76 Squadron - Halifax MZ623 - Lost 24/05/1944

Discussion in 'The War In The Air' started by gmyles, Aug 29, 2016.

  1. gmyles

    gmyles Senior Member

    Hi everyone

    Here is the remarkable story of 76 Squadron Halifax MZ623, which was shot down by a Night Fighter over occupied Belgium on 24 May 1944. It was written by the Bomb Aimer, Flight Sergeant A.M. Rae who was the only member of the crew to evade capture and was smuggled back to the allied lines by the resistance. It was drafted in 1998 at the request of my father, who knew Arthur very well and wanted his story published in a Dundee newspaper that they both worked on. Arthur died in October 2012, aged 90.

    Happy Reading

    Gus

    The Summer of 1944

    No 76 Squadron, Holme-on-Spalding Moor, Yorkshire
    Date of operation - May 24/25, 1944
    Target - Rothe Erde Marshalling Yards, Aachen.
    Aircraft - Handley-Page Halifax Mk. Ill (MZ623)
    Squadron markings - MP--P

    Crew of P (Peter)

    · W/0 F Bishop (pilot and captain)

    · F/O I H Greer (navigator)

    · F/Sgt A M Rae (bomb-aimer)

    · F/Sgt W Cliff (wireless operator)

    · Sgt W Mays (flight engineer)

    · Sgt C Cassidy (rear gunner)

    · Sgt J Danes (mid-upper gunner)

    It was about 10.30 on that May evening when we (the crew of P--Peter) lined up at the end of the runway at Holme-on-Spalding Moor with 17 other Halifax bombers of 76 Squadron. This was about as early as we could take off at that time of the year and have full cover of darkness for our flight.

    We had mixed feelings as we waited for the signal to go. We had returned a few days earlier from a week’s leave, so spirits were a little low - and the target to be attacked didn’t do much to cheer us.

    Our first sorties as a crew - in December 1943 and the following January and February - had been long, uncomfortable and dangerous attacks on well- defended major German cities. These were known as “maximum efforts” involving 700-plus aircraft. Against the strong German defences each raid was a battle in itself. And sometimes the weather wasn’t much help either.

    Squadron losses had been heavy, and morale generally was slipping, so we were all taken off operations to be re-equipped with better aircraft.

    We were just coming to terms with our new Halifaxes when our skipper Frank Bishop developed a severe ear infection and was taken off flying duties - which meant that we couldn’t fly as a crew. The squadron seemed to be short of bomb-aimers at the time and I was pressed into service as a stand-in for short-handed crews.

    When Bish was declared fit after some two months or so I had done seven extra operations, mostly with German targets, with four different crews. So, on May 24 I was on my 18th start; the others in the crew (except for our new navigator, on his sixth start) were on their 11th.

    Our original navigator, F/Sgt Fred Kinch, had been shot down and taken prisoner when flying as stand-in with friends of ours - two of whom, Canadians, were killed. This meant that when Bish returned to flying we had to “break in” a new navigator, F/O Ian Greer, an Ulsterman and the only commissioned officer in the crew.

    But perhaps the main reason for our unease on that May night was that our previous six operations had been as part of smaller bomber forces against what were regarded as easier, more lightly-defended targets - railway complexes in Northern France and Belgium. This was Bomber Command’s contribution to the run-up to the invasion of Europe. Aachen was a return to a tougher - much tougher - German target.

    (Our misgivings were well founded. I learned later that of the 200 or so Halifaxes involved in the raid, 19 were lost. Very heavy losses.)

    So not really at ease with ourselves, we took off. Conditions were good - clear skies - and we were going along nicely. Only one small doubt. As we flew over Antwerp I saw a flare below us, an unusual sighting. I reported this to Bish, but it was decided that keeping an even sharper look-out was as much as we could do.

    Not sharp enough apparently. There was a despairing call from Jack Danes, the mid-upper gunner, for evasive action. But he had spotted the night-fighter below us too late. There was a heavy, sickening explosion near the rear of the aircraft. Jack said he had been hit, though not seriously. Bish continued throwing the Halifax about as we waited for a follow-up attack from the fighter.

    Our flight-engineer, Wally Mays, reported that the bomb doors and bomb bay were well ablaze, threatening to cause our bomb load to explode. Bish told me to jettison the bombs. This lightened the aircraft considerably, making it more manoeuvrable, and Bish was able to dive fast enough and long enough to put out the flames.

    We turned for home, trying to regain our lost height. I was making sure all the bombs had gone: Wally Mays was on his way to help Jack Danes. We thought the fighter might have lost us. Not so. The German’s first attack had been from below - a favourite tactic: his second - and, for us, fatal pass - was from our starboard side and slightly above, a most unusual angle of attack.

