By any measure, Canada’s long and tortured decision to buy the F-35 fighter jet has become more than a procurement dispute. It has turned into a national reckoning—one that has dragged a 66-year-old wound back into the open and reignited one of the most painful “what ifs” in Canadian history: the cancellation of the Avro Arrow.
As Washington openly pressures Ottawa to proceed with the full purchase of 88 Lockheed Martin F-35s, warning that the very structure of continental air defence could be altered if Canada backs out, many Canadians are hearing an echo from the past. To critics, the moment feels eerily prophetic, a reminder of what they describe as a “historical mistake of epic proportions” made in 1959, when Canada abruptly killed one of the most advanced fighter jet programs the world had ever seen.
“The sins of the fathers are often visited upon the children,” the Bible warned centuries ago. In Canada’s case, that warning has taken on an uncomfortably literal meaning.
Canada has so far paid for only 16 F-35 fighter jets. The remaining 72 aircraft, which would complete the planned fleet of 88, are now under review as Ottawa reassesses costs, delivery timelines, sovereignty concerns, and long-term dependence on the United States.
At the same time, Canada has reopened discussions with European alternatives, notably Sweden’s Saab Gripen and France’s Dassault Rafale—both aircraft produced by countries that maintain independent fighter jet programs and export them globally.
Washington’s response has been blunt.
The US Ambassador to Canada, Pete Hoekstra, has warned that if Ottawa does not follow through with the F-35 purchase, the North American Aerospace Defense Command (NORAD) may need to be “altered.” His argument is simple: if Canada does not provide sufficient modern fighter capability, the United States will have to fill the gap itself.
“If Canada is no longer going to provide that [capability], then we have to fill those gaps,” Hoekstra said, adding that this could result in US Air Force fighter jets operating in Canadian sovereign airspace.
To many Canadians, the implication sounded uncomfortably close to a threat: buy American jets, or accept reduced control over your own skies.
The episode has triggered fierce debate in Ottawa and beyond. But it has also revived a deeper, older question—why Canada, once capable of designing world-leading combat aircraft, now finds itself with so few options that it can be pressured so openly by its closest ally.
Exactly 66 years ago, Canada made a decision that permanently altered its aerospace trajectory. On February 20, 1959—remembered as “Black Friday”—the government abruptly canceled the Avro Arrow (CF-105) program.
The Arrow was not an ordinary aircraft. It was one of the most advanced supersonic interceptors ever designed, a machine that could have propelled Canada into the ranks of elite aerospace powers alongside the United States, Britain, and France.
Had the program survived, many argue, Canada might today resemble France or Sweden—countries that maintain sovereign fighter jet programs and negotiate defence partnerships from a position of industrial strength rather than dependence.
Instead, Canada became a buyer.
The Arrow was conceived in the early 1950s, at the height of Cold War anxiety. Advances in Soviet long-range bomber technology posed a direct threat to North America, and Canada—geographically vast and strategically exposed—sat squarely on the front line of continental air defence.
Initially, Canada sought to upgrade an existing aircraft, the Avro Canada CF-100 Canuck. The CF-100, a twin-engine, subsonic jet, had served the Royal Canadian Air Force (RCAF) well and was entirely domestically designed. But it was not built for the extreme speeds and altitudes required to intercept next-generation Soviet bombers.
By 1953, it became clear that incremental upgrades would not suffice.
That year, the RCAF issued Specification AIR 7-3, a breathtakingly ambitious set of requirements. The new interceptor would need to cruise at Mach 1.5 at 50,000 feet within five minutes of takeoff, operate over hundreds of nautical miles, function from relatively short runways, and be ready for a new mission within just 10 minutes.
After surveying aircraft from the United States, Britain, and France, Canadian planners concluded that nothing on the market could meet these demands.
Canada would have to build its own.
The task fell to Avro Canada, a company with deep roots in wartime aviation. Established as part of Britain’s “shadow factory” strategy during World War II, Avro Canada had produced legendary aircraft such as the Hawker Hurricane and the Lancaster Bomber.
After the war, the company became a hub of innovation. In 1949, it unveiled the C-102 Jetliner, North America’s first jet passenger aircraft and the world’s second jet airliner. In 1950, it delivered the CF-100 Canuck, Canada’s first jet fighter.
The Arrow would surpass them all.
