In recent correspondence with Tony Tubbenhauer (Pacific Flyer's
contributing writer), I had been writing of my capture and imprisonment
in Germany [during WWII], which Tony suggested would make a
good story.
Tony and I served together in 1942 on 244 Squadron. We both
finished our first tour of operations at roughly the same time.
Tony and his crew were posted to 203 Squadron to do a second
tour and my crew and I were posted to 454 Squadron. Both Squadrons
were flying Baltimore aircraft and both were in North Africa
doing much the same work.
My fatal day came on July 23, 1943, when our aircraft was
shot down and we were taken prisoner....
In July 1943, the Allies were in the process of landing in
Sicily and were being harassed by large numbers of German aircraft.
To counter this harassment, a plan was devised for a concentrated
air raid to be made on the island of Crete thus giving the Germans
the impression that a further landing was about to be made on
that island and this would cause them to withdraw some of the
aircraft from Sicily and re-locate them to Crete.
454 Squadron was chosen as the bombing force of the raid,
and were to be accompanied by 125 fighters of the Eastern Mediterranean
Fighter Command.
On July 23rd 1943 our crew, comprising Squadron Leader Lionel
Folkard, Flying Officer Walter Dyer, Warrant Officer Keith Wedgwood,
and myself Flight Lieutenant Doug Hutchinson were to lead eight
Baltimore aircraft from our Squadron on this raid.
It was planned that we should fly at sea level the 230 miles
to Crete and meet up with the fighter aircraft. On the way the
fighters were to go in first to saturate the defences, we were
to follow with an attack on the shipping in Soudhas Bay on the
north coast.
Unfortunately, one important point was overlooked, we were
to arrive over Crete at a time when the enemy were away from
their gun positions having breakfast, but it was forgotten that
Crete was on double summer time and instead all defences were
fully manned.
We crossed the south coast near the eastern end of the island,
which was less mountainous and immediately ground defences opened
up on us from underneath, the sides of the valleys and from
the front. We had to climb over the central spine of the mountains
and at this time the defences scored their first hits.
Once over the mountains we came down to low level again and
turned west along the coast to Soudha Bay. We were now down
under 100 feet and ground fire was intense. We had only flown
less than halfway to the target before suffering serious damage.
Our port engine was on fire and we were all wounded, Lionel
in the left leg and his right arm was hanging by a thread. He
did not have time to hesitate and as he did not know if we were
alive or dead, he decided to put the aircraft down in a crash
landing on a narrow stretch of land near the beach.
Unknown to him the land had been mined, but we left most of
the explosions behind us as we skated over the ground, finally
coming to rest. I had been in the turret for this trip and when
it was evident we were going to crash, I threw the turret around
to face forward and wrapped my arms around my face. The turret
broke open and I was first out. The fuselage had nearly split
in two in the middle and I was able to drag Keith Wedgwood out
through the gap and clear of the burning aircraft but then found
he had been killed. I then turned my attention to the others
and could see Walter Dyer in the nose cone bleeding profusely.
The nose cone was smashed, so I was to help him out and clear
of the aircraft.
The aircraft was by this time was well on fire and I went
to help Lionel, who was in a bad way, but I managed to get him
out and clear just before the aircraft blew up. We still had
bombs on board and they had exploded.
We then took stock of ourselves and found we were in a mess.
Walter had been badly hit in the forehead, Lionel had been hit
in the left leg and his right arm was nearly off. I had my left
foot badly damaged and what was left of my boot was full of
blood, also I had been hit in the left elbow and the back, multiple
minor wounds and my face had been burned and blackened. Just
how Lionel, landed the plane in his condition I will never know.
A few minutes later we were confronted with a group of soldiers
firing their guns over our heads. We endeavoured to raise our
hands and walk towards them but were surprised to see them turn
and run, we stopped, they stopped we tried again, the same result.
Third time we continued on and it was only then that we found
we had been walking through the minefield.
We were then taken to a first aid station where our wounds
were roughly dressed, and then taken by truck to the hospital
at Herakhon. Here I was separated from the others and immediately
taken to an operating theatre where a German medical officer
attended by Greek nurses removed the pieces of shrapnel and
bullets from my wounds and dressed them with paper bandages.
That night I was placed on a stretcher and taken to an airstrip
where I was loaded into a JU52 transport plane with two guards
and flown to Athens, where I spent the remainder of the night
in hospital. Next morning I was again loaded into a JU52, this
time, being in German-occupied territory we did not have to
fly at night. Our next stop was Salonika in northern Greece,
again spending the night in hospital. The following day I was
again loaded into a JU52 and flown to Sofia in Bulgaria to again
spend the night in hospital. The next day I was flown to Belgrade
in Yugoslavia, again spending the night in hospital. The following
day was my last trip by air and it was to Vienna in Austria.
Here I was not taken to hospital but locked in the local jail
where I spent a most uncomfortable night, between being attacked
by hundreds of bed bugs and the difficulty of trying to reach
the toilet.
Next morning I was placed on a stretcher again and taken to
the local railway station where a train was waiting at the platform.
The Germans emptied the passengers out of a compartment, I was
laid along one seat and four guards armed with machine guns
took up the other, we were locked in and off we went across
Austria and into Germany, finishing at Frankfurt where I was
taken to what appeared to be a convalescent hospital. Here,
I was locked in a room on my own where the only furniture was
a bed and a chair.
I remained in solitary confinement for two weeks and was daily
interrogated by a German officer pressing questions about my
squadron and the object of our raid, but without success. Then
came the sexy woman officer who used her wiles to get information
with the same results.
By this time my wounds which had not been re-dressed since
leaving Crete, smelt to high heaven and the Germans could take
no more and I was taken to Dulag Luft transit camp a couple
of miles away. Here my very bloody bush shirt and shorts were
too much to bear and I was kindly loaned some clothes while
I washed them and myself. By this time I was hobbling around
with a crutch and one boot.
A few days later, together with a number of other Air Force
prisoners we were loaded into trucks and taken to the local
railway yards where we were loaded into a cattle truck without
food, water and toilet facilities.
Thus began a three day journey across Germany, the train had
low priority and spent much time in sidings. Our final destination
was Sagan near Breslau in Upper Silesia which is now part of
Poland. From the rail yards we were taken by trucks to Stalag
Luft 3 where we were located in the centre compound. Thus began,
my two years in captivity.
Later I learned that our Squadron lost six of the eight aircraft
which took part in the raid. One ditched in the Mediterranean
near Tobruk and having empty petrol tanks the aircraft floated
ashore and the crew was saved.
Of the other five aircraft fourteen crew members were killed
and six taken prisoner.
Twenty five fighters together with their pilots were also
lost.