    This time we were in dire straits. The perspex nose-cone of our Halifax disappeared in a bright stream of tracer fire - very close to my position. A tremendous rush of air came through the shattered nose, blowing me back down the fuselage and scattering maps, charts and other debris. Our airspeed at the time would have been around 180 mph.

    Even worse, the same burst of fire severely damaged the port wing, setting fire to both port engines. This time the flames defied the best efforts of Wally and Bish, and the order was given to bale out. Luckily Bish was able to hold the aircraft steady enough for long enough to let all of us get out.

    (I had to wait until my return to England 14 weeks later to learn that all my crew had got out - although I was the only one to avoid capture. Nor did I see what happened to P-Peter - no mid-air explosion, no sign anywhere on the ground. (In the book, “To See the Dawn Breaking,” by W R Chorley - a history of 76 Squadron operations - it is recorded that the aircraft crashed near Arendonck, just north of Turnhout.)

    I made a clean exit - in the approved way, through the escape hatch, rolling out, facing forward. Textbook stuff - once I had found my parachute in the debris of the nose, and coped with a damaged harness clip. It was a strange experience floating to earth, swinging quite gently in my harness - and it was very quiet after the noise of the aircraft engines. But it was too dark to make out the ground for which I was heading.

    My landing wasn’t too successful, in what seemed to be a dense wood of conifers, and my parachute canopy was impaled on a tree. Then a small moment of comedy. I finished up dangling above the ground, and unsure of how much farther away the ground was. Very gingerly I put my arms as far round the tree trunk as I could and pressed the release on my parachute harness. This freed me and I began to slide down the tree - for about three feet. I had finished my drop just that short distance above the ground. I had prepared myself for something much more, and felt just a little foolish.

    Our instructions if shot down in enemy territory were to bury our parachute, the harness and life-jacket, then try to get some distance away and avoid searchers by hiding for a while. Because my chute was stuck in the tree, the burying tactic was out of the question, so I simply dumped ali the kit and concentrated on putting some distance between myself and my landing place. Because of the dense tree cover I couldn’t use the stars to get a bearing to walk on and had to use instead a small compass from the escape kit with which we were provided (the kit included a map, some money, Horlicks tablets, water purifying tablets, benzedrine tablets to keep us awake, and some matches, I think).

    Setting off through the thick wood I found it hard going in the pitch dark and over the rough ground, especially wearing my clumsy flying boots. The boots weren’t a cause for complaint, however: many airmen who had to bale out lost their boots in the airstream as they left the aircraft. This had happened to Philip Tweedy, who accompanied my on my “travels”.

    My morale began to sink about this point. In the stillness I could hear the woodland noises, which made me nervous, and I felt very alone. The noise of the bombers returning from the target didn’t do much either to lift my spirits. They were about an hour and a half from home.

    A further instruction for shot-down aircrew was to head for Brussels if they were in Belgium. From our last known position in the aircraft I judged that Brussels lay to the south-west and I had set course accordingly - or thought I had. When I came to a clearing in the wood I was able to check my direction by the stars. Bad news. I had been walking due east. Had I misread the compass? In any event, a swift change of course was effected, and I pressed on.

    At first light I had my first look at my map. This wasn’t much help as I had no reference points. Lost would be the best definition, I suppose. I was also able to check my compass. It didn’t work. Small boost for my pride, but no help.

    My new course took me round the wood, and I sat down to take stock of my position. It was quiet and peaceful and the sky promised a fine day. What was my best option? Should I find a suitable place and lie low for a day or two? I had made some distance from my landing-place - and I had originally set off in a direction which might have misled any searchers. I had my food tablets, but drinking water could have been a problem.

    Or should I try to find someone who could help me? This carried the risk of contacting the wrong person and finishing up in German hands. By now I felt I had little hope of evading capture and was almost resigned to becoming a prisoner, so I saw little gain in hiding.

    My course for Brussels still lay along the edge of the wood, which offered cover if I spotted any trouble. Off again, and it wasn’t too long before I came across a small farm. An elderly man was attending to his chickens. I approached him - cautiously. The sight of a dishevelled RAF man at that time of the morning must have come as something of a shock, but he didn’t show it. He might even have heard P-Peter crashing, I suppose.

    I tried out my school French after my greeting in English brought no response. His reply didn’t register with me either. Try again. “Nederland? Beige?” I asked. “Flemish,” was the reply. This was good news - and bad. It meant that I was roughly where I had thought, but it also meant that communication might be a problem because Flemish was a complete mystery to me. And my map meant nothing to him.

