St. Sylvestre, QC

In the summer of 1958 I was 165352 Aircraftsman First Class James Knutson, 2450 AC&W Squadron (RCAF), Sherbrooke, Quebec. This was a Royal Canadian Air Force Reserve squadron which did weekend and summer duty at the St. Sylvestre radar station near Quebec City. The "AC&W" stood for Aircraft Control and Warning. St. Sylvestre was one of many RCAF stations on the southernmost radar line in Canada, the Pinetree Line. Further north was the Mid-Canada Line, and then way north was the Distant Early Warning (DEW) Line. The Sherbrooke "Radar Unit", as we called it, enrolled around 80 recruits a year, I would guess. Most of us were high school students from around the Eastern Townships. Sherbrooke High and Lennoxville High were well-represented. Also St. Pat's in Sherbrooke. I had attended North Hatley High. The Radar Unit was located on Depot Street in Sherbrooke, in the old JH Bryant bottling plant. After one summer of basic and trade training in Sherbrooke, we were ready for work at St. Sylvestre or one of the other stations.

This was a great summer job for a teenager. Just enough independence from home to make you feel somewhat grown-up, and job requirements that made you take on some responsibility. The pay was good for those times. Something like $75 every two weeks. We had to line up to receive it. The drill was routine: stop three paces from the pay officer, salute, call out name-rank-serial number, take two paces forward, take your pay in your left hand, sign your name, take two paces back, salute, do a smart about-turn and march away. It sounds like such a simple ritual. But you'd be surprised how many ways it could be screwed up. You might forget one of the salutes, or misjudge your two paces and bump into the officer's table, or worst of all draw a blank when it came to name-rank-serial number. There was one Airwoman who just couldn't get the footwork right for an about-turn, and would end up doing a sort of pirouette, only to find herself facing the wrong way when she stopped. The pay officer must have had to pinch himself to keep from laughing, at times. The SWO, on the other hand, smiled openly. But it was a different kind of smile. Pay parade was one of his many opportunities to pick up bodies for extra duty.

The food was great. Surprising, maybe, for an Air Force station. But it was not to be wasted. A sign in the Mess said "Take all you want. Eat all you take". If you didn't eat it all, the Mess Sergeant would have a little talk with you. Since there were no stores for miles around, the Mess also had a dry canteen where you could buy all the usual things: soft drinks, chips, cigarettes, writing paper, stamps, souvenirs, trinkets. I bought a Zippo lighter with an RCAF crest out of my first pay. There was also a wet canteen with beer, dart boards, pool tables. Airmen were not allowed anything stronger than beer.

The day we arrived was spent "signing in". We had to go to all the Sections: e.g. Admin., Pay & Records, Supply, Rec. Centre, Hospital, Main Gate. Then of course, at the end of the summer we would have to go around to all the same Sections and sign out. At that time we would return any equipment which had been loaned to us. Or pay for it if we had lost it!

The tower interior was like something out of a Hollywood movie, complete with the "Big Board". The first thing you became aware of was the diesel generator, the Power Plant, in Air Force parlance. It wasn't so much that you heard it, as felt it. Something like being on a large ship, with a similar feeling of being isolated from the world. Because this was an operational defence unit, the tower had to have its own generator for electricity. The radar equipment of those days was not transistorized. It was all tubes, and must have taken a great deal of power. In addition there was an elaborate air conditioning system, no doubt designed to withstand some degree of nuclear fallout. There was always a slight pressure inside the tower, which helped keep the dome inflated, and sometimes it would make your ears pop.

On our first day at the tower, we were introduced to our crew chief, a senior non-commissioned officer (Sr. NCO) who made up our duty roster. There were three jobs which the enlisted men and women did: scope, tote board, plot. We worked on a shift system consisting of three midnight shifts, three day shifts, three evening shifts, then three days off. Often the crew chief would excuse you one of the end shifts so that you ended up working eight days on and having four days off. This gave us a chance to go home and get caught up with our girlfriends whom we hadn't seen since last time. The shift routine was further broken down into "time on/time off", e.g. two hours on scope, half hour off; two hours on tote board, half hour off; two hours plotting, half hour off. The on-off times varied, depending on the size of the crew. One of the reasons for so much "off" time was eye fatigue. I suspect it was also because early radar sets, like television sets, emitted low energy x-rays.

