by John Nichol
Despite the odd mechanical failure, the trainees threw their Spitfires into mock dogfights, underlining that action was imminent for God-fearing Wilkinson. ‘These exercises were the pinnacle of my preparation for one-on-one mortal combat. They magnified the seriousness of close-in aerial fighting where we were to engage the enemy at point-blank range, as close as 100 to 250 yards, knowing that one of us was about to die.’ Wilkinson knew that his own God-given attributes would also stand him in good stead in the fight. ‘The Lord blessed me with an uncanny ability to see things faster and at greater distances than my contemporaries.’
When Wilkinson moved south to join 41 Squadron he found himself on the grass airstrip of Lympne and accommodated in the sumptuous surroundings of Port Lympne mansion where, a decade earlier, the glamorous Auxiliary Air Force pilots had rested and played during the carefree days in the Kent countryside. During his flight training in America, where much pilot training was now being carried out in the clear, enemy-free skies, Wilkinson had developed a strong friendship with a Jamaican pilot called George ‘Bunny’ Henriquez. He regularly visited Bunny’s family, who had moved to Clewiston, Florida, and spent long Sundays entertaining his young daughter.
Of course, the war intruded on their friendship: Bunny was posted to fly Lancaster bombers with 630 Squadron, based in East Kirkby in Lincolnshire, and Wilkinson onto Spitfires with 41 Squadron in southern England. One day in the summer of 1944 Wilkinson had an urge to visit Bunny and got permission to fly from Lympe in a repaired Spitfire that needed testing. The trip was an enjoyable diversion from the war and Bunny took great pleasure in showing his friend around the Lancaster. Neither discussed the losses that Bomber Command was experiencing in daily missions over Germany. When Wilkinson took off to return south he circled over the base where Bunny was standing by his Lancaster. Then he felt an overwhelming sense of doom. ‘I had a strong premonition that Bunny would soon be killed.’
Aside from the strange surroundings and premonitions, Wilkinson’s journey from the ruins surrounding St Paul’s Cathedral to becoming a Spitfire pilot had been fulfilled. Soon he would be needed for the fight. But it would not be in the way he had imagined.
* * *
In a few short months a strong romance had blossomed between the taciturn fighter pilot Terry Kearins and bubbly Lancashire lass, Edith Bardsley. Both had volunteered for the services. Kearins was the apprentice farmer-turned-Spitfire pilot from New Zealand with the thatch of jet-black hair who had volunteered for the air force. Edith had joined the Royal Navy as a nurse.
In the spring of 1943 they met at a club after Edith had been asked to join a friend who was courting another New Zealander. Edith was immediately attracted to Kearins’ quiet charm and the big hands that pushed through his thick hair. His chequered silk scarf and pilot’s wings on his chest also helped. Kearins was similarly infatuated. He could not resist being drawn to Edith’s warm, enthusiastic conversation and ability to find mirth in most situations. They were very happy. Then one night, Kearins’ usually serious features creased into a broad smile when Edith gave a firm ‘yes’ to his offer of marriage.
A few days later, on 15 July 1943, he found himself patting his breast pocket for the umpteenth time, checking Edith’s picture was still there as he settled into the Spitfire’s cockpit.5
Kearins had listened attentively as 485 Squadron’s boss, Johnny Checketts, ran them through the plan for a Ramrod bombing mission near Amiens, seventy-five miles south of Calais, escorting USAAF Boston medium bombers on a daylight raid. On only his second operational mission, Kearins was to fly as Checketts’ number two.
Shortly after 4.30pm, the Bostons dropped their load on the railway network at Poix and were on their way back when they were jumped by twenty Fw190s. Kearins and Checketts managed to destroy one between them but then Kearins was hit. Checketts watched in dismay as the Spitfire plummeted towards the ground without seeing a parachute deploy.
When Checketts got back to base he glumly wrote up an official report: ‘Flight Sergeant Kearins was seen to go down in flames and crashed on land. He did not bail out.’
