Twenty Days in the Reich
Twenty Days
in the
Reich
Twenty Days
in the
Reich
Three Downed RAF Aircrew
in Germany during 1945
Flying Officer Squire ‘Tim’ Scott
Pen & Sword
AVIATION
This edition first published in Great Britain in 2006
By Pen & Sword Aviation
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Copyright © Squire Scott 2006
ISBN 1 84415 390 8
1 84415 333 6
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Dedication
To the American Third Army
Contents
T
his is not an escape story. It is therefore just a little bit different from the many excellent narrative accounts of the breath-taking adventures of those who eluded their Nazi guards and made their way back, unaided or otherwise, to their own lines.
This tale then, is one, simply told, of the experiences of three members of the crew of a Bomber Command Lancaster who baled out of their crippled aircraft on Thursday 15 March 1945. They were actually prisoners-of-war for fifteen days out of twenty-two spent on the continent of Europe, although their time behind the barbed wire was limited to a bare thirty-six hours.
If any of their several attempts to escape had been successful, this would just be another escape story and, in any case, would probably never have been written. Some part of the author’s purpose will have been achieved, if the reader gains just a tiny insight into what went on ‘over the other side’ during those history-making days of March and April 1945.
O
il had been leaking from the Lancaster port inboard engine practically from the moment that we had crossed the French coast on that memorable March afternoon.
A huge anticyclone had covered the whole of the British Isles and most of Europe and for several days the weather had been gloriously fine. The weather not only gave us our third ‘op’ in successive days, but also played an important part in the miracle of our liberation that was to follow.
It was our thirty-first sortie and that morning, as we had strolled around the dispersal, chatting to the ground crew in those tense few minutes before it was time to taxi out to the end of the runway, we had groused mildly at the working of the minds of those ‘high ups’. Only a few days before, they had thought fit to increase the number of trips in a tour from thirty to thirty-six.
We reflected that, but for this display of inconsideration, we should have finished our tour yesterday. However, we were not unduly dismayed, because with the weather as it was, we
did not think that it would be long before we were enjoying our well-earned fortnight’s ‘end of tour’ leave. I remember my leg being pulled, because although I had always declined to join the rest of the crew in their occasional drinking orgies, I promised them faithfully that on this auspicious event I would get as drunk as any of them!
Both Jack, our rear-gunner, and Roy, the mid-upper gunner, noticed the oil at a very early stage of the trip and the Skipper had accepted the information with his usual polite calm. We knew our Skipper well and whilst later on we had plenty of time to reflect that some captains on the squadron might, quite legitimately have put the port inboard engine out of use (an operation known as feathering, which if implemented soon enough can render an engine ineffective and yet perfectly harmless), dropped the bomb in the Channel and returned to base on three engines, I doubt if any of us expected or wanted such a decision from him.
I recalled the occasion when all my secret equipment had packed up on a long night-stooge operation to Munich. I can still hear the Skipper’s almost ghoulish chuckle when he told me that I now had a golden opportunity to display my skill at ordinary dead reckoning navigation. As the latter consists mainly of paper and pencil theory, I knew that the Skipper was as well aware as I was, that our chances of even being able to locate the distant target were not promising.
No, as long as there was any chance of reaching the target, we knew that we should press on. Although reports were coming through from the rear that the whole of the back portion of the aircraft was covered in oil from the faulty engine, we suffered no loss of speed. We duly reached our objective, which was near the town of Arnsberg, in the eastern Ruhr area, on time and in our correct place in the formation.
We unloaded our single 5½-ton bomb, with our blessing for any unfortunate Germans who might happen to be directly underneath. We had flown about ten minutes on the homeward journey when the fun commenced. Arthur, the engineer, announced that the port inner engine would have to be feathered, as the gauges were showing hardly any oil content. The revolutions were already building up far beyond their maximum.
‘Go on then, have a go and see if she’ll feather’, came the Skipper’s matter-of-fact voice over the intercom. Now that we were rid of our great bomb load, the loss of one engine would not be serious. Even at that stage I had no suspicion of any immediate danger, even if the faulty engine should fail to feather. The last entry in my log read ‘1650 – port inner unserviceable …’. I had then left a short space in which, as I thought, to insert ‘feathered’ or otherwise as the case might be.