    (A copy of my debriefing interview on my return to England suggests this farm was at Royen, south of Turnhout)

    I moved off. Fairly soon I saw another small farmhouse, which I watched for a time. The occupants appeared to be two youngish women and three children. No sign of any men - or dogs. This might have made a good hiding- place. A stream ran close by the house (no water problem) and there was plenty of cover.

    However, I decided to stick to my plan to get help as soon as possible. I managed to attract the attention of one of the women. She showed no great surprise at seeing me and indicated I should stay where I was. It occurred to me later that Resistance workers in that area must have known of the crash of our aircraft and were possibly looking for survivors.

    The woman had her friend take the children away before beckoning me into the house. We spoke in a mixture of French and English. She suggested I clean up a little, and offered me very welcome coffee and bread and jam. My map meant nothing to her either.

    She then took me to a field of long grass at the edge of the wood, and at a good distance from the house, telling me to hide there and wait. I thanked her, and didn’t see her again.

    My spirits rose. I could scarcely believe that I might already have contacted the Resistance. It was a warm day and I dozed off.

    When I woke I saw two older women fairly close by, apparently gathering firewood. I made to stand up, but they indicated I should stay where I was. It was almost as though they were my “minders”.

    Then, in the early afternoon, a group of men arrived in a horse-drawn waggon. The driver, a young man, spoke good English. Using him as an interpreter, the senior man interrogated me, trying to make sure I really was an RAF man, not a German or Belgian trying to infiltrate a Resistance group. We had been told that Resistance people would ask these questions (almost a sort of code), but it did seem strange to be standing there going through the process. It was a serious business, however. If my answers hadn’t been accepted, I would have been in much trouble. And they checked my identity discs. Everything was in order, the young man told me. Relief all round.

    (This business of proving identity was quite tricky. Before we set out on operations we had to empty our pockets of everything that might give possible captors any intelligence information. So we had no wallets, identity cards - only discs and our escape kits.)

    The men then gave me overalls to cover up my uniform, and a piece of paper they said was a work permit - in case we were stopped at a road block or other checkpoint. The driver and I moved off, the others walking back to where they had come from. I felt very conspicuous sitting up front on the waggon, and tried very hard to hide my large brown flying boots.

    We were on a track across heathland on which groups of German soldiers were drilling and exercising. My guide, seeing my nervousness, told me to relax, saying the Germans wouldn’t take any notice of us - and they didn’t.

    We stopped at a house on the edge of a town, Geel, as I learned later. A woman greeted me, told me to freshen up, and gave me a meal. This was an overnight stop for me.

    My hostess introduced herself only as Mme Jeanne. Many years later I found out that her name was Leemans: her job for the Resistance was organising safe houses in the area for fugitives like myself.

    Next day my uniform was exchanged for civilian clothes. Everything was taken from me, including one or two items I thought I might have been allowed to keep. I was then asked if I could ride a bike. I said I could, and a sturdy bike which looked older than me was wheeled out. I was on my way to a safe house.

    My new guide produced his bike and told me to follow him. Easier said than done. I hadn’t ridden a bike for some years and this particular model was clumsy - and very sensitive because of its back-pedal brake. I absent- mindedly free-wheeled, the back wheel locked, and the bike and I parted company. Fortunately this happened before we reached the busy part of the town, and I was prepared for any repeat performance.

    The bike ride was a nightmare. I was, for me, on the wrong side of the road, which was made of large, bumpy cobbles - and my guide didn’t make much allowance for my inexperience. It was all very off-putting.

    Here I was, on a dodgy bike, trying to follow a stranger through an unfamiliar town in German-occupied Belgium only some 36 hours after a nasty experience with a night-fighter. It took close-up views of German troops and of their headquarters building (resplendent with flags and banners emblazoned with swastikas and SS insignia) to make me concentrate on what I was supposed to be doing.

    Our destination was a house on the edge of Geel, the home of Frans and Dymphna Nevelsteen. The Nevelsteens were middle-aged and again there were communication difficulties.

    But there was a pleasant surprise for me. Already at the house was F/Sgt Philip Tweedy, a flight engineer, of 635 Pathfinder Squadron. He had been shot down the night before me, and had done his first tour of operations on 76 Squadron in 1943.

    Time for a progress check, I thought. In two days i had contacted, and been accepted by the Belgian Resistance - and I knew where I was. However, no one could, or would, tell me where I had landed, where my aircraft had crashed, or if there were any other survivors from my crew. I felt, however, thinking of what happened in the Halifax after the order to bale out, that everyone had at least got out of the burning plane.