* * *
The cockpit began to feel very small and tomb-like to Terry Kearins as his Spitfire rolled over and began a headlong plunge to earth. Flames shot out of the engine cowling and over the cockpit hood. Fire licked at his boots. Kearins knew that very soon the flames would reach the fuel tank, with catastrophic effect. Momentarily, he shut his eyes to focus. There had been challenging and dangerous times before. Especially on farm machinery that went wrong and could brutally wrench off an arm or chop a man in half. If you remain calm, his father had told, you’ll do OK.
The sharp pain of burning in his legs made him catch his breath. Kearins pushed aside the fear of incineration, unhooked his helmet leads then loosened his seat harness. As the plane buffeted down on its final flight, he released the cockpit canopy, feeling the flames lick against his legs. Then he was out of the aircraft. The cool breeze and silence were a welcome change from the inferno he had just left.
Descending under his parachute canopy, Kearins landed in a field close to three children. Biting back the pain from his burns, he used his schoolboy French to ask them to hide his dinghy, parachute harness and flying jacket. One of the children led Kearins to a wood 500 yards away, where the pilot hid his Mae West, tunic and English money under some blackberry bushes,6 close to the village of Le Quesnoy-en-Artois, thirty miles north of Amiens and twenty miles from the Channel coast.
German search parties were not far behind and with them came vicious Alsatian dogs.
I stink of burns, they’ll sniff me out, Kearins thought as he lay between a tree stump and a hedge, trying to control his racing heart and the thought of capture or worse. The barking came closer then receded. Despite the excruciating pain in his burnt legs, Kearins kept silent.
Fortunately, dusk was only a few hours away. As the adrenaline ebbed away he felt his body throb with pain. He looked at his legs. Some of his clothing had been burnt onto his skin. The burns bubbled and blistered. He bit down on a thick piece of wood when the pain became unbearable. Thankfully, the summer weather was warm. There was no way he would have survived a winter’s night.
For the next two days Kearins managed to avoid German patrols, but with his strength beginning to drain away he had to find help.
In a desperate situation, he risked everything by exposing his position and calling out to a passing woman from behind a tree, where he’d found some unripe apples. She ignored him. As Kearins turned to hobble off, he stumbled then collapsed. The woman turned around. Emilie Forgez had made a decision which could have fateful consequences. She took the airman into the farmhouse. An hour later her husband returned and agreed they should give him shelter.
When they stripped off his uniform they found his legs had become a festering mess. Their local doctor was a German sympathiser so their only option was to nurse him themselves.
Over the next six weeks M. Forgez discreetly visited several chemist’s, picking up bandages and burns ointment. At one point a fever gripped Kearins so severely that they believed he would die. They decided to secretly bury him in their grounds so no word of his presence could leak out. The penalty for harbouring Allied airmen was execution or a concentration camp.
Luckily, Kearins’ burns slowly began to heal; the festering was defeated by M. Forgez’s constant cleaning and changing of bandages. Soon he was on his feet and eager to get outside. M. Forgez quickly realised his skill as a farmer and soon Kearins was helping harvest his tobacco. At times he would lie down amid the thick, tall greenery and look up at Allied aircraft crossing the sky and dream of one day being back in a Spitfire.
He also put the foliage to another advantage. M. Forgez had mentioned that a new secret rocket site was being built nearby. Kearins made sure he got close enough to observe the 100ft-long steel elevated ski ramp built for a long, rocket-like missile. Alongside it were fuel and other storage facilities, all carefully camouflage
d from above.
With the Gestapo wary of prying eyes a cover story was invented for Kearins and put to good use. In answer to why he hadn’t been drafted as a construction labourer, Kearins was to be a deaf and dumb farmhand who was the boyfriend of M. Forgez’s daughter. Kearins’ long and dishevelled beard and hair added further plausibility to the role.
During one Gestapo visit, Kearins was shunted quickly into the tobacco barns amid all the harvested plants. For half an hour his heart thudded furiously as he listened to the secret police speak to M. Forgez on the other side of the wall.
