Aircrew: The Story of the Men Who Flew the Bombers (8 page)

Shortly after this, their skipper was promoted to Wing Commander and sent as CO, with his crew, to 429 [Bison] Squadron, another Canadian unit. Here they were in the process of changing over to Halifaxes from Wellingtons, one of the last in 6 Group to do so. By the time the transfer of aircraft had been completed they would have lost more Wellingtons on operations than any other squadron in the Group.

The Wellington had almost run its honourable course with Bomber Command. By October, 1943, it would have flown its final major operation in Europe. During its long tour of duty since the beginning of the war the ‘Wimpey’ had clocked up more sorties than those flown by Whitleys, Hampdens, the unfortunate Stirlings and the ill-fated Manchesters all added together.

The deal for Piddington, the new CO of 429, was that he should return to flying Wellingtons until the conversion to the larger aircraft had been completed. After this, he and his crew, if they survived, would go back to flying Halifaxes. Morale in 429 had been shaken at that time. The squadron had lost three COs in the previous eight weeks. Wing Commander Piddington was ordered to restrict his personal trips to the minimum.

Air Chief Marshal Sir Arthur Harris had taken over as the chief of Bomber Command in February of the previous year, when the numerical strength in aircraft had been little more than it was at the outbreak of war. During 1942 he had nurtured and expanded his force until now, in 1943, he felt in a position to mount a series of powerful ‘battles’. From March until July, he had concentrated his main blows against the Ruhr – Germany’s vast industrial area, made up of many towns in the country’s mid-west. This heavily
defended part of the Fatherland was known to the bomber crews as ‘Happy Valley’.

Reg and his crew had carried out most of their raids so far over ‘Happy Valley’. Now, in late July, Harris launched his ‘Battle of Hamburg’, a devastating series of attacks on Europe’s biggest port and Germany’s second largest city, housing one and three-quarter million people. It was planned to complete the operation in a concentration of four heavy raids spread over ten days. The new CO of 429 decided to fly with his crew on the second of these missions – on 27/23 July, 1943.

At briefing, Piddington pointed out the importance of the raid, the large number of aircraft taking part and, because of this, the need to maintain strict flying discipline within the bomber stream. He stressed how vital it was to stick to the timings that had been set down.

On a cheering note he emphasised the success of ‘Window’, a radar counter-measure which had been used for the first time three nights previously over Hamburg. ‘Window’ consisted of metallic strips which, when dropped in thousands from the bombers, completely foxed the enemy’s defences, both on the ground and in the air. AA guns, searchlights, and night fighters became ‘blind’. The radar screens from which these defences had previously been directed were now blotted out by clouds of tinsel.

But for the timid argument that this device could have been turned round by the Germans and used in raids against Britain, (hardly a major threat with the Luftwaffe’s bombers fully engaged in Russia) ‘Window’ could have been employed by Bomber Command as long ago as April of the previous year. It has been estimated that ‘Window’saved 100–130 RAF bombers, a minimum of 700 aircrew, during those ten nights of the ‘Battle of Hamburg’.

All of which makes what follows particularly ironical. Piddington’s crew were lucky in having an especially fine Wellington. Aircraft, like people, varied enormously in the way they behaved, even among the same type. The CO’s ‘Wimpey’ must have been about the fastest ever built. In spite of his warnings to the squadron to maintain strict timing, they arrived over the target early. Fully
aware of the dangers of orbiting Hamburg, the CO decided to start his bombing run without delay.

Reg, ever watchful in his rear turret, guns swinging up and down, port and starboard, spotted an Me 109 with its navigation lights switched on on the starboard beam. As he opened fire the fighter’s companion, unnoticed, came in dead astern and blasted the Wellington without mercy. It was a clever trick which sent the bomber reeling towards the ground with no hope of recovery.

They had become victims of the new tactics forced on the Luftwaffe by the introduction of ‘Window’.
Wilde Sau
[Wild Boar] was the code name for freelance single-seater fighters now given their head to seek out and destroy the bombers without assistance from radar.

After a moment’s struggle, Reg slid open the doors of the turret. Grabbing inside the fuselage, he hauled his ‘chute from the rack, dragging it round and slamming it onto his chest harness. The hydraulics were out of action. Sweating in spite of the cold, he rotated the turret by hand and fell out backwards into space.