    Phil Tweedy and I took some time to feel comfortable with each other. We were in a confined space most of the time, and almost invariably had to share a bed. Boredom was the main problem. We had playing cards, but neither of us had much enthusiasm for all-day sessions of card games.

    I can read all day, given books or whatever, but we had no English books, nor even French, which I could have tackled. The only books were Flemish, which was incomprehensible to me, spoken or written.

    Still, given the circumstances, we did well. We chafed at the inactivity (especially after the excitement of flying), and at the uncertainty of our future. But at least it was good to have someone else to talk to. We were allowed downstairs to listen to the news in English on the radio in the evenings, which gave us something to talk about.

    We heard of the first flying bombs launched against England, and then - great day! - the news of the D-Day landings. This seemed to shorten the time we would have to wait for our own liberation, until we realised how many miles, and how many German troops, there were between us and Normandy.

    Then one day an agitated Frans said we would have to be moved. Mme Jeanne Leemans (the safe house organiser) had been caught by the authorities. He said she would be interrogated and all her contacts investigated.

    Philip and I were moved very quickly to the home of the Nevelsteens’ daughter and her husband, Maria and Frans Kerkhofs. We were kept even more closely confined, and there was lots of tension about.

    Soon, another move (around July 5), this time to a farm just outside Geel.

    Here we were confronted by, and questioned by, a man actually carrying a pistol, which brought home to us the realities of our situation. Satisfied that Philip and I were RAF men, our interrogator, Rick Hulsman, a Resistance worker, took us to meet our new protectors, Marcel and Madeleine Peeters, who owned the farm.

    And here there was another surprise. Already installed at the farm was another RAF man, F/Sgt Roy Reading, a wireless operator, also of 76 Squadron, who had landed almost in the Peeters’ backyard after his aircraft was shot down on the night of May 12/13. The 76 Squadron connection was astonishing: Roy and I current members, Philip a “former pupil”. Roy, who I hadn’t met at Holme Moor, had just begun a second tour of operations. Much more to talk about now.

    There was quite a “family” - plus visitors - at the farm. Rick Hulsman and his wife, Lika, Louis Ceulemans and Louis van Seegers, all fugitives for one reason or another (we didn’t inquire too closely) were the other “residents”. Visitors included Madeleine’s parents and her sister, Maria, and Marcel’s brother, Louis.

    We were lucky to be where we were. It was a farm, the sun shone a lot - and we ate well. I wondered how Madeleine managed the food so well, and assumed that our government must have provided money for black market supplies. Again later, I learned that like-minded friends and neighbours had rallied round with food for Madeleine’s “lodgers”.

    There were obvious limits to what we could do at the farm. We couldn't go for walks, but we were free to move about close to the house, so exercise was no longer a problem. We were given small jobs to do - fetching water from the pump was a regular chore, and I seem to remember helping to clean out the cesspool.

    And we even managed a swim or two in a small pool nearby, so the time passed more pleasantly than before.

    Geel had a large hospital/asylum which the Germans had requisitioned for barracks. The patients, or some of them, were billeted on local people. We were told to act “handicapped” if any stranger spoke to us.

    The farmhouse itself wasn’t very big and the sleeping arrangements needed some thought. The couples had the rooms, of course, while the rest of us (usually three or four, but on occasion five) slept in a box hidden in a haystack built on the end of the house.

    We got into the box by removing a section of the nesting-boxes where the farm chickens played their part by providing eggs.

    There was one scare while we were there. Gestapo agents were reported to be active in the area. The couples moved to some sort of shelter (with an alarm fitted) a little way from the house. We remained in the haystack box, a good hiding-place. We also had to take turns of night-time “sentry” duty (sitting on the haystack) for the day or two that the emergency lasted.

    There was plenty of time for talk and speculation. Our Resistance friends occasionally spoke of “jobs” they had done, and of the arms drops they hoped to get from the Allies should they be called upon to help the liberating forces. Philip, Roy and I wondered how soon we might have the chance of moving down one of the escape lines and back to England.

    Our hopes rose when a stranger appeared at the farm. He was from the Underground people who organised escape lines. He said there had been some delay caused by German agents infiltrating the lines, which had led to the capture of agents and escapers. However, things were back to normal. We knew this man only as Reme.

    He organised identity and travel papers for us. Madeleine and helpers looked out suitable clothing and footwear for our journey. But Reme then disappeared without any hint about the timing of our “home run”.

