Operations Duisburg, night
13/14.7.42. Time of take off 0035 hours. Aircraft Wellington
MkIII X3560 KO-K. Failed to return from operations.
We are old hands, eight weeks
on the Squadron, in which time crews have come and gone. This
will be my eleventh operational trip. Thirteenth if I include
the two operational North sea sweeps but I do not like the
number thirteen. I finger the lucky Blue Top which I always
carry when flying. The briefing room is warm and crowded. I am
thinking of the bomb we will be carrying, a four thousand
pounder. Ugly, dustbin shaped,with a protruding rim to prevent
it penetrating the ground too deeply. Maximum blast effect. It
is studded with detonators. I am thinking of the bomber,stripped
of its bomb doors where the bomb will bulge below the fuselage.
Stripped also of its flotation bags to accommodate the bomb. The
bomber that will not fly on one engine or float in the sea owing
to these modifications. I am thinking of the bomb, light cased
and dangerous. The bomb we hate carrying.
Due to this bomb we will be
one of the last aircraft over the target. A lull will follow
after the main force has finished bombing.The Germans will
assume the raid is over. Their rescue services will be in full
swing then we arrive with our maximum blast bomb to disrupt the
rescue efforts. The Wing Commander, Dixon Wright, is speaking.
The thirty one year old Wing Commander who will die a fortnight
later. Shot down by Hauptmann Helmut Lent of the II./NJG1. while
bombing Hamburg. "Go for the centre of the old town boys. Plenty
of old, dry timber there, it will burn well... After all they do
it to our towns so we do it to theirs". The old platitude. How
else can we argue? It is a dirty business. The date is the 13th
July 1942.In the early hours of the next morning we will take
off in Wellington KO-K. The last but one aircraft to leave
Marham airfield for Duisburg.
The flight out is uneventful.
We are becoming battle hardened. It is all "old hat". We have
done and seen it all before. As we approach the
target at thirteen thousand feet the pilot is cautious. He moves
around the perimeter of the town. Suddenly he sees what he is
seeking, another Wellington about five hundred feet below us and
making its run across the target. It is attracting the flak and
searchlights. We follow it unmolested.Things become too hot for
the other aircraft. It turns away in a dive. We are right in the
centre of the target. The bomb is away and the defences are
after us.
A blue master beam searchlight
settles on our rear turret. Immediately its associated white
searchlights form a cone around us. The pilot is blinded. He is
not wearing his goggles. He cannot use the anti dazzle screen
which is fitted to the goggles. The rear gunner who has been
wounded by flak once before is shouting to the pilot to get us
out of the searchlight beams. We have very little time before
our height and course is predicted. Can't shake them off. They
are hitting us. A metallic rattling sound. The starboard engine
is hit. The pilot in desperation pulls the nose up and up. There
is the inert sensation before a stall, then we are cartwheeling
over...He has STALL TURNED the bomber and we are now diving in
the opposite direction. The searchlights lose us but will the
aircraft stand up to the strain? We plunge down to nine thousand
feet. The crew is floating in space inside the aircraft. Only
the navigation table holds me down where it pins my knees.
Accumulators, maps, pencils and nuts and bolts float past my
face. My eyes are glued to the observer's airspeed indicator.
The needle has started on the inner circle 320, 330, 340, 350
mph. I am thinking of the red warning plate on the pilot's
control panel, "THIS AIRCRAFT MUST NOT BE DIVED AT SPEEDS IN
EXCESS OF 300 MPH".
Gravitational force is now
pressing on us making my hands and arms feel like lead. Forcing
me down into the seat and on to the navigation table. My eyelids
start to close. The pilot grunting with exertion through his
microphone is pulling her out the dive. We are one with the
terrible strain that is wrenching at every rivet in the
structure. As suddenly as it began it is over. We are straight
and level. Nuts, bolts and other debris litter the table and
floor. The case containing the "ops" rations has burst open and
has showered my table with raisins. In the dim cabin light I see
an earwig emerging from the sticky heap.
We take stock. I gather my
maps from the floor near the bed. The pilot is fully employed
with stick and rudder. Desperately trying to keep the starboard
wing, with its dead engine, on an even keel. We climb five
hundred feet but the port engine is overheating. As we flatten
out we drop the same five hundred feet. Height is being lost so
rapidly we will be unable to reach the sea. Hurried consultation
between pilot and observer...then"JUMP, JUMP, rear gunner." The
command to jump is always repeated twice so that there is no
confusion...No reply. He has heard us talking over the
intercom.Will he be forgotten? He has already gone. The front
gunner goes through the forward escape hatch having first
searched for his chute which had been dislodged from its stowage
during the stall turn. The wireless operator moves forward then
returns to root about under his table. He was looking for his
gloves! I have removed my intercom. There is a danger of being
strangled by the leads if they catch in the chute as it opens.