How long he was unconscious he does not know. When he woke up, he was drifting through the night spinning gently. In his haste to leave the aircraft he had not realized that only one hook of his harness was attached to the parachute, which was why he was rotating.

There were several other things that he did not know at the time. One was that this attack on Hamburg was the most devastating raid to date, at least forty thousand citizens meeting their deaths in the terrifying firestorm that ensued. Nor did he know that, apart from himself and the wireless operator, the rest of the crew had been killed.

He drifted down some way to the north of Hamburg, landing in the middle of a decoy area – a system of shallow channels that the Germans filled with kerosene and set on fire to simulate a target. Fortunately for Reg it was not being used that night. After hiding his ‘chute, cutting off the tops of his flying boots and checking through his escape kit, he started heading north by northwest hoping to reach Denmark. He was already suffering from one frustration; the escape kit contained all the usual aids: water purifying tablets, Horlicks tablets, benzedrine tablets, compass,
mini-razor, and of course the exquisitely printed silk maps. But the maps were useless. They only showed the Franco/Spanish border area!

As he was trudging over Luneburg Heath an amazing thing happened. He had been hopping from tuft to tuft avoiding the boggy ground. At one point his foot slipped into the mire. Bending down to extricate himself, he noticed a sealed buff envelope lying in the grass. Tearing it open, he found it contained an RAF map of the location through which he was then travelling! He has spent the rest of his life trying to puzzle out how it got there.

Walking only by night, hiding and resting by day, eating fruit, potatoes, turnips and broad beans, he drank as much milk as he needed from the churns placed conveniently at the entrances to farm lanes. Soon he reached the broad Kiel Ship Canal. Sitting down on a bank he watched the shipping – U-boats, merchantmen, naval vessels of various kinds including an E-boat that passed quite close to him. Reg gave the crew a friendly wave and they waved back. The fact that he was wearing RAF battledress, an air gunner’s brevet, and Flight Sergeant’s tapes and crown on his sleeves did not seem to strike any of the Germans as unusual. The blue-grey uniform was probably enough to create a satisfactory overall image.

As dusk fell he started to walk along the towpath. In the distance he could see a large bridge spanning the canal, but could also make out the silhouettes of sentries patrolling it. Between him and the bridge a ship was moored. Dodging behind a bush, he lay down to think things over. After a while there was the sound of people approaching, but from opposite directions. The two sets of footsteps came to a halt in front of his hiding place. They belonged to a couple of sentries who had met for a chat and a smoke. The meeting went on interminably, and Reg, weary beyond words, especially German words, fell fast asleep. When he awoke, dawn was breaking and the sentries had gone. The throb of the ship’s engines broke into his consciousness and he hurried along the path. It was an awful moment. The ship, already clear of the bank, was gathering speed; flying from her stern was the flag of neutral Sweden.

Disconsolately he retracted his steps. Narrowly avoiding a set
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to with a bull by diving through a hedge, he finished up at a small railway station called Goebbels. There was a goods train waiting at the platform so he smuggled himself into one of the sentry-box-like cabins that were attached to the back of the wagons. Before long the train chugged off and did not stop until it reached the small town of Hohenwestedt.

Here, unfortunately, a girl porter opened the door of his hideaway and discovered him huddled on the floor. As she rushed off to raise the alarm Reg ran out of the station and into the town. He was some way along the High Street when the station staff caught up with him and escorted him back to the station master’s office. Soon they were joined by a little policeman in a spiked helmet, and the local schoolmaster who acted as interpreter. They treated him respectfully enough, and, although insisting that he turn out his pockets, found nothing of significance, not even the steel file concealed in his tobacco pouch.

Taken to the town jail, he was left on his own. Removing a metal door from a small stove in the corner of the cell, Reg used it as a tool to hack away at the plaster on the outside wall. By about 11 o’clock that night he had succeeded in gouging out a reasonably large hole in the inner brickwork, but then he heard footsteps in the corridor outside. It was the female porter. She had brought him black bread, jam, and a mug of coffee. Suddenly, as they heard more footsteps outside, the girl dived into the blanket cupboard taking the supper with her. A man entered the cell, carrying an identical meal. He was in a friendly, chatty mood and sat with Reg while he ate his food. ‘You know,’ the German said, ‘You should not have dropped any bombs on Hamburg, you should drop them all on Berlin instead!’

