About the end of August [1] our Squadron moved to Wick in northern Scotland where we were to operate over the North Sea and off the Norwegian coast. [2] Wick is a sleepy small town right at the North-East corner of Scotland. I can remember biking down to the flight shack at about 10 a.m. one morning and the sun was just above the horizon and believe it or not it seemed to just stay there for most of the entire day. Of course in that area at that time of year there was far more mist, fog and rain than there was sunshine. The Scottish coast line was very rugged and flying there reminded me of the Gaspe Peninsula in Northern Quebec.

After a few flights to get familiar with the area and its topography we had a couple of uneventful operations over the North Atlantic and the Norwegian Coast. Then on the night of September 25th, 1944 we embarked on a flight, the outcome of which was to completely change my R.C.A.F. career and actually my whole life.