Chapter 4

EARNING A CATERPILLAR

I hastily scanned the upper surfaces of the plane but was unable to spot any apparent damage, except that the two engines were unserviceable. The airscrew of the starboard engine was stationary, it having either been knocked out by whatever had hit the aircraft or it had raced itself to destruction in the dive. The port airscrew was still spinning, but the engine sounded like a maladjusted lawnmower and was undoubtedly on its way out. The aircraft was close to stalling, and it was necessary for Steve to keep its nose down to maintain flying speed – a situation that could not possibly last much longer.

Bert and I made a hurried check of the petrol and oil cocks and found them to be OK. There would be no advantage in jettisoning movable equipment as flying time could now be measured in minutes. Being unable to revive the engines, Steve gave the order to abandon aircraft.

Nothing was going right. I got a bit excited again when I made a dive for my parachute pack and discovered that it was missing from the bunk where I had left it. Collecting my torch from the wireless compartment, I was relieved to find the pack lying on the catwalk near the rear turret. I told Steve that I would use the rear escape hatch. Discarding my helmet and clipping on my parachute, I wrenched away the safety guard of the escape hatch and stamped out the exit panel – sending it flying into space. By this time Bill had emerged from his turret and we stood face to face over the hole in the floor of the fuselage. There was no time to toss a coin to decide who should jump first so, with quick thinking, I thrust my torch in his hands and unceremoniously dropped out of the aircraft. I was later to discover that I was the first crew member out.

I started to tumble as soon as I hit the slipstream, and I pulled the ripcord as soon as I had judged that I was clear of the tailplane. The canopy blossomed into a lifesaving mushroom which instantly checked my rapid descent. Gyrating considerably slower earthwards, I was amazed by the uncanny silence compared to the bedlam I had experienced during the previous ten minutes. It was so quiet I could hear the gentle rustle of the parachute shroud lines as the chute drifted on the breeze. From high above I could hear the steady drone of the bomber stream making for home –and so much closer to the ground the clatter of a noisy lawnmower fading into the distance.

In the sky where I would have expected Bill to be, I caught a momentary glimpse of another parachute canopy in the moonlight. In the excitement of the occasion I nearly made the mistake of shouting to him, but it would have been most inadvisable to advertise our presence by trying to make ourselves heard over a distance of up to a quarter of a mile. In the middle distance I could make out the River Moselle meandering through a valley, the moonlight on its surface giving it a silvery snake-like effect.

It could not have been more than ninety seconds after I had pulled the ripcord before I made an unscheduled and ungraceful touchdown between rows of grapevines. The risers of my harness had pinned the collar of my Irvin jacket round my head making downward visibility difficult, resulting in a blind approach with a heavy landing. However, I was unhurt apart from minor bruising.

For several minutes I sat straining my ears to pick up any sign of activity suggesting that the hunt for me was on. All I could hear was the faraway sound of a retreating bomber force. My feelings swiftly changed from elation at still being alive to abject loneliness at being so isolated from my loved ones. I sat trying to collect my thoughts but only added anxiety to my feelings. I was anxious that the rest of my crew had managed to survive; that my parents would not believe the worst when they received the telegram to inform them that I was missing in action; and, perhaps selfishly, that Joyce would understand when I failed to keep the date that evening and that she would wait to hear from me. Even despite the fact that we had known one another for only a week, I dismissed the thought that wartime romances sometimes proved quite fragile where long absences were involved.

Using my Irvin jacket as a shield, I lit up a Sweet Caporal and took a few long drags on it. I needed that fag. I decided to make for Luxembourg which I reckoned to be within reasonable walking distance, and there hopefully try to contact some burgher sympathetic to the Allies’ cause. Via a well organized escape route I could be back in Blighty before I was much older. How I wished I had been further up front in the queue for escape money back at Croft.

After ripping off my sergeant’s chevrons and aircrew insignia from my battledress, I concealed them with my parachute under some vines. The escape and evasion lecturer at Croft would have preferred that I buried the lot, but as the ground was rock hard and I had neglected to bring a pick and spade, it really was too nail tearing and time consuming to abide by his teachings.

I set forth westwards hoping that I might meet up with Steve, Bill or another member of the crew. I had not walked for many minutes before I found myself in a cobblestoned yard with buildings on three sides and a high wall on the remaining side of the quadrangle. I found a gate in the wall which gave access to a narrow lane, and a dog suddenly barking nearby hastened my exit from the yard into the lane.