Arthur’s voice came up as placid as his captain’s, ‘It’s no use Skip, she won’t feather – she’s
batting round like the devil and will be on fire in two ticks if we don’t look out.’
The Skipper’s voice came over the intercom, still completely unperturbed. He was calling up the formation leader and informing him of the emergency in our aircraft. The next words I heard were ‘Fix parachutes’.
Mechanically, I obeyed and acknowledged the order. It seemed almost like a training exercise. The only coherent thought that I can recollect was that it was going to be exceedingly awkward grappling with my navigation instruments with a parachute fixed to my chest.
‘OK. Jump!’ This order seemed to come in less than a minute. I heard a startled ‘Jump?’ from some unknown member of the crew, but did not stop for any more.
I was delayed a few seconds as my telephone lines and oxygen tube became entangled. I can still see the terribly anxious look on the Skipper’s face as eventually I slipped past him on my way to the front hatch.
Never in the whole of my time in the RAF had the value of training and discipline been more forcibly presented to me. I didn’t think about it then of course – all I did was sit with my ripcord handle well clutched, over the absurdly small hole in the floor, duck my head and in no time at all I was in the nice, clear, blue air!
But a lot of things came to me later on. Aircrew of course, contrary to popular belief, do not
practise parachute jumping. Unlike an airborne trooper, whose job depends on his skill at ‘baling out’, we were trained to regard a jump as a purely last line of defence – to be used in an absolute emergency One’s first effort, would, one hoped, be the only one that would ever be necessary during a whole flying career.
What we had done, though, was to practise the whole thing into a sheet from a height of about 8 feet. I can honestly say that I never came across a man who would believe, without it being proved to him, that it was possible to get through that hole
in the manner laid down
, without cracking his skull on the far side of it.
The hatch is roughly 2 feet square and the prescribed manner is to sit on the backward edge, legs dangling, fold the hands across the chest, drop the head forward and perform a neat somersault, head first into space.
Everyone, little fellows as well as big, was convinced that he was sure to bang his head on the forward edge of the hole. Demonstrations soon proved otherwise, and in a little while each trainee was mustering sufficient courage to satisfy himself that not only could it be done, but that this was the only way to do it. Merely to drop out feet first would be to run the almost certain risk of hitting some part of the upper body on the edge of the hatch, as the force of the slipstream would drag the legs backwards far more quickly than the trunk would leave the aircraft.
I still chuckle to myself when I think of one poor chap who was particularly apprehensive of this practice leap into the sheet. Two crews used to go on at a time, taking it in turns to hold the sheet for each other. That morning, thirteen of us had made two or three practice leaps each, satisfying ourselves beyond all doubt that it could be done, and we could do it.
This young Scottish engineer, however, could not be persuaded to make the attempt. It was nearing lunch time, he was up in the aircraft looking as forlorn as could be, and we were all standing below, egging him on to have a go. Finally, our Skipper went back and up through the aircraft. He approached the hole, and without even pausing on the edge, he made the leap to illustrate how simple it really was.
We thought that this had done the trick. The engineer seated himself on the vacant position on the hatch – he took off his collar and tie and pitched them into the sheet. His cigarette lighter, watch, fountain pen and spare change followed at short intervals. The half a dozen men holding the sheet made all ready – surely something was going to happen now! At last, when the tension was becoming unbearable, the hapless victim extracted his false teeth from his mouth and with a final gesture of despair tossed them amid his other possessions.
It may not sound as funny as it looked, but the entire team of sheet bearers collapsed in helpless
laughter on the ground. When they had recovered, a further attempt was made, but it was of no avail. The best that the chap could be persuaded to do was to lower himself gingerly into the sheet in the manner of a novice swimmer getting into a pool.
It was a good laugh at the time, but I’ll wager it would not have seemed so funny at 12,000 feet over enemy territory, with perhaps three or four of one’s comrades waiting to get out of a doomed aircraft. That is why I was so thankful for my training, because I am certain that if I had had to sit on the edge of that hole and weigh up whether or not I could get through in the correct way, then I should have been seated there for a jolly sight longer than would have been comfortable for myself or for anybody else.
