Cast of Characters

The Scimitars - Bill, John, Claude, Andre, Dave
House Band - Derek (piano) Chaim (drums)
Leanne and Pierre - an incredibly talented Montreal song and Dance duo (Leanne Marshall and Pierre Perron)

As we boarded, for the trip back to Montreal we were given the glad tidings that Quebec (the entire Province) had suffered a severe ice storm and nothing was moving.  No planes were taking off or landing. 

Our co-pilot informed us that we were heading for North Bay, Ontario.  I had spent some time there a few years back and, other than fishing for pickerel off the Government Dock and almost drowning in a sudden storm on Lake Nipissing, I couldn't remember much about it.  I did remember that there was a hobo jungle down by the lake where the railway track skirted it.  And every so often one of the fishermen would reel in the waterlogged body of some poor old tramp who'd gotten high on Sterno and fallen in.

            So you can appreciate and hopefully sympathize with my somewhat uncomplimentary view of the flights from one base to another, I should tell you that our North Star did not have a pressurized cabin.  That meant we flew right through the weather, not above it.  It was bumpy a lot of the time and when there was some heavy cloud and rain, some of the folks in our happy little group were forced to use the ever popular barf bags, giving the plane an interesting atmosphere.

On the trip from Churchill to North Bay the weather was particularly nasty and I hoped that our pilot had logged enough hours to enable him to get us through it.  Finally we burst out of a cloud bank and started our descent.  Below us we saw people.  And cars.  Factories with chimneys spewing out toxic smoke.  Civilization!

            We bumped to a stop in front of one of the hangars and started rustling our belongings together.  Before we deplaned, our producer had an announcement to make.  She was the boss and she let it be known to all and sundry that she had plenty of clout at the CBC - the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, known not so fondly as "The People's Network."  If you were an entertainer north of the 49^th parallel, knowing the right folks at the CBC could mean the difference between eating three squares a day and sneaking in the back doors of transit buses for a free ride.  So we listened and tried our best to look attentive.

            "OK everybody.  Pay attention.  We've been in contact with the powers that be here at the base and they've agreed to put us up until we can get back to Montreal.  From the reports we've been getting on the ice storm, it could be a few days yet.  What I'd like to suggest to you is that we do a couple of shows for the folks here to kind of pay our way, you know, sing for our supper. If you agree, I'll talk to them about arranging some performances in the sports hangar."

                        Billy, Claude, André, John and I had a hurried conference.  We had an idea.  I got to be spokesman.

             I hollered  "What would you think of a slightly different concept?"

            "Dave, I hope this isn't one of your smart ass jokes."

             "No, hear me out.  We've played a lot of Air Force Bases and I lived up here one summer.  If I remember correctly, this place has three mess halls, each with a lounge - Airmen's Sergeant's and Officers.  Why don't we put on a scaled down version of the show in each club on different nights - sort of cabaret style, and we'll play for dancing afterward.  Some of the people in the cast might like to socialize with the troops.  Especially since this base has a bunch of jet pilots stationed here, many of whom are . . . single."  My last few words were punctuated by raunchy hoots from the chorus line. 

"We could make it sort of informal," I went on. "like a rehearsal, without full costumes and lighting."  That improved my standing with our three man stage crew.

             "All right everyone, what do you think?"  She hollered.  I could tell she liked the idea more than a little but I don't think she expected the roar of approval that went up.

            Les. The emcee, didn't wait for her to say yes.  He just raised a fist in the air and shouted, "Let's do it," at the top of his lungs.

            We had a couple of quick meetings to discuss how it would all work.   A serious stumbling block was the fact that Claude would have to play Chaim's drums. With the smaller staging, we would only have room for one drum set and there was no way on earth that Chaim would play anyone else's.  Also, as far as he was concerned, using someone else's drums was like using their toothbrush.

Derek, the show band leader brought all of his diplomatic skills to bear on the situation and soon, Chaim grudgingly agreed that they'd both play his matched set of Ludwigs.  It was no problem for Claude.  He was getting a chance to play on the drums of his dreams.  Chaim made it abundantly clear that any damage, no matter how small, would be paid for . . . in cash.

            The first show we did was, of course, in the officer's club.  The intimate informality and lack of staging made the presentation completely different.  Les acted more like a stand-up comic than a ringmaster and he gave the neatest speech about us performers repaying the hospitality we were being accorded with the only meaningful currency we had - our talent. 