I was so intent on trying to get out of the place before the dog aroused its masters, that I failed to notice a small group of people standing a few yards down the lane. Tiptoeing away from the door, I was practically on top of them before I realized I was in trouble. We stood staring speechlessly at one another until, to show them that I was an agreeable sort of person, I handed round a packet of cigarettes. Not only did they decline my offer, but they began to make hostile noises and backed off towards one of the cottages behind them.

They were advancing in years and I guessed that they had been in the lane watching the air raid or organizing search parties. As one of the menfolk made a dash for a cottage, I decided not to hang around any longer. I turned on my heels and ran hell for leather down the lane, realizing that the balloon had gone up and a hunt for me would soon be in progress.

Once I was well away from the village I took to the vineyards and meadows, alternately jogging and walking until I collapsed with exhaustion. As I stretched out on the ground, I heard the mournful sound of the all-clear in the distance. The sound of the sirens was no different from those at home. Away to the east there was a lurid red glow in the sky from the devastated Mannheim and Ludwigshafen.

After I had regained my breath, I set off again over a sweet smelling and pleasant undulating countryside. Here and there were clumps of trees as the vineyards disappeared. Unlike the English countryside there were very few hedgerows. The going was good, more so when I came upon a railway track that also led in the direction I wanted to go. Making good use of the expertise I had acquired on the LNER between Eryholme Junction and Croft, I bounded along the sleepers at a canny speed. On two occasions I had to dive in the undergrowth beside the track while freight trains squeaked and clattered past, but this proved to be a blessing as I needed the rest. I had to be particularly careful at level crossings, and felt it wise to bypass railway stations. At one time I was bounding along parallel with a road, when a convoy of military vehicles passed; perhaps a weary search party returning to its barracks.

Dawn was breaking behind me, and I realized it was time for me to look for a place to conceal myself during the daylight hours. I was pleased with my performance so far, estimating that I had covered at least ten miles that night. I had no idea how far I would have to walk to reach Luxembourg, or know I had arrived when I got there, but I guessed it would take a few nights to make the journey.

At the first opportunity, I left the track to follow a lane leading to what appeared to be a fairly large wooded area. By this time I was completely exhausted, and perhaps less alert than I should have been as I once again walked into trouble. It was still dark as I rounded a bend in the lane, to come face to face with a dozen or so civilian workers chatting amongst themselves. As I was almost on top of them, I decided to bluff things out this time rather than turn on my heels and run. I veered over to the far side of the road from them to saunter past, trying to appear as casual as I could wearing an Irvin jacket and flying boots, and praying that I should not be recognized as an alien in the early morning twilight. As we passed I was, surprisingly, greeted with a chorus of ‘guten Morgens’ and was about to congratulate myself on surmounting yet another hurdle, when I heard the word ‘Halt’ in a high and authoritative voice.

I immediately broke into a sprint. There was a loud report of a pistol shot. I stopped in my tracks. To be shot at from afar can be a rather stressful experience but to be shot at from close quarters is positively terrifying. The next shot could find its target.

Raising my arms above my head in reluctant surrender, I turned slowly to face the trigger-happy gunman. A man brandishing a Luger pistol had detached himself from the group and was standing no more than twenty feet away from me. He was a short, medium built person, with a round face and a Charlie Chaplin moustache. He was wearing steel-rimmed spectacles and the black uniform of a factory security guard – a Werksschutzpolizei. He was standing propped against a bicycle that was far too big for him. He was a Heinrich Himmler lookalike, a nasty straight out of a wartime propaganda film about the Gestapo.

As I walked over to him, he nervously backed off and, in doing so, clumsily toppled back over the cycle. This immediately brought a few loud chortles from the group of labourers who were now taking a passive interest in the proceedings. Despite Heinrich’s amusing antics as he wrestled to regain his feet, he somehow managed to keep the Luger pointing threateningly at me.

When he did get to his feet he was in quite a paddy. Thrusting the cycle into my hands, he then swaggered about the lane proclaiming his hatred for Engländers in general and Terrorfliegers in particular: emphasizing his disapproval by taking running kicks at me. The cycle served to protect my shins. Now I was a Terrorflieger.

After he had sent what appeared to be a forced labour party on their way, I was escorted to a cottage standing a short distance away in the village. It was a picture postcard cottage detached from a number of equally quaint homes.

