Bob Richardson was born in Glasgow, Scotland. He joined the RAF at the beginning of the Second World War and was sent to Clewiston, Florida to train at No 5 British Flying Training School. He was on “Course 3”, the University Flight as all fifty cadets came from the University Air Squadrons of Oxford, Cambridge and Edinburgh. They arrived in Clewiston on 7 October 1941 and graduated on 12th March 1942. All were commissioned as officers in the RAF. Following 5 BFTS Richardson joined 18 Squadron in Canrobert east of Constantine, Algeria. 

“Before we arrived as replacements, the squadron had suffered an almost complete wipe-out after mounting a daylight raid on Bizerte airfield at the very northern tip of Tunisia. It was a daring, perhaps foolhardy raid designed to hamper activities of the Luftwaffe’s fighter aircraft. “You will have cloud cover,” the weather forecasters told the squadron at briefing. Wrong! They were supposed to have fighter escort for their obsolete Mark V Bristol Blenheims. The fighters never showed up. It was not a good day. Of the eleven aircraft that took off for the operation, not a single one got back. They did bomb and strafe the airfield, with what seemed fair results. The problem was that the German ME-109s and FW-190s chased the Blenheims and shot all of them down. Wing Commander Hughie Malcolm led the ill-fated attack and was awarded the Victoria Cross, the highest British military decoration.” 

“The hot spot was Medjez-el-Bab, where the flak concentration was very intense and too damned accurate for comfort at six thousand feet. When our bomb doors opened, the exploding enemy shells were so close that their acrid cordite fumes of nitroglycerine, gun cotton, petroleum jelly, and acetone would be sucked up into our aircraft. That was close enough. There was one operation when our aircraft limped back with what appeared to be more holes than solid fuselage. It had been pierced, punctured, and perforated to the limit. An engineering officer said that our aircraft looked like a giant colander that could be used to wash and rinse tons of vegetables.” 


“I was returned to the United Kingdom as a flight commander, and posted to Air Defense of Great Britain. I flew Hurricanes and Spitfires (clipped wing Mark Vs), taking the latter over to Belgium. On the heels of VE day I applied for a transfer to Transport Command and, after some “schooling,” I received captain certification and was sent out to Australia, where we operated a military air line. Our operation included service to New Guinea, Borneo, the Philippines, and Singapore. When VJ day signaled the end of the war, I had a dramatic exit. I flew my C-47 all the way back to England—and back to civilian life as well.” 

“During a reunion of 5 BFTS Association members in Clewiston. Richardson demonstrated that “auld” acquaintances need not be forgot when he returned to his native heather and wrote a tribute to “auld lang syne.” Richardson’s essay is not only a remembrance of things past, but is also a tribute to the ability of man to still enjoy those skills acquired so long ago: The time is around 10:00 a.m.; the surface of Lake Okeechobee, four thousand feet below, is reflecting the color of the azure sky. But to the south little wisps of cumulus clouds are forming with thermals rising from the Everglades. 

‘The yellow painted wings of my Stearman PT-17 shine in the strong morning sun and this sturdy biplane is cruising at a steady 95 mph, its 220 hp engine giving a healthy exhaust note at 1,800 revs. There’s the straight road to Fort Myers up ahead and so I start the right hand turn to bring the heading from 180 degrees to 270. Lined up with the road below, throttle closed, engine just ticking over, ease back on the “stick,” wait for the shudder of the “stall,” kick left rudder and the ground below starts to revolve. The road comes round, half a turn, one whole turn, next half turn kick on right rudder, “stick” forward and the spin stops dead in line with the road and we are diving away! Liked that one—a two-turn “precision” spin! But this is not 1941. It is 1993 and today is September 24, almost fifty-two years to the day when I first set foot on the airfield which was to be my home for six months. And I am not flying a Stearman. I am piloting a twin-engine Beechcraft Baron with my friend and former instructor, Bob Hosford, who put the control column into my hands on the leg of the flight south from Orlando to Riddle Field, just on the edge of the Everglades.’ ”