            Leanne and Pierre took most of the dancing out of their numbers and concentrated on singing and when Leanne sat up on the piano and sang, "My heart belongs to Daddy'" at about half the normal tempo, there wasn't a guy in the place who didn't get seriously turned on.  Except maybe Pierre.  That was OK.  I got turned on enough for him and me. 

            The girls in the line scaled down their routines and they did a cute little cheerleader number using ‘North Bay" as the name of the team.  I don't know when they scoped it out but like them, it was well put together.

            We got a standing ovation at the end of the show and when Les announced that the Pentagons had graciously offered to play for dancing, the crowd really ate it up.  They didn't have a lot of live dance bands perform for them other than on really special occasions so they were more than generous with their applause.  I sneaked a look at Our producer and I swear her eyes were moist.  Plenty of brownie points for all of us.  Maybe a CBC gig or two down the road. 

            We wrapped up the dancing at one A.M.  It was a Thursday and tomorrow was a work day for the base staff.  Not us.  It was time to party.  A long time ago our band had made a rule that there would be no drinking before or during a gig.  After it was no holds barred. 

            As the people started filing out, we bellied up to the bar.  We joined a couple of jet jockeys who were reminiscing.   The stories were fascinating even if their sense of humor was a little off-beat.  Like when they told us about crazy Walter who flew his jet through a main power line last summer and blacked out the whole town for three days.  Billy asked, "Was he OK?"

            "Not really," chuckled one of the pilots.  We planted what we could find of him."  They both hooted with laughter.  Billy and I exchanged looks of disbelief.

            One of their favorite funny stories (I have to admit, this one got to me), was also about last summer.  Six of them were returning from a night flying exercise and there was a poolside party at the officers club.  While they were waiting for clearance to land, they amused themselves doing low passes over the club and seeing who could make the biggest waves on the swimming pool.  Jason, the one who talked about planting their buddy's remains was in stitches. 

            After listening a while, I promised myself that I wouldn't think about getting into a car, never mind a plane, with either of these guys.  I'm sure Billy felt the same way.

            We were treated like royalty. We went on tours of the base and environs.  Including the flight line.

We had the impression that we could stay as long as we wanted.  It was comfortable, the facilities were terrific, and the people were great.  In the midst of all these good times, I realized I had forgotten to call my father.

            In Montreal, the storm had quit but most of the Province of Quebec was coated with 1 ½ inches of ice. 

           The next show (and the last in dear old North Bay) was to be in the Airman's Club.  It promised to be a winner.  The airmen were always out to prove there was a reason for the phrase "Officers and men".  The explanation was simple.  They were the real men.  They would prove it anytime.  They could drink more, play harder, stay awake longer and screw better than any officer on "this or any other" military base.   If anyone wanted to take issue with that, they'd gladly whip his ass for him.

            Any one of them would give you the shirt off his back. 

            Billy suggested, and no one disagreed, that for this group, when we played for dancing, it was going to be a lot of rock with a couple of slow numbers right at the end of the night.

            We were a bigger hit at the airmen's club than anywhere else.  They lived up to their self styled reputations.  They danced more and faster, got more pissed and clapped and whistled louder than any other audience we had played for anywhere, anytime.

            We had until noon to get our gear and ourselves together.  St. Hubert Airbase was open and the ice was starting to melt in Montreal.  In the midst of our reluctance to leave what had probably been the most fun stop in the tour, we got some great news.  Our North Star was needed elsewhere.  I couldn't imagine who the Air Force wanted to punish by having them fly in that noisy old kite but it must have been someone they disliked more than us.  We were flying back in a prop jet craft called a Cosmopolitan.  It was a sleeker looking airplane .  And it looked larger against the gray sky than the North Star had.

            I heard a familiar "Hey" from just behind my right shoulder.  The two jet jockeys we had met in the officers' bar had come to see us off.  Jason, who had told us about planting what was left of "Crazy Walter," described our new aircraft simply.  "You'll like it," he said, "Much quieter.  Not as safe of course."  Just what I needed to hear. 

           The good-byes were all duly exchanged - some cheerful, some tearful.  Fifteen minutes later, we were flying above the clouds and weather, experiencing modern, smooth, quiet air travel in a pressurized cabin.  Next stop . . .Montreal.  Home.