As soon as we entered this living room Heinrich’s attitude towards me took a change for the better – almost benign. Indicating a chair well away from the doors, he invited me to sit at a table that seemed to fill the room. From the foot of the stairs he called to his family to arouse themselves and to come down to see the Engländer flieger he had captured. Heinrich then made excited telephone calls. He was a hero of the Third Reich and would have something to talk about for the rest of his life.

The room was well furnished with a cooking range dominating one side: a log fire was just beginning to take hold in the grate. On the mantelpiece there was a large carved clock and framed photographs. On the walls were portraits of the Nazi hierarchy, the most prominent being Adolf Hitler – with his Charlie Chaplin moustache.

Soon two young girls, neither more than ten years of age, appeared at the foot of the stairs. They were two pretty children, who coyly appraised the fairly good looking Engländer aviator sitting in their living room. There was no animosity shown, just curiosity. I smiled, they giggled. When their mother appeared, she just gave me a scornful look and attended to the stove. She and Heinrich then carried on a conversation that lasted for some minutes. I did not understand a word of it, but I guessed it was being explained in detail how I was captured, no doubt with total disregard for his own safety. His family were very impressed.

In an obvious attempt to be as hospitable as possible under all the circumstances, Heinrich let me have a look at the family photograph album. There were the usual wedding photographs, snaps of the children at varying ages, and a sepia photograph of dad in the Kaiser’s Army. As the fraternizing continued, I proudly showed them the photograph of Joyce in her Land Army uniform. As we were getting on so well, I thought it the right thing to do. It was far more satisfying than being questioned by the Gestapo. However, that experience was yet to come.

I was treated to a cup of acorn coffee and some black bread with pork dripping, which I soon disposed of. Heinrich then handed me a piece of paper and a pencil to record my name and number.

After about ninety minutes, two police officers appeared in the doorway. The grey-green Gendarmerie uniforms with brown piping added a splash of colour against the drab black uniform worn by my captor. One of the officers was so tall that he had to remove his inverted coal scuttle shaped helmet to duck under the door frame. The other one was short and fat. The fat one stared at me and loosened his pistol in its holster, conveying the impression that he was quick on the draw and to try to escape would be extremely foolish. As professional police officers, taking a man into custody, regardless of his crime or nationality or performing escort duty was all in a day’s work to them. It was not like that with Heinrich. As soon as the officers entered the room he started up again, adopting an officious and aggressive manner towards me – even though I was sure it was pure bravado on his part.

The officers must have congratulated Heinrich on his capture. His chest expanded and from the look on his face he expected no less than a personal visit from the Führer to be decorated with the Iron Cross – First Class.

As I was led to a waiting car with a civilian driver, I reflected that I still did not know Heinrich’s real name or whether he intended to warn me or do me grievous bodily harm when he fired the pistol in the lane. Having been in his company for a while, I would not have been entirely surprised if he had pulled the trigger by accident. I consoled myself that I could have fallen into the hands of someone far more dangerous to my health than Heinrich.

It was broad daylight when we set off in the car, which I assumed had been commandeered for the occasion. The tall police officer sat beside me on the back seat, while his colleague kept the driver company. My companion chatted away sociably in fluent English. In fact, he talked incessantly. He informed me that I was captured five miles south-west of Trier, and only a mile from the Luxembourg border. I would have needed another couple of hours to reach the border with France. That little gem of information did nothing to lift me from the doldrums. I felt like bursting into tears.

I was being taken to a police station on the outskirts of Trier to await the arrival of a Luftwaffe escort which was coming from an airfield near Bonn.

He went on to prophesy that it was most unlikely that I would be a prisoner of war for long and would soon be on my way home. This was because the Fatherland would soon be victorious: apart from a couple of setbacks at El Alamein and Stalingrad, the glorious Wehrmacht had performed remarkably well in the present conflict. The Allies could not win, and there was no alternative but to sue for peace. He loathed war, and yearned for the time when foreign tourists could be welcomed back to Germany to enjoy the beautiful scenery and quality wines to be found only in the Moselle and Rhine Valleys.

He was obviously a very direct and patriotic person but, nevertheless, a most amiable and sociable one. Perhaps too friendly. I was wary of becoming involved in a dialogue with him for fear of falling into a large trap set by a shrewd interrogator. However, I did try to elicit some information about my aircraft and the fate of the rest of the crew. They had heard of two bombers being shot down in the region overnight, but as they had not been on duty long they could not elaborate. They had been too busy coming to collect me.

