I dedicate this story to
The very brave French people who at the risk
of losing their
lives helped me.
Bill Topper (627 Squadron), a wonderful pilot
and friend, and
without whose flying ability I wouldn’t be writing this now.
Alan Webb whose brilliant work in getting
together the
veterans of 627 Squadron was inspiring.
And to Nick and Carol Carter, two dedicated
RAF loving people
who gave me back my pride.
~
I had just
got in from work when my Mum, with tears in her eyes, handed me the
letter. She knew from the big bold letters “On His Majesty’s Service”
that it was the one I had been eagerly awaiting, my “call-up” papers.
Tearing the envelope open I saw that I was to
report to Lords Cricket Ground the following month, April 1942, which
left me about 3 weeks to put my affairs in order.
The day came and off I went, head high, chest
out, like so many more lads a budding Errol Flynn away to get the war
won in a couple of weeks; we were in for a rude awakening.
I won’t dwell on my training programme,
suffice to say after Lords I went to 5 ITW Torquay, EAWS Eastbourne and
Bridgnorth, 6 AOS Staverton, Moreton Valance and Aberporth. From there,
suitably adorned with sergeant’s stripes and navigator’s brevet, I was
several steps nearer to ops.
After leave I reported to 24 OUT Honeybourne
and Long Marston, from where we crewed up and trained on Whitleys,
thence to 1663 HCU at Rufforth in Yorkshire for our final training on
Halifaxes.
Eventually we were posted to 10 Squadron at
Melbourne, East Yorkshire. I will always remember my first trip over –
for I had to fill in as navigator with another crew – it was to Hamburg
and was the start of a run of 3 for me to this target.
Gradually, we were getting more experienced
and less nervous, but one always had butterflies in the stomach prior
to take off. This was sometimes prematurely relieved when a coded
message came through – “The bus will not leave for York tonight”, i.e.
the op was scrubbed. We would then let our hair down with a few cans in
the mess and then to bed.
One of our most demanding ops was to
Peenemunde, the rocket research centre on the Baltic; we were to go in
low, heaven help us! After briefing, we went in to our pre op meal of
bacon and egg etc., together with the usual banter: “Can I have your
egg if you don’t get back?”
The trip was quite hazardous and we were
attacked by a night fighter but were able to fight it off.
We were pleased, as always, to get back to
our base with another one done, taking us nearer to 30. Would we defy
the air crew law of average survival and make it?
On August 26 1943 we were briefed for
Nuremberg, and after all the usual formalities we were taxiing around
the perimeter track. Ahead of us we could see the mouth of the runway,
lined as usual with ground crews and pretty WAAFs to wave us off; who
would they be crying for a few hours later? Which crew wasn’t going to
make it? Who would no longer sup pints or scrawl their names on the
pillars in Betty’s Bar in York (the unofficial 4 Group HQ). Little did
we know then that this night we were to meet the reaper and to be
scythed from the skies.
We took off and made our way to the target,
always on the look out for night fighters, flak and searchlights. We
dropped our bombs and set course for home.
As we were flying along the Belgian/French
border, there was a noise like Champagne bottles being opened. We were
being heavily attacked by night fighters and were going down.
My call light came on and I looked up to see
everyone putting on their parachutes. I did likewise, cleared the
escape hatch of my navigational gear, jettisoned the hatch and awaited
the order to jump. Having received it I baled out. On the way down I
was pulling the hessian carrying handle, when a clear calm voice said
“It’s the wrong handle”. I instinctively found the steel ring and
pulled, my parachute opened and I was floating earthwards. I saw a big
explosion and assumed this was from our aircraft crashing. In the
darkness I landed heavily and struck my right forehead on the ground.
(Months later I was to learn that a medium had
looked at my photograph and said I was alright, but that I had hurt my
neck.)
After a brief spell to recover I ripped off
my RAF badges of rank and brevet, and together with my parachute hid
everything in some long grass.
Taking a bearing from the stars I set off to
wall south and to get away from the vicinity of the aircraft which by
now was burning fiercely and lighting up the countryside for miles
around.
As I was in uniform I had to travel by night
and try to sleep during the day. For food I had to use my escape pack
which consisted of barley sugar, Horlicks tablets, chewing gum,
condensed milk and water purifying tablets. (Daily ration – 3 barley
sugars, 2 Horlicks tablets and 1 piece of chewing gum). The water I
obtained from streams, cattle troughs etc.
After 5 days a farmer found me asleep in his
barn and I had to admit who I was. I was in luck for he was an ex
prisoner of war; he gave me old clothes and a little food. So after a
suitable rest period I left the farm because I did not want to endanger
the farmer and his family more than I could help. Once more I made my
way south towards the Pyrenees and Spain.
