward, he describes the flying machines and aviation pioneers of his day, and captures the inspiration that propelled so many like him into the skies. This first hand account chronicles his own inauspicious beginnings as a student pilot at Dennison Airport, through his retirement from Northeast Airlines thirty-five years later. What lies in the pages in between is the story of a man who embraced the joy of flight and passed it on to many others. From the arctic air bases of Greenland to the small airports and seaplane bases of Massachusetts, Henry portrays the life of an aviation pioneer with all the positivity and candor the title reflects, capturing hardships and good fortunes with the same modest memorial. His family appreciates the opportunity to publish his story for the interested reader, especially those whose lives he touched.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496931689

Captain Henry T. Olden

Captain Henry T. Olden (1902-1989) was a brother, husband, father, grandfather, friend, and pioneer aviator. Born in Dorchester, Massachusetts, and raised in Quincy, he held an assortment of jobs to pay his board and to make his way as a young man. Whether it was stocking the shelves at the local A&P store or riveting steel ship hulls in Quincy, Henry always found pleasure in his work. But it was a $5 flight in an open-cockpit biplane at East Boston Airport in 1927, which propelled him into a career in aviation. He began as a student pilot at Dennison Airport in a Waco-9 biplane, accumulating enough hours and expertise to earn a Transport Pilot license and a job as a flight instructor at the New Bedford-Acushnet Airport in Mrs. Bartlett’s apple orchard. This inauspicious beginning paved the way from the grass landing strips and beaches of Massachusetts to air bases across the North Atlantic, providing a wartime airlift service as a Northeast Airlines captain. It was in the service of Northeast that he continued his career until the final flight of his career on the Convair 880 in 1963. All told, Henry logged 23,000 flight hours and piloted forty-eight different makes of airplane in a thirty-six year span. This is his story, in his own words.

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© 2014 Henry T. Olden Jr. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 09/08/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-3169-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-3167-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-3168-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014913833

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Foreword

Preface

Introduction

Part I 1902-1923

Part II 1924-1938

Part III 1939-1945

Part IV 1945-1964

To My Family:

The following pages have been laboriously assembled for your information. Should you find even one small part of the story interesting, I shall feel rewarded for working so hard at composing it. It is, at least a record, the first in our family. I dedicate it to you.

H.T.O.

01%20Commemoration%20cropped.jpg02%20We%20Had%20Henry.jpg

FOREWORD

This is by all accounts a personal reflection on a good life. It is a private recollection, first intended by the author only to be shared among friends and family members and those whose lives he touched.

In the late 70’s, while he wasn’t tinkering with steam engines in his basement or landscaping around the home that he built himself, Henry Sr. was painstakingly recording this manuscript by hand, putting it on the record so that we would have a glimpse into his life and times past.

Though he carried himself with modesty, he was proud of his accomplishments and the role he played in the formative years of American aviation. He was no less proud of his family nor fond of his friends, with whom he forged bonds among the flight lines and hangars of New England, and while soaring far above the country that he called home.

As future generations keep the faith and carry on the memories of those who preceded us, I find it incumbent to share his story with those lovers of aviation, those New England historians and aircraft enthusiasts, who might glean some enjoyment from reading the memoirs of my grandfather.

For my part, my memories were not those of a fellow aviator, but of a grandson, taking his cans of ginger ale and beer to Benny’s for refunds, eating Indian pudding in his kitchen, and seeing this silly man dance in his driveway every time we drove away from Phoenix Street.

Although it was a good life, it didn’t always come easy. Even as fortune smiled on him, he would keenly note that there were no good ’ole days, that the struggles of youth, the Depression, personal loss, and the trials of war no doubt weighed heavily. Over a life that nearly spanned the twentieth century, he nevertheless recalled events with the fondness and contented perspective of someone who has faithfully endured life’s trials and basked in its joys, and who has indeed, no reason to complain.

James T. Olden

June 15, 2013

PREFACE

The series of events related herein are intended to provide an outline of my 48 years as a working man. As you are aware, thirty-six of those were devoted to aviation. I spent some time in other lines of endeavor also, which I enjoyed. I was never, nor am I now, one to demand an overflowing cup of life’s treasures.

Rather than strive and strain for a large share of those rewards, I have simply preferred to be alert to opportunities which presented themselves, then at that time, to pursue the goal. That approach worked for me, and I have no complaint whatsoever about the result.

In order to set the tenor of the story I shall, at the beginning, deal with what I consider the outstanding period in that long span of years. I’m selfish in doing so, hoping that enough interest might be aroused to induce the reader to continue to the end.

In any event, no harm will be done if the work is put aside. Writing it gave me much more pleasure than expected, a welcome reward at this late date.

