Bailing Out

TAPE 071 190985

The most important thing was to keep a cool head, and never let any sign of panic get to the other chaps. We’d all been trained what to do – the bailing out bit, not so much the parachute bit afterwards; for that all you had to do was hope you started high enough and didn't hit a propellor, then pull the cord and cross your fingers the flak didn’t get you.

When was this?

July 44. After D-Day. We were targeting a rail junction in France. Jerry was using it to ferry troops and equipment up to the front. Bloody busy it was. Not just guns, lots of flack, but night fighters too – Junkers and Messerschmitts. They really didn’t want us there. We already knew that, of course, because we’d been the week before and seen a lot of others catch it. And that night we did too. [Peter takes a drink].

Do you want to talk about it?

Not really. But I’ll give you the bare bones if you like… [pause and a sigh] … I still wonder if it was my fault really. I was meant to be the main man to keep a look out. I just didn’t see them coming at all. Three of ‘em - Junkers. They’d hit the starboard rear before I knew what was going on. Me and Jock, the pilot, felt the bump and a lot of the dials went dead. No comms. No oxygen as far as I could tell. There were flames on the starboard inner engine and no readings coming from that either. But Jock seemed to think the plane was still handling fine, so he decided we should carry on.

Jock told me to go back and assess quickly before the bomb run, so I went back and found Hugh, the navigator with a hole in his hand. Looked like Ron the rear-gunner had been shot up a bit. Some of the windows had been smashed, so it was bloody freezing. I did my best for everyone by handing out oxygen bottles. I must have been fairly calm because I remembered to put some gloves on so my skin wouldn’t stick to the metal. I  wrapped up Hugh’s hand with a tourniquet from the first aid kit. Then I went back to join Jock and make sure the bomb aimer was in position.

That’s when we got hit again underneath. I shouted to Jock what I could see. Starboard wing was in flames, but more worryingly there was a green glare coming from down near the bomb bay. I guessed the flares had been set off by whatever had hit us. I told Jock about it and he immediately gave the order for everyone to get ready to bail.

I went back again and told them the score – no comms you see -  but then we got hit again at the front and there was a terrible jolt. The usual drill was for everyone to go tap the pilot’s shoulder one by one before leaving the plane, to let him know they’d got off, but I told them to forget that and bloody get on with it.

When I went back up front Jock was shot up badly. The windows were shattered and he had a huge cut in his head. The blood was freezing up on his face because  it was so bloody cold, big crimson lumps of it. I sat down next to him and he asked me what the blazes I was doing and I asked him whether he could still fly the plane. All I remember after that was looking down to make sure the bomb aimer had bailed and seeing flames coming up at me and then… ‘bang’.

[Peter takes a drink]

What happened?

What happened? Well, if I had to guess the whole bloody plane blew apart! Next thing I know I’m in the middle of the night sky with flak popping off all around me, still in my chair with my arms leaning forward like I was driving something –  like one of those  Looney Tune cartoons when someone’s driving a car but it’s exploded and he’s just moving along holding the steering wheel  and then he keeps going on over a cliff – that kind of thing.

I’d been blown clean out the front of the bally plane and bits of it were dropping about me, flip-flapping and spinning like giant sycamore seeds. Thank God for the training. I released myself from the chair and pulled the cord on my parachute and  - boof! – off I went on the breeze. Flack didn’t get me and next thing I know I’m knee deep in a field full of shit, being tugged along by my chute. I was so shocked I didn’t even bother moving for God knows how long. Just lay in the shit half-asleep until a French farmer and a couple of German soldiers came along and hauled me out. I think they thought I was dead at first, but I perked up once one of the Germans shook me about a bit.

And that was that. One month banged up in a cell being identified, interrogated and wot not. Then the cattle truck to Stalag One. End of war.

But that can’t have been the end.

No I suppose not. But it was the end of flying. End of Jock and Hugh and Ron. And the others who I didn’t know so well. And I do wonder – what if I’d seen them coming? The fighters, I mean. Too busy looking at the dials, I suppose, writing down engine speeds and so on. Too busy doing my job. Just not very well as it turns out.