After 10-11 days my emergency rations were
finished and I had to resort to eating sugar beet or apples when I
could find any or begging for food from isolated houses. Eventually,
like wild animals trying to exist when food is short I had to become
more bold and to walk through villages and small towns hoping to
scrounge a little food and perhaps a chance to be picked up by the
Resistance movement. My boldness paid off as I now reveal.
Twas a Monday morning about fifteen days
after we had been shot down and I approached a cottage near a big
railway bridge to ask for food. After offering me sustenance they told
me to be careful as the bridge was guarded by the Germans. I was
wondering how to overcome this problem when I saw a farmer approaching
driving a horse and float which contained a baby calf, and this
procession was completed by the mother cow following behind. Once more
I took a chance and told the farmer who I was and what I wanted to do.
He gave me his stick and said drive the cow, he led the horse and we
passed the checkpoint without any trouble. This kindly farmer let me
stay with him right through a town full of German youth soldiers until
we eventually reached the cattle market on the outskirts where, after I
had bestowed him with my grateful thanks, we parted. I once more
resumed my journey
south.
Shortly afterwards, whilst walking through a
little village, I saw a German youth patrol approaching and, deciding
discretion was the better part of valour, I went down a side road and
got into a field and sat under a tree. My actions had been observed,
however, by a road sweeper who proceeded to tell the people who owned
the field what I had done. The owner came into the field ranting and
raving and
I was forced to reveal my identity. The atmosphere changed completely.
I was immediately taken into a barn, questioned, given food and hidden
in the straw until the next day. By now lack of food had left me
exhausted and this, coupled with the effects of the wine I had been
given, enabled me to sink into oblivion with just the cattle, the mice
and the rats as my companions.
Early the next morning I was taken into their
nearby home, washed, shaved and given a good breakfast. Afterwards I
wrote my name and address in England on a slip of paper and then
returned to my hiding place.
During the afternoon the owner’s brother came
to see me and gave me certain instructions for the evening. I was to
continue my journey south showing my white sweater carrying a small
parcel under my right arm and to show my hair sticking out under my
beret. After nearly 24 hours rest and 2-3 good meals under my belt I
was impatient to be on my way again; would evening never come! Come at
last it did,
and after a tearful farewell I was on my way. What lay ahead I knew
not, for although I could vaguely grasp the instructions, my schoolboy
French did not command a full vocabulary.
After walking for what seemed hours I was
overtaken by a cyclist who, about 100 yards past me, got off his bike
and started fiddling with the chain. When I drew level he said “Ou
allez vous? Where are you going?” I replied “Paris, St Quentin” and
recommenced walking. He called me back, took off his hat and drew out
the slip of paper that I had written my name and address on. Sticking
out his hand he said “Vous etes maintenant dans l’organisation de
Gaulle”. I sighed with relief for after 16-17 nerve racking, exhausting
days I had made contact with the Resistance. Little did I know then
what danger and tragedy lay ahead.
My companion then took me back into the
little town through which I had driven the cow the day before.
Eventually, we arrived at his home and I
was hidden away in a bedroom. The next day I was taken to another
Resistance worker whose home was by coincidence almost opposite the
farmer’s house which had been my haven only two days previously.
The next day I was on the move again.
Thankfully because of my last place the Resistance worker was a very
belligerent type and I feared that sooner or later his hatred for the
Germans would be noticed. My next safe house was to be my home for the
next seven days, during which time I was fitted up with clothes and
false papers.
Once more it was time to move on and I was
picked up by a member of the group further on down the line and taken
to hide over a café, and here I had to exercise the utmost caution and
was left on my own nearly all the time. (I can well sympathise with
anyone in solitary confinement.) This stay lasted about ten days and
then I was collected and passed on further down the line. Here things
were much better and I was like one of the family.
Sometimes we had a German soldier who came to
visit and then I had to go into hiding. I well remember one day being
in the toilet when he called. I prayed hard that day that his bladder
was strong and my prayers were answered.
By now I was getting impatient to be on my
way and, after failing to be picked up by one of the Lysanders from
Special Duties, I was collected by another guide who took me to a flat
in Paris. This place seemed to be one of the main meeting points of the
Resistance people and we had many visitors, one of whom I took an
instant dislike to and didn’t trust at all; my fears were soon to be
confirmed for he was a double agent, i.e. working for the Resistance
but passing on information to the Gestapo.
One evening the occupants of the flat where
we were staying came in looking very frightened and told an American
airman and myself to get our things together at once. We had to get out
for they were being blackmailed for 100,000 francs by someone who knew
we were there; no ransom payment meant our friends would be betrayed.
Walter and I made our way out into the Paris
night expecting a hand on the shoulder at any moment; luck was with us
and we were to follow our friends across Paris to the flat of an
English Language teacher where we were made welcome. We said goodbye to
our friends from the previous flat, not knowing that very shortly they
would be in concentration camps.
Our stay with Marie was to be short lived,
however, because she went out to a rendezvous with our previous helpers
who were escorting American airmen to the Pyrenees. The Gestapo were
waiting, having been tipped off by the double agent.
