When morning broke I was ready to get up and out of the tent quite early. The weather had remained fine and quite warm for several days and the morning gave the promise that it would continue to be very pleasant. Breakfast was served from a tented kitchen and eaten standing up. This, of course, was no hardship, in fact a luxury, it had been a long time since I was handed any sort of a meal, especially on a plate.
From far across the airfield aircraft engines could be heard starting up and then the aircraft could be seen moving. They were Douglas Dakotas, designed as a civil airliner, but adapted very successfully in many forms to be the workhorse of all the Allied air forces. After the war, like millions of human beings, it resumed its peace-time role and served excellently for many years before it could be bettered.
Soon the Dakotas were taking off and heading westwards towards Great Britain at quite frequent intervals, but as the day wore on it seemed that our party would not be going that day and we became resigned to the fact. However, we were then informed that because the weather was remaining good, the crew of one of the Dakotas had volunteered to do another trip that day. The weather of course had to be right, but it was the crew who really made it possible and they had to be backed up by the groundcrews at each end of the journey. I am afraid that when young, such things are taken for granted; we should have expressed our gratitude at the time for their contribution towards getting us home safely and a day earlier.
Once onboard the aircraft, it could be seen that this particular Dakota was fitted out for dropping Paratroopers. On each side, inside the fuselage, were seats running the entire length with just a gap on each side for loading and, what must have been very much on the mind of the Paras when going on an operation, also for exit. I thought about it several times on that flight, trying to imagine what their feelings would have been. There would have been no ifs or buts; they would not be coming back with that aircraft. At a certain point they would be ordered to attach a line from their parachute pack to a static line above that ran the entire length of the fuselage. The doors would then be opened and, from a standing position, the Paras would follow each other to jump out. This was the point I thought about most; they were not jumping to save their lives, they could well be jumping to get killed.
As I mentioned previously, before the war only a tiny percentage of ordinary people had flown in an aircraft and most of my fellow passengers had been captured early in the war while fighting in the desert, not having had a chance to fly; so, on this first flight they must have suffered some apprehension, and this showed when a crew member, who I thought was the pilot, left the cockpit and walked down offering everyone sweets and chocolate. With distinct terror in his voice, my neighbour shouted to me, ‘Who was that? Was he the pilot?’ I felt quite knowledgeable when I was able to reassure him that there would be a second pilot, or possibly we were on automatic for a while.
Chapter 9
The White Cliffs of Dover
Another very thoughtful gesture was made by the pilot, if indeed it was he who had handed out the sweets, that was to send our spirits soaring. Unknown to us passengers at that stage, we were heading for an RAF station in Buckinghamshire, so he must have deliberately diverted a touch to the south and, making sure we were all looking forward through the cockpit by getting another crew member to draw our attention, he flew straight towards and then over the White Cliffs of Dover. It was a heart-wrenching sight, and I could almost hear Dame Vera Lynn singing her famous wartime song. I did not, however, notice any bluebirds flying over them.
We landed, late evening, at RAF Wing, and members of the WAAF met us and escorted us to a reception area that was set up in the open; even the weather was continuing to be kind to us. I did not kiss the ground as I always thought I would, but I do remember being very aware of my footsteps when first leaving the aircraft and thinking, ‘This is what I have been waiting for.’
At the reception area medical orderlies dusted us with a white powder. No area was left untreated and one by one we were turned into something like snowmen. I suppose we would have been a rough looking bunch and needed to be treated with caution. Everybody was so kind and patient, especially as our arrival had not been expected. Next came the novelty of being seated at a real table on real chairs for some refreshments, which we saw off in no time at all. We then queued to see a doctor, which of course was a necessity, but this process revealed the only lack of thought or organisation that I ever noticed during the whole process of being received back home, and even that made for a bit of comedy. A temporary medical centre had been set up with about six cubicles curtained off to give privacy and in each one there was a medical officer in attendance. I was making my way into one of them, after being called, when the canvas door of one further along burst open as the patient made a very hasty exit. Following close behind came the medical officer, a woman, shouting, ‘Don’t be so damned ridiculous.’ I have to explain that in 1945 lady doctors were quite rare and for a man, who might well have rarely seen a woman for possibly four or five years, and then only in the far distance, to be expected to submit himself to being intimately examined by one, was perhaps a little unthoughtful. I don’t know how the problem was resolved because after my examination, by a man, all was quiet and orderly again and we were reassembled to await transport to the nearest railway station.
I think at this stage Army and RAF personnel must have been separated because the train I boarded went straight to RAF Cosford; Army personnel must have gone to another establishment. I hope they were treated as well as we were. RAF Cosford was the RAF’s main medical centre in those days, so I suppose they were somewhat used to handling people in need of help, and although it was by now around two in the morning, we were certainly well received.
We were shown to our accommodation, which had been obviously well prepared, set down anything we might have been carrying and then a bathroom was ready, with the water already in the bath at the right temperature, for each one of us. Large white towels were there waiting for after we had indulged ourselves in a luxury some had not experienced for four or five years. It was a lovely feeling to be submerged in the warm water and leisurely cleanse oneself. Returning to the room where we were to sleep, the top covers of the beds had been turned back, pyjamas were there waiting, and within minutes I was enjoying a sleep that I was to remember for the rest of my life.
It would be eleven o’clock before I awoke next morning, and before I could convince myself that all this luxury was not a continuation of a dream, I was rewarded with what might be described as revenge◦– on the very RAF Flight Sergeant who had made our lives hell when I was attending my first Signals School. You may remember me telling you that we all lived in fear of him, yet the extraordinary thing, right there, was that this very Flight Sergeant was now offering me, humble me, still lying in a nice warm bed, a mug of delicious hot steaming tea. The coincidence was unbelievable, and I could not help telling him where we had met before. He declared in quite a friendly tone of voice that he thought he could remember me before mentioning the time and place◦– extraordinary.
The day went on to be quite a busy one. Everyone was fitted out with complete new uniforms. Further, more detailed medical inspections were made, some interrogation into how our aircraft was shot down, and as to how I was treated as a prisoner of war. I also had the opportunity to suggest any improvements to the means of escape from the Lancaster. I did this vigorously because the sight of three of my crew trapped there, not able to get out, was still very much in my mind, and always will be.