    Back to waiting. We were still getting news from the radio (which was concealed behind a false wall panel which led to a cellar. I think the radio could transmit as well as receive, but that was never discussed) and it seemed to us that the opposing armies in Normandy were bogged down, which meant we would have longer to wait for liberation. The strain of being continually on the alert for strangers began to tell. Nerves were beginning to fray. We were becoming impatient.

    Then a pleasant diversion lifted most of the tension. Madeleine gave a party for my 21st birthday on August 16. She baked a special cake (with icing!), we had extra things to eat, and there was a modest amount of alcohol. It was a very good party - and much appreciated, especially by me.

    I had - and still have - tremendous admiration and gratitude for Madeleine and Marcel. We had more to do with Madeleine: Marcel was kept busy with farmwork. I think, too, that he and the other men, Rick in particular, had Resistance business to attend to. We were not told about these matters - nor did we ask.

    (An odd thought. When I met Philip Tweedy recently for the first time since our evasion days he said one of his abiding memories of me at the farm was the time I spent making roll-up cigarettes. I have no recollection of this. He said I became very proficient, which is strange because I have never been an enthusiastic smoker.)

    My birthday party turned out to be a farewell party. On August 18 we set out on the first leg of what we hoped would be a clean run home.

    I can’t remember what Philip and Roy wore, but our friends had a problem getting clothes that fitted me. I finished up wearing someone’s wedding outfit

    - a black jacket which fitted, and striped trousers, which didn’t, being on the very short side for my long legs.

    My red hair (not a common colour among Belgians apparently) caused some concern. Someone suggested using black shoe polish on it, but thankfully a compromise was reached. I covered up as well as I could with a beret.

    We said our good-byes at the farm. Madeleine and Reme walked three very nervous evaders to Geel station to board a train to take us to Brussels. Reme gave us our tickets, but didn’t accompany us on the train. Madeleine didn’t join us on the platform. When we got on the train our escort there gave us a sign, but didn’t join us. So began what I found to be a very nerve-wracking train journey.

    Even if I had been better dressed, I would have felt conspicuous, given the circumstances: wearing the wedding outfit, I felt that everyone in our compartment could see through my “disguise" and see me for what I really was. But no one paid any attention to us. Perhaps some of our fellow- passengers were strategically-placed sympathisers.

    The train stopped at Herentals, apparently an important Gestapo/SS centre. This did nothing for our composure. Neither did the arrival in our compartment of a well-built young man who sat beside us. He must have been told who we were because he identified himself to us as S/Sgt Martin, a US flier in the same predicament as us. Our threesome had become a foursome.

    We left the train at a small station outside Antwerp. Here, at Lier or Berchem,

    I forget which it was, we had to change to the Brussels train. Small stations were often used to avoid the better-policed major stations. Our guides, again at a little distance, through the platforms were a woman and a girl who looked as though she ought to have been at school.

    All those who acted as our guides were brave people. The penalty for helping evaders was imprisonment in a concentration camp - or in some cases execution.

    We picked up another guide on the Brussels train. I can’t remember which station we arrived at there, or how we were taken past the ticket barriers, some of which were guarded. I felt my wedding suit was standing out like a beacon, but again no one took any notice. Perhaps it was as well that we weren’t stopped and asked for our papers. These might have stood up to scrutiny, but having to answer questions would surely have let us down.

    My first memory of Brussels is a short tram journey to the home of a newspaper sports reporter, who entertained us well. Next day he took us, in a smallish Volkswagen car, through streets which seemed to be full of German troops, to some of whom our driver chatted, to a villa at Linkebek, a southern suburb of Brussels.

    A pleasant woman greeted us here. She was Mme Huze, who spoke good English. I believe she had been married to a Canadian, but he wasn’t at home. We had plenty of room at the house, but we couldn’t go outside, of course, except occasionally into a walled, isolated garden. And, at last, there were books in English. So we weren’t bored.

    We had a caller one day. He spoke English in a well-educated way and was possibly an intelligence agent. Mme Huze wasn’t surprised to see him, and encouraged us to answer the many questions he asked. Our visitor hinted we might soon be one our way home.

    We didn’t stay long at the villa. (Exact dates are difficult to remember after so long, so the lengths of our stays at these later safe houses are approximate.)

    Our next stop was at a pub, Le Coq d’Or, in Uccle, closer to the centre of Brussels. This move was by tram. Our American friend left us at the villa, I think, so three of us were welcomed at the pub by the owner, Jean van Hoef. He was good to us, plenty to eat - and more beer than we had had access to for quite a while. The Coq was a busy place, frequented by many Germans as well as the locals. This meant that we had to stay in an upstairs room when the pub was open for business, but did have some freedom after hours.