I am still quite amazed when I recollect how short seemed to be the interval that elapsed between sitting on the edge of the hatch, and drifting in the fresh blue air. I think I must have pulled my ripcord straight away, in which case, according to the rules and regulations, I ought not to have survived, as the parachute should have become caught up with some part of the aircraft. I suppose, though, counting to three or five or whatever it is (I was never quite sure) must ensure a margin of safety far in excess of what is necessary I do know that quite a few men have told me that they allowed themselves quite a long period of dropping like a stone, just to see what
it felt like! They are far braver men than I, I am afraid.
My first coherent thought as I floated down was of the utter parlousness of my plight, but this was followed immediately afterwards by the realisation that I was immensely lucky to be still alive and in one piece. I offered a silent prayer to my Maker for my safety in the unknown future that was before me.
The apparent blueness of the air on this brilliant spring day, and the complete peace and quiet that reigned after the noise of the aircraft, are phenomena that have been reported many times before. I was struck, too, by the colossal distance that the ground seemed below me (I jumped from about 12,000 feet so would probably have been about 10,000 feet, or just under 2 miles high, at the time of this observation), but at no time afterwards was I able to give anyone any idea of how long it took me to complete the descent. I have learnt since that it must have been about five minutes.
After trying to look upwards to see if anyone was above me, and finding that I could see little but the immense expanse of my canopy, I began to study the layout below. I at once saw a parachute flattening out in what looked like open country far below. I decided that this must belong to Ron, the bomb-aimer, who would have been sitting practically on the escape hatch. He was also one of the slickest men I ever knew at moving in
an emergency. Poor Ron was my best friend and, as I write, he is the only one of the crew of seven about whom we still have no news.
Soon afterwards, I spotted two more ‘chutes drifting earthwards. I made a careful survey of the land below so that I could, if I were lucky enough to get away, make towards some part of the countryside where I might pick up a companion. At what would be about 1000 feet above the ‘deck’, I discovered that this was a wasted effort because the landscape devolved itself into a series of valleys surrounded by fairly high hills and all three of the other parachutes disappeared into folds in the ground. ‘So that’s that’, I reflected rather dismally.
A quick glance below told me that it was getting very near my time. I seemed to be almost immediately over a very small village and I could already discern bodies appearing from around corners and making for a common meeting point. Somewhat belatedly, I began to check up on my landing ‘gen’. The knees should be kept well together and allowed to collapse sideways just as the feet touched the ground. The automatic locking device on the parachute should be in the ‘danger’ position just before making contact, so as to ensure a speedy release from the harness if the parachute should start to blow away. We had practised all this on a dummy set-up in a hangar, but I had a feeling of rustiness that I had not experienced with the jump itself.
The feeling was intensified a few seconds later when I looked down again and saw, that with probably only 100 feet to fall, I was right over the roof tops. Simultaneously, I perceived that the strength of the advancing villagers was such that my hope of escape was nil. I’m afraid my drill went a bit haywire; desperately, I clutched at all the ropes I could get my hands on and pulled them in all directions in an effort to make myself go anywhere but on those menacing-looking houses. It was just a matter of seconds, and then – with a huge thrill of relief – I realised I was just clearing the last house, then over the hedge lining a lane. The next moment I had settled comfortably, and with no undue concussion, into the comparative softness of a newly ploughed field.
All the rest of the drill had come out automatically and I soon discovered that I was quite unhurt, except for a slight scratch on the chin, which had probably caught a stone. The first batch of the population arrived as I sorted myself out and looked around. My only concern at that moment was to make sure that nobody thought that I was going to be awkward. At that stage in the proceedings there was obviously little future in such a policy Accordingly, as I scrambled to my feet, I pulled my handkerchief out of my pocket and waved it on the air, my other hand being aloft also.
This seemed to be understood; a man with a pitchfork parked it peaceably under his arm. A
quick search was made to see if I carried arms, which I did not. The next minute, the centre of an awe-stricken mob, I was led away through a gap in the hedge and down the lane to a building that seemed already allocated for my reception.
