John Edwards trained on Course 6 at Falcon Field from 4 December 1941 and graduated on 5 June 1942.



In 1995 he wrote a wonderful memoir of this time and here are some extracts from "The Falcon Experience".

"It must have been in the summer of 1940 that I began to think that flying would be the answer to my part in the war. That year my family were living in north Devon (England) on the cliffs above Chivenor airfield, and there I used to watch the Wellingtons (the Vickers-Armstrong twin-engined bomber) coming in after their convoy patrols. There may have been other aircraft, but only Wellingtons registered. I thought they were incredibly beautiful, and that by joining the R.A.F. I might, someday, get to fly one. So, via a spell in

my University Air Squadron (for which in those days there was neither aircraft or air space for flying), I duly joined, and thus it arose that in November of 1941, 1 found myself on an elderly freighter, converted from its pre-war job of carrying frozen meat to that of carrying frozen R.A.F. Cadets, battering and bumping its wintery way, in convoy, across the north Atlantic...……..

……..Falcon Field at last. Was it possible for our destination not to be a disappointment after such an introduction? I don't remember having any pre-conceived idea of Falcon, but presumably I would have based my expectations on the various R.A.F. stations which we had thus far experienced, so could never possibly have anticipated the reality.

The 'L' shaped barrack blocks around the central square, the Control Tower and Administration Block axially placed beyond it, flanked by the two symmetrical hangar/classroom buildings made a picture far outside anything I had imagined. No dreary camouflage of drab green and khaki, but pastel colours, cream and green, flowering shrubs, mown grass, and beyond all that the rows of immaculately parked aircraft, bright blue and yellow, or shining silver, all set out like a great toy on an absolutely square, absolutely flat, flying field, (USAAF crews will remember that in Britain there was no such thing as a square, or flat, flying field). On one boundary, towards Mesa, lay the orange groves, while on the other, lay the desert, stretching to Camel Back and Superstition, and forever. Above all that, the immense Arizona sky.

What a place to learn to fly! ……

……...The Flight Office, overlooking those gleaming Stearmans; Mr. Stevens in charge of Primary Training; Mr. Hill in charge of me and three other rookies. I don't know about the other cadets, but my good friend Frankie Olford and I had never even been in, let alone tried to fly, an aircraft before, and this made life for Mr. Hill a bit hard. Frankie I think was a natural flyer. The others, as far as one could see at that stage, were about average; not brilliant, but not too dumb. I was the exception. I was unbelievably dumb, and should obviously have allowed myself to be drafted to the infantry. Mr. Hill tried to overcome my tendency to do everything wrong. How he restrained himself from physical assault I don't know, but fortunately before that became inevitable Christmas intervened, and taking advantage of the spirit of goodwill, or something, Mr. Hill lead me to one side and sadly announced his conclusion that he could teach me no more. In fact, that he had so far managed to teach me practically nothing, and that drastic measures were now necessary. I knew it and was prepared for the awful worst. I waited for the axe to fall. It didn't. The doom laden voice continued. What was it saying? — "— so I've given you to Mr. Green. Maybe he'll find a way". And so, after Christmas, I transferred to Mr. Green's squad. Mr. M. 0. Green, remembered by me as 'Mog', of course, did, with infinite patience, find a way. The details of his instructions are long forgotten - all I remember of Mog's gentle expositions of this or that manoeuvre is the use of his wonderfully expressive hands - demonstrative and explanatory.……

……to leave the flying aspect and think of the other side to Falcon, the social, which left memories even stronger and more valued. The kindness of the local people, from Mesa, Phoenix and all around was unbelievable. Perhaps it was because we were such strange strangers, a novelty; but for whatever reason, families made us welcome in their homes, gave us lifts in their cars (hitch-hiking, because of our rather straightened financial condition, the only way of getting anywhere), bought us drinks in bars, took us around the country and so on, and after these gestures of hospitality became friendships which lasted for many years.…..



……And this saga of fabulous happenings goes on (I sometimes wonder how we found time to do any flying) and we actually made a film. At least, we were in a film, sort of extra extras, in a production by 20th Century Fox (I think) to do with R. A.F. Cadets in Arizona. It was a terrible film: its only good points were the scenery, for which Fox couldn't claim thecredit, and the unbelievably lovely Gene Tierney, for whom I suppose they could. We resented the number of real extras who came over for filming at weekends and were dressed up to look like what Fox thought we should, while we ourselves were relegated to distant, less glamorous duties. Still, it didn't matter. We enjoyed it and Fox, not being allowed by some international regulation to pay us, magnificently got round this by giving Falcon a swimming pool ……



.....And this brings up the point which never seems to be especially mentioned, that is the great achievement by South West Airways in producing and running the whole remarkable organisation. Obviously S.W.A. had their brief. Certain conditions and requirements would have been laid down, but I'm sure it would not have been stipulated that they should make the place actually beautiful, or make the living quarters comfortable far beyond the basic requirements or usual RAF standards, or that they should provide meals far beyond what was necessary to keep the human frame alive, or that they would provide, in addition to our barrack accommodation, the common room, with its comfortable chairs, and the log fire in the great stone fireplace. Who, I wonder, was responsible for all this? Who saw that this was achieved? I hope, anyway, that he and S.W.A. had some recognition of their work in this unique creation from the R. A.F. and the British government. ……



..... Meantime, we had, alas, come to the end of our days at Falcon. We packed our kit, said our farewells, climbed back into the Southern Pacific, and headed back north to Canada, Certainly we were going home, but even so, there were heavy hearts among us. The contrast between our return and the excitement of the journey down could not have been greater. I remember practically nothing of the second journey - nothing of the cities we passed through, nothing of the scenery, little of Moncton, which had seemed so wonderful six months before but now seemed rather dull and ordinary (truly, we had been spoiled), and the voyage back across the Atlantic, though a great deal more comfortable than on the Tamaroa was, on the Duchess of Bedford, just plain boring. I had my 21st birthday somewhere in mid-Atlantic, and even that wasn't at all exciting.......



.....After that - return to University, now back in London, and for a few years, along with one or two fellow pre-war students, as a very senior member of the University Air Squadron, where we played with Tiger Moths (the U.K equivalent of the Steerman), at week-ends, and at summer camps until about 1948 I closed the log book. Full circle. End of Falcon Story."