INTRODUCTION

The temperature was fifteen degrees below zero Fahrenheit, the gusty northwest wind was making itself felt, signaling the passage of the cold front a few hours earlier, as I moved the throttles to start taxiing to runway 36 at Goose Bay, Labrador. The time was 0900 GMT, February 14, 1944. My crew and I were beginning the second leg of a flight from the Presque Isle, Maine, air base, just south of the New Brunswick border. The local weather was clear, the terrain along the take-off path was level, and Lake Melville, one hundred miles long, a problem-free climbing area, a mere mile away, somewhat comforting considering the fact that the plane was overweight, as were all military cargo aircraft during World War II operations.

We had arrived here the evening before during the turbulence and snow squalls associated with the weather change mentioned, had a good six hours of sleep at the comfortable officers quarters, spent considerable time at weather briefing checking on what everyone guessed we might encounter on the flight.

Our mission was to fly a shuttle between Goose Bay and:

Bluie West One (BW-1), the code name for Narsarsuaq, at the far end of fifty-two mile-long Tunigdliarfik Fjord on the southwest coast of Greenland,

Bluie West Eight (BW-8), above the arctic circle, also on the west coast at the end of the one hundred five mile-long Sondrestrom Fjord,

Bluie East Two (BE-2), in Sermilik Fjord, fifty miles into that spectacular narrow solid rock valley on the east coast, the walls of which reached fifteen hundred feet above the placid green water, and

Meeks Air Base at Keflavik, Iceland.

The crew and the aircraft, a C-46A, forty-eight thousand pound twin-engine transport, widely used throughout the world during the war, were scheduled to operate a minimum of fifty flying hours carrying urgently needed goods, mail and personnel to and from those bases. There were often civilian passengers aboard as well. We had no way of knowing who those people were, but after reading some post-war accounts, it seems reasonable to suspect there were some important individuals occupying the bucket seats in that stark, noisy and often cold cabin.

After completing the shuttle we would return to Presque Isle, there to rest until our turn came to repeat the same, or to be routed elsewhere to satisfy the needs of the U.S. Air Transport Command (ATC).

Our departure from Goose Bay was made in midwinter darkness to enable us to arrive at BW-1 in daylight, the one runway there being unlighted, making it impossible to find in the dark among the black rock cliffs lining the fjord. The so-called midnight sun wouldn’t be seen for four months yet.

We headed northeast after take-off on the seven hundred eighty mile leg, leaving the Labrador coast behind after an hour and continued across the Davis Strait from whence came the iceberg which was rammed by the Titanic in 1912.

We served all the Greenland bases for two days then were off on the eight hundred twenty mile leg to Iceland. Two flight plans were necessary, one to be followed if the weather was such that a climb could be made to eight thousand feet altitude and be on top of all clouds before crossing the ice-cap, then to proceed direct to Iceland. If that wasn’t possible, the flight would follow a southerly course to Cape Farewell on the tip of the continent, adding an extra hour to the rip, then across the usually rough Denmark Strait, passing close to the spot where the British Battleship HMS Hood was sunk by the Bismarck.

In clear weather, rare during the winter months, we’d be able to make landfall about one hundred fifty miles out of Iceland – five thousand foot snow-capped Snæfellsjökull on the island’s west coast, and the three other seven thousand foot peaks – Vatnajökull, Hofsjökull, and Langjökull, each with its ice-cap and glacier, in the central part, plus Mount Hekla, a presently dormant volcano. On this flight we were close in before sighting land because of the usual low clouds and squalls.

The air base, thirty miles south of the capitol city of Reykjavik, was a dismal place. Several large camouflaged hangars were the only prominent structures, the rest of the buildings being Quonset-huts of all sizes, each one covered almost to the peak with ugly brown volcanic lava to protect them from the prevalent high winds. Some of the quarters, such as those of the British War Office were completely underground. I had occasion to be there for a special briefing prior to a flight to Prestwick, Scotland, and was quite impressed by the officer personnel and their apparent seriousness in the business of war, which at that time, 1942, wasn’t going very well for them – or for us either, for that matter.

After a short rest we were on the return leg to Greenland, to resume the shuttle there. Soon the hours were about completed and the final leg to Goose Bay and Presque Isle was under way. My log shows a non-stop flight from BW-1 to Presque Isle of eight hours and fifteen minutes, so no doubt the weather at Goose made a landing inadvisable, which often happened, the radio navigation equipment at that time – not possessing the accuracy and reliability of the systems in use today – the late seventies. Upon landing at Presque Isle we had logged a total of sixty-two hours.

The next assignment was to shuttle between Goose Bay and four bases in Arctic Canada:

Crystal-1 on the Koksoak river which leads south off of Ungava Bay, at Fort Chimo,

Crystal-2 on the barren shore of Frobisher Bay, Baffin Island

Crystal-3 on the north shore of Baffin Island; this base was served only during the long winter months while the tundra surface was frozen; it was a weather station, not justifying the building of a runway, and

Churchill, Manitoba, on the south shore of Hudson Bay.