Our luck was to hold because Marie had
borrowed a torch from another teacher friend and promised to leave it
in this friend’s post box. As she hadn’t done this the friend came up
and put a note under the door, “Ou est Marie?”. When we replied in the
negative she went away, brought a key and got us out.
We can only hazard a guess that our good
fortune was due to Marie withholding her address from the Gestapo for
as long as possible.
Marie was to pay the supreme penalty for her
bravery, for she died at Ravensbruck concentration camp about the same
time as another helper died in Buchenwald.
We were got away from the vicinity of Marie’s
flat very quickly, for it could only be a matter of time before the
Gestapo came searching. Once more into the Paris night we had to go and
the journey will always stay in my memory. We set off following the
rescuer teacher and another teacher and, of course, in circumstances so
dangerous one doesn’t maintain contact but at every street crossing
they kindly lit up the pavement edge, saying “Attention le trottoir”,
(beware the pavement). Despite a situation fraught with danger I found
it amusing but at the same time I admired their courage knowing that
their friend was probably at that moment being tortured and yet they,
innocent bystanders, had come to our rescue and were taking us to
someone who was in contact with the Resistance movement.
At our destination, the teacher tearfully
left us to our fate and we went quickly indoors, still marvelling at
our escape.
We could only stay at our present house for a
short period, so efforts were made immediately to get us out of Paris.
A phone call was put through to another Resistance member outside the
city which was in code and went like this: “I have 2 swedes (the
American and myself) which I would like you to have but I would like a
cabbage (a Canadian airman) in exchange. The reply was that they would
love the Swedes but couldn’t spare the cabbage, which meant we would
soon be joining the Canadian outside Paris.
At this new hiding place food wasn’t
plentiful, so we used to stay in bed until noon, when we got up,
dressed and went down to a bowl of soup and a hunk of bread, followed
by a cup of acorn coffee and an apple. The apple you peeled and put the
peel in an oven tin. The peel was then dried and around tea time, hot
water was poured onto it and this was your cuppa, together with 2
slices of bread and marrow jam. In the evening we would have vegetables
and a little fish or meat.
We used to go out in the garden when dark to
stretch our legs and to gather leaves. These were dried and we used to
make cigarettes with them.
At last it was felt safe enough for two of us
to be prepared for a further attempt to get home. So one day the
Canadian and myself were escorted back to Paris. Here I was
interrogated to make sure I was English – “What is P.T.?”, “What is
V.D.?”, “Give me the name of two pubs in Bridgnorth.” Having satisfied
our helpers we joined the night train to Bordeaux. We didn’t sleep a
wink on that nerve racking train journey south and dawn had broken when
we finally arrived.
At Bordeaux we had to change stations and
take a train to Dax where we arrived without incident. Here further
guides were waiting with bicycles for us, whether you could ride or
not. (This operation was carried out 2-3 times a week right under the
noses of the Germans and in their prohibited coastal zone.) We rode all
day seeing many Germans but never being stopped. At Bayonne a halt was
called for that day and after eating we were soon in bed, exhausted
from our lack of sleep and our efforts of the day.
The following evening we were on our way
again and soon we could see our ultimate goal, the Pyrenees, Spain and
freedom.
At the foot of the mountains our bikes, money
and false papers were taken from us and with fresh guides we set off on
foot in pouring rain to tackle the Pyrenees. After five hours we came
to a mountain stream dotted by white stones each side. We crossed over
and we were in Spain. Any thoughts of freedom were soon shattered as we
had to continue walking away from the border (capture would have meant
being handed back to the Germans). Our walking continued for five
nights with little food, wet clothes and pouring rain.
I make no excuse for blowing my own trumpet
when I say that when my companions were talking about giving up, I
replied “We press on regardless”. My years of countryside walks while
birdwatching and a very strict upbringing were standing me in good
stead.
Eventually we reached a café in San Sebastian
where we were picked up by the British Consul’s car and as we were then
subject to diplomatic immunity we could at last say, barring accidents,
we were free.
Epilogue
After the war
I was to learn of the deaths in Ravensbruck and Buchenwald. The
Resistance group in the north had been rounded up. Shortly after I had
got away a Gestapo agent was planted on them posing as a British
airman. He was accepted as such and was able to gather names and
addresses and when he was ready, walked out and the group was arrested,
some to go into concentration camps, others to face the firing squad.
I was able to entertain the widow and
daughter of one of these very brave men at my home. When the French
television came along to record the reunion, I also met one of the
teachers who led us across Paris with the torch.
Such is the price that has to be paid because
of the greed of mankind for power.
Because of my frivolous happy-go-lucky
attitude I have got the reputation of being a Jack the Lad. On the
contrary, I am deeply religious and I’m convinced that on Friday 26
August 1943 I flew with God.