Also loosened my tie and fastened my parachute pack to my
harness. I kick the wireless operator to attract his attention
and point forward. He motions me past. I move to the forward
escape hatch. As I pass the pilot he grins and gives me the
thumbs up. Good old Delmer he's a great guy, bags of guts.
Then I am at the opening. Four
thousand feet below the ground appears to move slowly past. It
is dull, grey and uninviting.As I hesitate I hear the instructor
at OTU saying, "When you have to go you should dive out head
first but if you have time you will probably lower yourself by
your hands." That is the way for me. I face the rear of the
aircraft, back towards the slipstream, hands on either side of
the hatch. Gingerly I lower my feet and legs. The slipstream
catches them. Like a straw I am swept along the underside of the
fuselage. My parachute pack jams against the end of the hatch.
Struggling hard I try to free myself, knowing that I must go but
hoping that I won't...My shoulders catch in the slipstream.I am
wrenched away into the night.
It is so quiet. The air
rustles past my face. Which way am I falling? Am I looking at
sky or ground? My knees fall towards my chest. I am falling head
down with my back towards the ground. No sensation, almost
pleasant except for the feeling in my stomach. THE RIPCORD, pull
the ripcord you fool. My hand clutches the D ring. I pull. There
is a sharp slither of fabric as the pilot chute tugs at the main
fabric then a crack like a pistol shot as the cords holding the
harness across my chest break, allowing the harness to swing
above my head. I have already turned my face to one side so that
my nose will not be broken as the harness flies up and over my
head. A terrific jolt. The umbrella of silk has opened above me
and I am swinging into nothing...Another terrible swing into
blackness...Another, the chute steadies. I feel so sick I hang
limply in the harness. Suddenly the noise of an aircraft. A
terrible whining roar as it dives. Stupidly I can only think of
night fighters. A flare lights me up...It is going to shoot... I
collect my senses. The noise was KO-K making her last dive. The
"flare" is KO-K erupting into a blossom of fire in the void. The
oxygen bottles burst in brilliant blue flashes. There is a
rattle of exploding ammunition and rivers of fire spread with
the gouts of petrol from the shattered tanks.Alert once more I
peer down the ground. I can see nothing. Suddenly dim shapes
begin to form. I am heading straight for a tree. Get into a
sitting position.The chute trailing ahead in a light wind
catches in the tree. I swing into soft earth and graze my elbow.
There is a farmhouse ahead. People are standing watching KO-K
blazing. Help perhaps! I call out, "Hallo." A woman gives a
piercing scream and then there is no-one. I have come down so
silently they didn't realise I was there. Now thoroughly
startled and frightened they have disappeared into the house. I
stand alone in the darkness in a strange country.
As a postscript to that story
I received the following letter from a William Van Dijk who was
17 years old at the time and whose father owned the farm where I
landed.
Dear Friend Bruce,
It was a great pleasure to me
to receive a letter from you, wherefore I heartily thank you.
All of us hadn't remarked you
was fallen down so near behind us, till suddenly a wind blew
against our backs, and we surprised looked back and saw your
chute hanging in the tree. However we were so surprised that we
run indoors, but we had not yet seen you. When we were indoors
we looked through the window and saw standing you taking off
your "Mae West" and that you made off down the road.
However you must not take us
ill we did not let you indoors as we were of the opinion a
German plane was fallen down and we also thought you was a
German and moreover there was still a curfew so that we were not
allowed to come outside at that hour.
Your parachute was taken with
by the German patrol and these German soldiers asked us "Where
is the Tommy" and we explained by signs (we also could not speak
the German language) that you was gone away, but they didn't
believe it and then one of them took place before my father with
his gun ready to fire. This one with the gun stood by my father
whereas the other soldiers (four) searched the whole farmhouse.
Big iron pins were stabbed into the hay in the loft.
During this time we were very
afraid as it had been possible you had crept indoors by way of a
detour to hide you. When those Germans had searched everything
and every place they went away and some hours later we heard
that you and a friend of yours had been taken into the house of
Mr. Bekkers. But still another friend of yours was parachuted
down closer to the burning plane, however he had broken his
ankle and was taken with by the Germans at the same time, but we
haven't seen this friend of yours.
So far as concerned your
flying helmet, I have never seen or heard anything of it and I
also have never had a souvenir of your burned KO-K, but I shall
inform with other people if they have still accidentally some
souvenir of it.
Herewith I send you a photo of
the old farmhouse where we lived then and where you parachuted
softly and fortunately. At that moment we were standing in that
little circle looking to the burning plane when you came down
behind us. The trees on the photo are still there however the
farmhouse has been demolished 3 or 4 years ago.
All this is in short my
information of your landing in Nijnsel a part of Sint-Oedenrode.
Written by Don Bruce - Observer
115 Squadron -POW Stalag VIIIB
©
Jean Darley 2013. Please respect the copyright.
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