Crystal-2 and -3 were above the timberline, barren, rocky, desolate. You may rightly ask why those bases were there. With the exception of Iceland, they were far from Europe, the area of hostilities. The reason was that as the war progressed in 1940-1941, it became apparent that the United States would be in it eventually. They were built to accommodate fighter and pursuit aircraft to repel a Luftwaffe invasion which was honestly expected by the military. The larger bases were for servicing the thousands of bombers which were ferried across the North Atlantic to England and other places.

Ordinarily, as every airman knows, piloting aircraft is not dangerous. It does however, and definitely so, require proper training and constant attention to the task at hand. The operation described above was in no way ordinary. For nearly three years, in my case at least, the presence of danger was recognized, but ignored, a common trait among the young, the excitement and thrill of every step upward on the ladder to bigger things serving as an excuse to disregard the threat. I’ll admit, those years were loaded with dire possibilities – blizzards, oceans, mountains, icing conditions aloft, guesswork weather forecasting at times, somewhat inadequate navigation facilities, thousands of square miles of arctic and sub-arctic desolation, where winter flying was best, every mile frozen solid, including, of course, the hundreds of lakes, large and small which at least offered a solid surface in the event of a forced landing, whereas, in the summer the possibility of survival was nil, even considering the extremely rare chance of landing safely, because of the dense swarms of mosquitoes and flies which could do us in in short order. We knew these things, of course, and fortunately, the only experience encountered was when the crew and I decided to take a stroll from the Crystal-1 base one warm day, then having to run the half mile back to the post to escape them. Then, on the other hand I was surprised to see acres of tiny flowers similar to violets popping their heads through the crusted and melting snow during what is called spring.

We were among the Eskimos of the Canadian bases, a pleasant experience, interesting to learn how they were put to use by the U.S. Government in the important matter of teaching our military people how to live away from the base when on rescue missions and others, using dogsleds, building igloos, etc. A few times as we flew over we observed long dog-teams far from the base on the frozen expanse of a lake, realizing it would be some days before those men would be sitting down to supper in the warm mess hall. At Baffin Island there was a compound for the dogs, and it was hard to believe they were in their element, asleep, the blowing snow covering them completely except for their snouts, the only shelter being a wooden barrier to protect them, and a couple dozen frisky puppies from steady exposure to the icy winds.

At that same base it was quite a sight to see an Eskimo family in the Post Exchange, awaiting, of all things, their ice cream cones! In this regard, at every base we served, here and in Greenland, were to be seen huge piles of material of all kinds, simply dumped to await their eventual use in construction and other things. Looking over one such pile at Crystal-2, I asked an officer what a certain piece of machinery might be. It was an ice cream-making unit, and later I was privileged to witness it being used to serve those people – always smiling – with or without ice cream.

The machine was not, of course, put there for their benefit. Serving home-made ice cream while the arctic blizzard raged outside in that desolate place was but a part of a very serious effort to keep under control the morale problem, common everywhere, especially in remote places such as these. Low morale affected all personnel to some degree, as we, who were back home about every two weeks could see, making us realize how fortunate we were. One day at BW-8, after checking into the barracks for the rest period, I was peering from a window, evidently for some time, being brought back to reality by an officer quietly asking if there was anything wrong. There wasn’t, I was simply taking in the sight of the snow-covered mountains, the huge airfield, the edge of the fantastic ice-cap, etc. He thought I had the Greenies, he was frank to explain.

The Canadian Government, ever watchful concerning the welfare of the Eskimo, made certain, before any agreement was signed, that the U.S. would adhere to some vital rules. One of those had to do with the delicate matter of the Eskimo way of life. The reason for the concern was because many of the able-bodied males, who would be employed at the bases, were to be paid in cash, an experience they had never known. The welfare of the Hudson Bay Co. also was involved, inasmuch as the Eskimos were the fur trappers, trading their pelts for the necessities of life. If the Eskimo was given the freedom to spend his money, he’d stop hunting and fishing, thereby disrupting the lives of those simple people. The solution was to deposit his wages in the Hudson Bay Co. to the Eskimo employee’s credit, serving to keep this wartime upset under control until the war ended.

The U.S. Air Transport Command was in charge of the operation described. Our country wasn’t in very good shape to enter the war. One of the deficient areas was that of transport-type aircraft and crews. When we did enter the fray, the War Department was immediately empowered to take over the domestic and international airlines of the U.S. to help in the emergency, taking advantage of the ready supply of experienced crews and serviceable aircraft.

It so happened that Northeast Airlines (NEA) of Boston, by whom I was employed, was the first to come under control of ATC, early in January 1942.

The first flight was to Goose Bay, three days after the signing-up, the cargo being the complete radio transmitter and related paraphernalia of a radio range station, removed from some domestic airline route, to be set up to provide a radio navigational facility in that area. That pioneering flight was unsuccessful in locating the place for several reasons: totally new and difficult country, frozen and white, making everything appear to same, lakes, rivers, terrain, etc., the base itself nothing but a tiny spot on the surface, no large buildings, inadequate charts, and the shortest period of daylight in the year which ruled out spending much time in searching. The second trip was a success, the