    The opportunity was also taken to give us new and better identity cards. Things were going well.

    Then another move, the last as it turned out. We were taken to an apartment in Ixelles, close to the Gare du Midi. Here Philip and I said good-bye to Roy Reading. The last we saw of him was when he was driven away by a very attractive woman doctor.

    Again we had used the Brussels trams to change hiding-places. These shortish journeys were quite scary. Our guides, with whom we had to keep up - or risk being totally stranded - pressed on with scarcely a backward glance. We often had to use a little weight - even against old ladies, I’m ashamed to admit - to force our way through.

    Philip and I were taken to the fourth-floor flat of Mme Helene Bee, a Danish woman whose husband had been taken to work in Germany. The apartment was comfortable, there were books, and there was a gramophone and records. We also had the occasional company of 17-year-old Jeanne Roggemans, who lived with her parents in one of the other apartments. It was a good opportunity for her to practise her English, and we looked forward to her visits.

    When we woke on Sunday, September 3, we heard on the radio that British troops had advanced to within 80 miles of Brussels. Below us on the streets the German troops were active - and the good news was that they seemed to be preparing to abandon Brussels rather than defend it. We hadn’t fancied being caught up in any fighting.

    By late afternoon there were Belgians, wearing armbands, and some of them armed, going about the streets quite openly. The Resistance people had evidently decided to show their hand. Philip and I could scarcely believe the troops had covered so much ground since the last report we had heard - but they had. i

    We had still one more alarm to cope with. A group of armed men came to the front door of the apartment building asking to see the English fliers. We weren’t sure who the men were - or even which side they were on - and didn’t fancy falling into the wrong hands at that late stage, so we scuttled out of the back door of the building and over some walled gardens. The men caught up with us. They wanted only to take us to the advance British troops who were already in one of the Brussels squares.

    There was time only for a hasty good-bye to Mme Bee and we were off with the Resistance men. The captain in command of the Welsh Guards listened to our story. He was sympathetic, but said apologetically he would have to put us under arrest until our identities had been checked out. After all, we had only RAF identity discs and some false papers to back up our story.

    This was an exciting time - history in the making, as it were - but that night Philip and I had to sleep on a blanket under an army truck, on a cobbled street. This wasn’t so exciting, but we weren’t complaining. We felt that we were getting closer to home.

    Next morning the officer said he had had our identity checked, so we lost our guards. His bad news was that his orders were to get after the retreating Germans, and he would have to leave us where we were. He suggested we return to Mme Bee and friends and wait to see what might turn up for us.

    There was a “liberation” party at the apartment block that night. Philip and I were invited to join in and felt honoured to be asked. We had nothing to contribute to the party provisions - and this was part of something I felt strange, almost guilty about. We had nothing: no luggage, no money, no change of clothing. I found it strange to be so dependent on others for everything we needed.

    Next to help the following morning was one of the Resistance men who had originally taken us to the British troops. He told us an army intelligence unit had arrived at the Queen’s Palace in Brussels. Mme Bee and Jeanne Roggemans took Philip and me there. A major checked our identity from a list he had and gave us a pass we could use if we had to. And he put us in touch with a service corps unit which was to return next day to Arras in Northern France for supplies. The officer in charge of the transport agreed to take us along, on condition that we reported to him at 7 a.m.

    One more night in a relatively comfortable bed, more farewells to our Belgian helpers, and we made it to the service corps convoy. We were on our way! We had an overnight stop at Arras, and we thought it a small price to pay when we again had to sleep under a lorry.

    More help next morning from our army friends. They weren’t going any farther, but they arranged for us to join some southbound petrol tankers. Our objective was to get all the way to the Normandy beach-head, where, we had been told, there was a reception centre for evaders.

    We arrived in Amiens early in the afternoon of Wednesday September 6.

    Once again our “lift” couldn’t take us farther, and Philip and I were abandoned on the outskirts of the city. And again, no transport, no accommodation, no means of support - and this time, no friendly army men. We had the pass the intelligence officer had given us, but we were still in our “civvies” - we must have looked an odd couple - and suddenly we felt a bit flat.

    Matters didn’t improve when Philip and I fell out over what to do next. This was a great pity, and, I suppose, a bit foolish because we hadn’t had many cross words - if any at all - during the 14 weeks we had been together. There was no bitterness: we just shook hands and went our own way. The last i saw of him (for 54 years, as it turned out) was as he disappeared towards Amiens itself.