It seemed we had a lot of time on our hands. On daytime breaks we would sit around the tower lounge and socialize. At least a third of the crew were Airwomen, and there was lots to socialize about. There was no TV to watch, at least not when I was there in 1958. On the evening shift breaks, we read pocket books, played cards and snacked a lot. The Mess provided a couple boxes of groceries every night, and we had sandwiches and coffee, fruit and drinks. Microwave ovens hadn't yet been invented, but you could do a lot with a hotplate, a kettle, a toaster, and an infrared lamp. On the midnight shift we took advantage of every break to sleep wherever we could. There were no beds or couches. If you were lucky you found a lounge chair in a semi-darkened room, otherwise you found a classroom desk and slept with your head on your arms. Sometimes you woke up with totally numb arms flopping at your side. Couldn't even grasp a pencil. You looked kind of funny too, with one side of your face sort of flattened, and imprinted from the buttons and seams on your uniform. The radar set had a somewhat hypnotic effect which I'm sure was worse at night. It was very easy to fall asleep on duty, and that was an absolute no-no. Guaranteed to get you a one-way ticket back to Sherbrooke. We drank lots of coffee and chatted on the intercom just to stay awake. There was one Airwoman who had a particularly volatile personality. All you had to do was say something amiss to her and she would blast you. And of course, boys will be boys. So some nights when we were at the point of dropping off, we would say something "amiss" just to test her response. She had quite a vocabulary. That midnight shift was a killer. We never really conquered it. The coffee that we drank only served to keep us wide awake all the next day, so the following night we were worse off than before.

When we had days off, we usually wanted to go home. It was very hard to hitch-hike after coming off the evening shift. There were not many cars on those country roads after midnight. On at least one occasion my friend Jim and I walked all the way out to the Quebec highway. We got there after sunrise, and hitched a ride with a farmer and his daughter. There should be a story here but if there was, we missed it. We were so tired we kept falling asleep. Bonk! Over we'd go. On the back seat there were a couple chickens in a burlap bag. I hate to imagine how many times I keeled over onto them. They squawked loudly. I suppose where they were going, a couple broken ribs didn't matter too much. This farmer must have been a very tolerant fellow. Maybe he was ex-Air Force himself. He took us a good way on our journey.

Sometimes we didn't go home on our days off, but relaxed on base, had parties, or went to dances. One spot we visited was called (of all things) the Chicken Coop. It was a dance hall, at Lysander, I think. Small and not well-lit, but good music. If you liked Sam Hopper, you would have liked the Chicken Coop. Maybe Sam played there himself, in earlier days. We also had a very good Recreation Centre right on the station. All kinds of sporting equipment, and a swimming pool. One day at the pool one of the guys showed us how to shoot up out of the water and grab the diving board, then reach up with your feet and hang by your legs, before letting go. Once, as he was bending to reach up with his feet, his swimming trunks split, in a vertical fashion. And there was no inner liner. This was a mixed crowd, and we literally fell into the pool laughing. We were always after him to show us again, more perfectly, the part where you hang with your feet. Poor Dave lost a few social points that day.

Life at the tower was very different from life down the hill. In the tower, we were part of a crew, and the attitude toward rank was more casual. The job came first. Be Awake! Watch! To DND at that time it seemed to be very important to be monitoring all the aircraft coming and going in this part of Canada. We were especially vigilant watching the north-east. That's where the Russians were expected to come from. Sometimes we even reported flocks of geese. We were also involved in war games exercises. Some were "canned", i.e. simulated. Some were live. If a B-52 bomber took off from Bangor, Maine, we wondered what his target would be if the balloon went up. These planes were armed and fueled for what everyone knew would be a one-way trip. Sadly, we were also aware that some aircraft disappeared off the radar screen, and we knew what that meant. All of us knew about the Maritime Central Airways DC-4 lost off radar in 1957, just west of Quebec City. This was our sector. Some of our acquaintances had been on duty at the time. If I recall correctly, this was a charter flight of veterans returning from a visit to England. The weather was very bad. Thunder and lightning. The plane crashed at Issoudun, Quebec. All 66 persons aboard were killed. So we were alert to the possibility that at any time we could become involved in emergencies and disasters.