I turned my attention to the passing countryside. It was pleasantly undulating scenery, although I was in no frame of mind to appreciate it. I was interested in the style of architecture and the orderliness of the villages we passed through. There was no sign that the country was at war here. However, in the built up areas it was so different. A thought passed my mind that there must have been a flourishing flag making industry in the Reich to satisfy the demand for swastikas. These red, white and black symbols of Nazi tyranny adorned the residential, office, factory and municipal buildings everywhere. Unless it was deemed compulsory to fly these flags, I could only believe that Hitler and his cronies had the total support of the population –at least in this part of the Reich.

Soon after entering the southern outskirts of Trier, we pulled up at a Roman Catholic convent. The driver was dismissed and I was taken into the building. It was obvious that the officers were on cordial terms with the Mother Superior and her brood of nuns. So far as they were able to give me, I received first class treatment. They were indeed angels of mercy as I was given facilities to wash and shave, and what a relief it was to use the strangely shaped and plumbed water closet. I was feeling a lot more refreshed as I tucked into a piece of bread and marmalade, and a cup of coffee. After no more than thirty minutes it was time to leave. I thanked the sisters for their most gracious hospitality –and signed the visitors book. It was a memorable experience.

Walking along the pavement in my RAF flying gear, and sandwiched between two policemen, I was bound to attract the attention of those passers-by who recognized me as the enemy. These people expressed their hatred for what I stood for by shaking their fists and snarling the words I was so often to hear in the coming months: Terrorflieger and Luftgangster. Those who ventured close to throw a punch or to kick at me, were firmly turned aside by my escorts cum minders. Whilst their actions were understandable, I resented being subjected to their insults and abuse without being able to retaliate. This was not the time to remind them of the Blitz, of Coventry or Brentwood.

We walked the gauntlet of those incensed Germans for about fifteen minutes before arriving at a police sub-office. It was a prefabricated cabin, likely replacing a bombed out police station – although I did not pursue this possibility. My escorts had behaved impeccably and I was not going to sour our relationship.

The office was sparsely furnished with a desk, two chairs and a filing cabinet. There was a telephone, a typewriter and several shelves and a portrait of Adolf Hitler, in Agfa-colour.

A kettle was put on a gas ring to boil, but not for a cup of tea. While one officer shaved, the other had me turning out my pockets on to the desk. My few belongings comprised two packets of twenty cigarettes, a Ronson lighter, a few Horlicks tablets, a sixpenny piece, and a small portrait of Joyce in her Land Army uniform. These were itemized and placed in a manilla envelope taken down from one of the shelves, except for the cigarettes and lighter which were returned to me. The wristwatch was overlooked.

As a gesture of my appreciation for the way I had been treated, I gave them a packet of cigarettes to share as a token of goodwill. The officers were most appreciative and were soon indulging themselves with Canadian cigarettes. Although I was not going to perform any heroics, it was noticeable that they never once dropped their guard; the Luger was always within their reach and out of mine.

I soon dozed off, but not for long. I was awakened by someone violently shaking me, and standing over me was a character of medium build who looked like a cross between Robin Hood and a deerstalker. The man from the Gestapo wore a fetching green jacket and trousers made of tweed material, socks and brown boots. He was certainly not the stereotype Gestapo person portrayed by film stars in the American propaganda films of the past few years. He reeked of perfume, and even his Tyrolean hat, complete with a feather, was green. He demanded to know my personal particulars, and I gave him my name, rank and number. He then questioned me at length as to the whereabouts of my escape money. I could not convince him that I had not been issued with French and German currency and he became quite cross and shouted that I was a liar. As he was getting nowhere with me, he turned his attention to the two police officers. He apparently accused them of misappropriating the money and a heated argument ensued. However, with the odds of two to one, he soon backed down, confiscating my Irvin jacket as a consolation prize. The two police officers had undoubtedly experienced arrogant Gestapo agents before, standing their ground and afterwards treating the whole episode with indifference although, at the same time, reluctant to become involved in the rights and wrongs of dealing with POW property and the Gestapo.

I was left to my thoughts while the officers dealt with some administration work. Pondering the events of the previous twelve hours, I considered myself extremely fortunate in still being alive. I prayed that the rest of my crew had survived, and had better luck than I had in evading capture. The correspondence under my pillow at Croft would have been found by now, and probably put in the post by the squadron padre. I wondered how the sprog crew in our billet would feel when we failed to show, and I guessed our beds were getting new sheets ready for another sprog crew. I was going to miss Joyce’s company so very much.

I soon nodded off to sleep again.