    I had noticed transport aircraft landing not too far away, and that was the line I wanted to follow: Philip didn’t. I had to go a fair step down the road before I came to the airfield. There were quite a few transport aircraft parked there, all Americans as far as I could see.

    I went up to the guard-house, where I was happy to see an RAF police sergeant on duty. He listened to my story (although he eyed my outfit with some suspicion). But he accepted my story - and recognised my pass - and took me for something to eat. I began to feel lucky again.

    The sergeant said some of the aircraft I could see would be returning to London that afternoon and suggested that I try to cadge a lift. If I succeeded it would save me some days of hard travel getting to the beach-head. The advice sounded good. We went to the flight office, where one pilot was getting his flight plan sorted out.

    He listened to me, and the sergeant vouched for me. To my relief, surprise and delight, the American lieutenant said, “Fine, OK”. No more questions. Only one condition: either he or his navigator would have to hand me over in person to the security people at Hendon, their destination in London. A small condition. He could have taken me there in chains, for all I would have cared.

    He offered me the second pilot’s seat, apologised for having to land at Reims en route - and then we were off. At Hendon the pilot himself handed me over to the provost-marshal. I felt my thanks to the Americans were very inadequate for the huge favour.

    More questions from the provost officer and, while he found out what to do with me, a welcome cup of tea and a bun. Then it was off to the Air Ministry. Here I was closely interrogated and given a thorough medical examination. I learned in turn that all my fellow crew members had escaped by parachute on May 24/25, but had all been taken prisoner. I was kitted out in stores - proper clothes of my own at last - given some pay, three weeks’ leave (later extended), and a railway warrant to Dundee. The Ministry people were kind enough to take me (still in my wedding outfit, but now carrying a kitbag) to King’s Cross for the night train. More strange looks from other passengers, but I was past caring by then. I reached Dundee early in the morning of September 7.

    I could scarcely believe my good luck, and I wondered if Philip Tweedy had been as fortunate. I learned much, much later that he took only two more days than I had.

    I had to report to a holding unit after my leave. I had hoped to get my commission sorted out (it had been gazetted two weeks after I was posted missing), but no one wanted to know. I should perhaps have gone back to the squadron, where things might have happened more quickly, but I’d had enough of the RAF just then, so I let things happen instead of making them happen. Hindsight is easy.

    I went to two or more reassessment units (a pleasant enough life after the excitement of the summer), but still nothing happened. I think the problem was that the Air Ministry had thought that Bomber Command losses would increase after D-Day and had stepped up the numbers of replacement aircrew. In the event, casualty numbers dropped, so that there were many redundant aircrew who had to be remustered to other duties. I was one of many - and my case seemed to be more complicated than most.

    Eventually, one of my applications was successful. In very short order I was summoned to London, where my commission was confirmed, got all my new kit together - and I found myself a passenger on a Dakota aircraft bound for Calcutta, in a bucket seat surrounded by freight. My flying logbook tells me that was on February 9, 1945. It had taken five months to get me sorted out.

    I served in various capacities in India until my demobilisation in August 1946.

    This move before VE-Day in May 1945 meant that I had no opportunity to establish contact with the Belgians who had helped me. Nor could I do anything about contacting my crew: they were still in prisoner-of-war camps. By the time of my demob I had had enough of service life and I suppose I shut my mind to most of my wartime memories - as did many others.

    I joined the RAF Escaping Society about 1950 to see if they could help me to trace my Belgian helpers, particularly Madeleine, Marcel and the others at Geel. Part of the problem was that we had known people by their first names only, and weren’t given any addresses either. This was to ensure that if we were captured we couldn’t betray any of our helpers. The RAFES couldn’t help me and I couldn’t afford at that time to go to Belgium to see what I could find out for myself. My efforts wouldn’t have yielded much as far as Madeleine and Marcel were concerned. They had emigrated to the Congo

    shortly after the war. Then I also emigrated - to Canada where with my wife and family I lived from 1960 to 1963. I didn’t do anything about Belgium when I returned to Scotland.

    The Belgians might have tried to contact me, but for some reason the word had got round that I had been killed later in the war. Philip Tweedy, too, had heard this news, so he made no real effort to trace me, although he did a great deal of research in Belgium in the 1950’s, from which I have lately benefited.

    As the result of a chance meeting with a stranger when I was visiting the Yorkshire Air Museum near York I joined 76 Squadron Association, which I hadn’t known existed. I renewed contact in 1997 with Philip Tweedy, already a member. Through him, I arranged to go to Geel later last year to see Madeleine and Marcel. I felt very guilty at having let 53 years slip by before returning to Belgium. They were very understanding, and made my wife, Kathleen, and myself most welcome. Through them I learned what had happened to the others from Geel.