Development began in 1955, and Avro engineers quickly found themselves pushing the boundaries of what was technologically possible. The CF-105 featured revolutionary concepts, including one of the world’s first non-experimental fly-by-wire control systems and a real-time, telemetry-based navigational computer.
Its airframe used advanced materials, and its design was so cutting-edge that Canada lacked the facilities to test it fully. Engineers had to rely on American resources, including the National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics (NACA) supersonic research center in Virginia.
A Spectacular Aircraft, Briefly Alive
The Arrow was publicly unveiled on October 4, 1957. Fate, however, dealt it an ironic blow: on the same day, the Soviet Union launched Sputnik I, capturing global attention and ushering in the space age.
Still, the aircraft spoke for itself.
Sleek, white, and delta-winged, the Arrow was immense—nearly 78 feet long with a 50-foot wingspan, larger than the CF-100 and even bigger than the US-built F-4 Phantom, which would not enter service until 1961.
On March 25, 1958, the Arrow made its maiden flight, piloted by former World War II Polish fighter ace Janusz Żurakowski. By its third flight, it had already gone supersonic.
Initial landing gear issues were quickly resolved, and by early 1959 the aircraft had successfully completed its test program. Four Arrow Mk 1 prototypes flew a total of 66 test flights, while two Mk 2 aircraft—powered by the advanced Orenda Iroquois engine—were built and considered production-ready.
Plans existed for even more ambitious versions, including Mach 3 and Mach 5 variants, and even a “zero-length launch” concept involving vertical takeoff from a platform.
The future seemed limitless.
Politics, Missiles, and a Sudden End
Yet the Arrow was controversial from the start. Senior figures in the Canadian Army and Navy resented the enormous share of the defence budget it consumed.
When the Liberal government lost power in 1957, the incoming Conservative administration under Prime Minister John Diefenbaker moved quickly to scrutinize public spending. The Arrow, expensive and highly visible, became a prime target.
At the same time, Canada signed an agreement with the United States to form NORAD, cementing a joint approach to continental air defence. Meanwhile, intercontinental ballistic missiles were emerging as the dominant strategic threat, leading Washington to shift its focus toward missile defence rather than manned interceptors.
Facing budget constraints and strategic pressure, Diefenbaker made a fateful choice. On February 20, 1959, the Arrow program was canceled outright.
The consequences were immediate and devastating. More than 14,500 highly skilled workers lost their jobs overnight. Canada’s aerospace industry was gutted.
Many of its brightest engineers left for the United States, where they would later help build NASA’s Apollo program and shape American aerospace dominance.
What shocked Canadians most was not just the cancellation, but what followed.
Despite offers from the United States to purchase the completed aircraft and requests from Britain to use the Arrow for supersonic research, the government ordered all prototypes, tooling, and blueprints destroyed.
Only fragments survived in museums.
That decision fueled decades of rumors. Some claimed one Arrow, possibly RL-202, escaped destruction. Journalists and former Avro employees reported strange sightings, missing aircraft in dismantling photos, and whispered accounts of a secret flight.
One Avro draftsman, Ken Barnes, hid Arrow blueprints in his basement rather than destroy them. Others smuggled out components and documents. Ejector seats later surfaced in the United Kingdom. An unmarked white delta-wing aircraft was reportedly seen landing at an RAF base in Kent in the 1960s.
Whether an intact Arrow still exists remains one of Canada’s greatest aviation mysteries.
The Arrow’s demise has long been shadowed by speculation that the United States quietly encouraged its cancellation. Some Canadians believe Washington feared competition from an aircraft that could outperform American designs.
“The best thing that ever happened to America was the cancellation of the Arrow,” goes an old Canadian joke—one that carries more bitterness than humor.
Others argue the decision was driven by misinterpreted intelligence, budgetary panic, and political expediency rather than foreign sabotage.
What is undeniable is the outcome.
Today, as Washington warns Canada not to walk away from the F-35 and hints at reshaping NORAD if it does, the Arrow’s ghost looms large.
Had Canada not canceled its own fighter jet program, it might now negotiate defence partnerships as an equal, not as a buyer under pressure.
Instead, six decades later, Canada finds itself once again debating sovereignty, dependence, and the cost of decisions made long ago.
Whether Ottawa ultimately completes the F-35 purchase or pivots to European jets, one truth has resurfaced with uncomfortable clarity: nations that abandon strategic industrial independence often pay for it generations later.