After he had gone, the girl came out of the cupboard and handed Reg his second supper. What she thought of her fellow countryman’s remarks would never be known. After his double ration, he gave up on the brickwork and fell asleep. Next morning he woke to the sound of ‘Raus! Raus!’ It was yesterday’s friendly policeman who appeared to have had a personality change, shouting, gesticulating, and shoving him out into the corridor. Then he realized that the show was for the benefit of two Luftwaffe guards who had come to collect him.

As he went down the police station steps he felt a heavy boot in his back to help him on his way. This time it was one of the guards. They bundled him into a car. As it sped away, the man who had kicked him apologised for his behaviour, and said, ‘I’m sorry but we have to put on a performance for the locals!’ Reg had remained at liberty for the best part of a month, and during the fighter attack had sustained wounds to his face and head. The Luftwaffe cleaned him up and gave him proper medical attention, including the removal of several bits of shrapnel. After this he was put on a train heading south.

At Luneburg there was a delay. On the platform a Red Cross canteen had been set up and he and his escort helped themselves to coffee. One of the helpers turned out to be an English woman who was married to a German. She was hungry for news about Britain. All she had heard for nearly four years was Nazi propaganda in the German press. Reg was happy to assure her that her country was not a heap of rubble, the people were far from starving and the allies were well on the way to winning the war.

At Dulag Luft, near Munich, he felt as if he was taking part in an RAF training film. His interrogators were classic examples of all that he had been warned about. First the ‘friendly’ type asking for information ‘on behalf of the Red Cross’. ‘It is necessary to know these things so your poor parents’ minds can be put at rest.’ Then the bullyboy: ‘We can find no evidence that you are an RAF flyer. Unless you can give us details about your squadron, we shall have you shot as a spy.’ Reg knew this was all bluff, at least he hoped it was and that his persecutor had ‘read the script’!

Having surmounted the first two hurdles, he now looked forward to the concluding part of the ‘film’, where unsuspecting aircrew were wined and dined and had glamorous female company lavished on them as part of a softening-up process. To Reg’s disappointment the last ‘reel’ must have been lost, and he never received what he considered to be his just reward for keeping his trap shut.

In the company of about seventy other aircrew, he was sent to Stalag 4B at Muhlburg, near Leipzig. This camp, which was in a filthy state, had been occupied by French, Belgian and Slav prisoners. As soon as the RAF contingent arrived they created hell
and the place was cleaned up. Within a very short time the camp was properly organized, with arrangements for football, theatre, bridge, chess, and many other group activities, including, of course, an escape committee. Several escapes were made, but most were unsuccessful, the absconders being brought back to camp within two days. A few of the escapees were never seen again.

Reg made his attempted break for freedom at the beginning of June, 1944. A group of prisoners were going to break out over the ‘wire’ at night. He and his friend Bob were about 50 yards behind the leading escapees when someone fell over the trip wire. This set off the alarm and within moments there was pandemonium with guard dogs howling and Germans yelling and running in all directions. Fortunately for Reg and Bob they managed to scurry back to their hut undetected and so avoided an uncomfortable session in the ‘slammer’.

In September a contingent of paratroops, captured after the Arnhem campaign, arrived in transit. Reg, Bob and a Cornishman named Jack Pauly swapped identities with three of the paras. This was to enable the flyers to get out of the camp on working parties. At the main gate they were interrogated and Jack’s true identity was discovered, but his two companions got away with their masquerade. Sent to Kemlitz, they were then split up and served in working parties on opposite sides of the town. Reg was with eight paratroopers and, because he was an experienced ‘Kriegie’ and by now reasonably fluent in German, they elected him their ‘Confidence Man’.

Their place of work, a chemical factory, was situated about half an hour from the billet. To impress the Germans, Reg and his commando always marched with absolute precision on their way to and from the factory. Their task was to load trucks standing at railway sidings alongside the works. It presented a golden opportunity to sabotage the system. The paras simply swapped the destination labels on the wagons – what should have gone east went west and vice versa. It took the authorities the best part of two months to discover the cause of the chaos.