    I met Philip face to face for the first time in 54 years at the squadron reunion dinner in September this year. Our wives were with us and it was a great weekend of reminiscence - and some mild argument. As in Amiens all those years ago, we had to agree to differ on some points of our stories. A case of old men’s memories, after all. We have a very provisional arrangement to return to Belgium next year, as a foursome, to see if we can dig out any more details of that summer of 1944. We would like to learn anything we can of Roy Reading, of whom no one has heard since then.

    As to my crew, I have learned that my pilot and captain, Frank Bishop, is dead. This news came from Mr Geoff Smith, a Luton man who had picked up Frank’s campaign medals at a sale of service memorabilia. Mr Smith is an amateur historian with a particular interest in Bomber Command operations. He too contacted me through 76 Squadron Association. I have no information about any of the other crew members.

    Arthur M Rae December 1998,'
     
  2. canuck

    canuck Closed Account

    From Wikipedia
    The Belgian resistance's aim, assisted by the British MI9 organization, was to escort them out of occupied Europe and over the Pyrenees to neutral Spain where they might return to England. The best-known of these networks, "Comet", organized by Andrée de Jongh, involved some 2,000 resistance members and was able to escort 700 Allied servicemen to Spain. The line not only fed and provided civilian clothing for the pilots, but also forged French identity cards and rail fares. Since the airmen also needed to be hidden in civilian houses for prolonged periods of time, escape lines were particularly vulnerable. During the course of the war, 800 members of the "Comet" line alone were arrested by the Gestapo of whom 140 were executed.

    During the war, it is estimated that approximately five percent of the national population were involved in some form of resistance activity, while some estimates put the number of resistance members killed at over 19,000; roughly 25 percent of its "active" members
     
  3. Harry Ree

    Harry Ree Very Senior Member

    A very good account of the escape of aircrew into Spain from Western Europe enemy held territory,virtually impossible without aid from helpers.These were courageous people whose moral courage and bravery knew no bounds.Their organisations and networks were always prone to penetration by Nazi fellow travellers and those of the their fellow countrymen employed by the Germans as V men/agents.Its an ever lasting debt owed by Allied escapees to those who helped.... some paying for their involvement with their lives.

    It looks as if the Halifax was a victim of the "slanted music",the upward angled guns installed on Luftwaffe fighter aircraft which took the RAF some time to evaluate in assessing losses from this cause....creeping up underneath the tail of an aircraft and if not detected by the rear and mid upper gunners, provided a good target....early detection enabled the pilot to corkscrew...hence continual surveillance required by skippers.

    RAF Holme on Spalding Moor,now a business park accessed by a lane named "Land of Nod".On the site there is a good collection of wartime photographs and when the airfield was active postwar.. ... hosted by Messers J Rotherham,a manufacturer of fireplaces,the collection was formerly displayed in a pub on the A614 close to the airfield....worth visiting if in the area.

    There is also a memorial to No 76 Squadron at the entrance to the airfield, unveiled by Leonard Cheshire,a past Commanding Officer of the squadron.
     
  4. hucks216

    hucks216 Member

    This Halifax was shot down by Oberleutnant Adolf Kaiser who at the time was the Staffelkapitän of 1./NJG-2. It was the 11th kill of his final total of 16. He ended the night having to belly land his Ju88R-2 (4R+BH) at Bonn-Hangelar after suffering an engine failure. He & his crew of Feldwebel Willi Zorn and Unteroffizier Franz Jasiniecki survived the crash.

    Source: Nachtjagd War Diaries Vol 2: April 1944 - May 1945 by Theo Boiten
     
  5. gmyles

    gmyles Senior Member

    I was contacted a while back by a party of Belgian enthusiasts who were in the process of recovering the remains of MZ623.

    Halifax MZ623 |

    Gus
     
  6. sanglier

    sanglier Junior Member

    [QUOTE My first memory of Brussels is a short tram journey to the home of a newspaper sports reporter, who entertained us well. Next day he took us, in a smallish Volkswagen car, through streets which seemed to be full of German troops, to some of whom our driver chatted, to a villa at Linkebek, a southern suburb of Brussels.[/QUOTE]

    Fascinating stuff. I believe the newspaper sports reporter was Victor Adonis RANDOUR who helped Tweedy, Rae and Roy Martin in Bruxelles. He later married my aunt Louisa Deloge who had recruited him in the escape line back in 1941. see my website www.belgiumww2.info
     
    gmyles and CL1 like this.

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