Down the hill, it was more like a military base, with the usual military protocol and responsibilities. We had to watch out when we met someone, to make sure we saluted if it was an officer. Some of the young officers were almost as green as we were. In their eagerness to return the anticipated salute, one would sometimes jump the gun and salute first. These were awkward moments. We learned to avoid Senior NCOs because they looked for things like unpressed uniforms, do-it-yourself haircuts, and fearful eyes. Once every few weeks we got dinged with Fire Picket duty, which meant leaving our familiar barracks and spending the night at the Fire Hall, with strangers, doing joe-jobs. Usually we just had to ride around the station (after midnight) with the fireman and check all the Messes for burning cigarettes and unsafe appliances. But it could mean polishing firetrucks, sweeping floors, preparing for some inspection or other. Sometimes it was the impossible job of closing down a party at the wild west saloon, an all-ranks party-place halfway up the hill. This was bad news. We had responsibility, but no authority. All we could do was wait till the party died, and then do our checks. Having been up half the night, we were in no condition to do a day's work the next day. Fire Picket was the worst duty there was. Nobody wanted to see you. Nobody thanked you. But if there was a fire, you can guess who got to answer all the questions.

The Airmen and Airwomen I met at St. Sylvestre were a great lot, from places all over Canada. I think this was my first awareness of the larger meaning of the word Canadian. Here we were, people from Truro, Sherbrooke, Smith's Falls, Winnipeg and Kamloops, for example. Working together. Getting along. Having a great time. We hadn't heard of regional disparity or transfer funds. This "pie" we called Canada was ours. We could go anywhere we wanted, do anything within our capabilities. We saw opportunities everywhere.

Most of the personnel I knew were single. I remember Dave, and Annie, and Petie, and Hutch, and Holly, and Hazel and The Cowboy. Each really deserves a paragraph of his/her own. There was Sgt. Anderson, and Sgt. McCritchie and his wife Cpl. McCritchie. Good people to work for. There were some married quarters on the station, but I think many of the married people had to find rents in the local towns. I only knew a couple of officers. Our crew commander was a Flight Lieutenant who had been in the war and wore the Distinguished Flying Cross. A very interesting fellow with many stories to tell. One that I particularly liked was about a German fighter that took a few shots, then waved and left. I wonder if he too survived the war. A few years after I left St. Sylvestre, all these people were dispersed, as there was no longer a need for the Pinetree Line. Long-range interceptors had rendered it obsolete.

I went back to see St. Sylvestre in October 1997. Most of the buildings are gone. The Station Hospital, once the epitome of cleanliness and order is a derelict hulk, with the roof caving in. The Fire Hall will never again ding me for Fire Picket duty. It's gone. The tower still stands, but the radar domes are gone. And the beautiful interior has been stripped and smashed. It is still recognizable, though, for what it once was. Time hasn't diminished it or enlarged it in my mind. But if you could have seen it then.

For me, the best memory is the optimism of that time. The RCAF was in its heyday. In spite of the nuclear threat, the country was doing something. It must have spent hundreds of millions of dollars building and manning these radar stations out in some of the most remote areas of the country. Marvels of technology and self-sufficiency. Many high school students such as myself had summer jobs because of the radar units. Some went on to further careers in the military, in Canada and the USA. Some got their start in the electronics industry as a result of their radar training. I guess the day had to come, though, when the radar units would not be needed any more. I just wish they had not been smashed up the way they were. Like the Arrow, I think of them now as national treasures thrown away. A few should have been kept for museums, or national parks. Nowadays at least, I don't think we are as wasteful. I know of a couple of old air bases that have made very successful transitions to industrial and community use. Nothing looks quite so forlorn as an empty military base. I have seen several. Sometimes you can stand by the corner of an old hangar and almost hear the sounds from another era.

When I started writing this, it was mainly for my children and some friends. But it occurred to me that many of the people who served at St. Sylvestre still live in this area, or are still in touch with friends and relatives here, and would enjoy hearing about the place. For any who would like to re-visit St. Sylvestre, it is an easy Sunday afternoon drive from Sherbrooke. Go past Thetford Mines and turn left for Kinnear's Mills. Follow the signs to the town of St. Sylvestre, then watch for a right turn to Mont Radar as it is called now. Some local entrepreneurs have bought the place and are turning it into a recreational area, with a ski hill and camping grounds. It cost us a couple dollars to drive up the mountain. The present owners were happy to show us around the tower, but for safety reasons the general public is not allowed in there. The Rec. Centre still stands, as well as the Supply Section and another building. These buildings are actually in use. The main gate is right where it always was. The road still winds up the hillside. On a clear day you can still see the Quebec Bridge.

And the Russians never came.

This article was written by James Knutson and provided to the Pinetree Line web site in October, 1998.