Kearins knew he would be endangering both his French hosts and himself if he continued to stay any longer. He also wanted to get back home. His thoughts were occupied with Edith. Had she been told he had made it out of the burning aircraft? Did she think of him? Had she found someone else? Kearins knew he had to get home. He asked M. Forgez to contact the Resistance.
On a mild day early in October 1943, three months after Kearins had parachuted from his Spitfire over France, M. Forgez’s twelve-year-old nephew appeared at the farm saying the Resistance was ready to activate his escape.
A few days later, Kearins, M. Forgez and his nephew set off on bicycles. Once they were stopped by a German staff car asking for directions. As the Frenchmen spoke amiably to the Germans, Kearins felt helpless and terrified. These brave French people were risking their lives for him in the full knowledge that betrayal or discovery would lead to dreadful torture and death. At least 20,000 French were executed resisting the occupation and helping the Allies.
The German officers seemed content, gave the cyclists a cursory wave and drove on. Then they came to a village filled with German armoured vehicles. Kearins’ stare remained straight ahead as he passed lounging soldiers, hoping his beard and long hair would ward off questions. After cycling six miles, they arrived in the hamlet of Le Ponchel, close to the medieval battlefield of Crécy, at the home of a teacher who led the local Resistance. Issued with forged papers, Kearins was placed in the hands of the Bordeaux-Loupiac Resistance.
A few days later the door to the house where he’d been given refuge opened and in walked Squadron Leader Checketts, the pilot who had been Kearins’ wingman and who had reported him shot down in flames.
‘Johnny!’ Kearins exclaimed.
‘Terry? Terry Kearins?’ Checketts stared at the long-haired, dishevelled man before him; he could not believe the pilot he had reported going down as a ‘flamer’ had somehow survived. The pair shook hands, then Checketts brought him into a tight hug.
Checketts described how seven weeks after Kearins’ apparent demise he had been leading his squadron of Spitfires over Abbeville, close to the Channel coast and a dozen miles from their location, when he found himself surrounded by six Fw190s. ‘I managed to bag one, possibly a second and certainly damaged a third. But the buggers kept coming at me. I had to bail out.’
Checketts had also suffered burns and injured his spine but had been spirited away into the capable hands of the Resistance. And now, here he was!
The next day a Frenchman arrived at the house in a pre-war car not expropriated by the Germans. The plan was to drive the airmen the twenty-five miles to Amiens where they would catch a train to Paris.
Kearins and Checketts looked at each other. Surely it was a hell of a risk? But there was nothing like Gallic bravado and hiding in open view.
They had only got a few miles down the road when they were stopped at a German army checkpoint. The two Spitfire pilots glanced at each other, exchanging nervous looks as the driver wound down his window. It was the first time their fake papers would be tested.
The young, freckled German soldier studied their papers for a moment, leaned in the window, glanced at Kearins and Checketts, then handed the documents back. Kearins could not help thinking that the driver would have been shot on the spot had they been rumbled.
An hour later the driver pulled up close to the train station then went inside to purchase tickets. By now Kearins had picked up a passable amount of French for basic inquiries but felt a growing fear of discovery as they waited. The car door opened and the French driver got in and drove a short distance, then stopped and handed over their tickets.
They were told the train left in one hour, so rather than hang around the station with its French and German security forces, they should move into town. The pair nodded in understanding. He shook their hands. Bonne chance.
Carefully avoiding cafes full of Germans and police patrols, the pair ambled around Amiens then, a few minutes before departure, strode purposefully to their platform and got on the train without being challenged.
White smoke drifted out of the engine boiler as it remained at rest. Kearins and Checketts sat in their wooden third-class seats wondering why the train remained stationary. A glance out of the window showed soldiers marching down the platform then boarding. A minute later a whistle blew, the driver sounded a bell and smoke floated past their window as they rolled towards Paris. The pilots exchanged worried looks; their situation was becoming more perilous by the minute.
They spent the journey largely in silence as Kearins went over in his mind the description they had been given of the woman they were to follow at Gare du Nord station. She was in a black beret and red coat with lavender in the lapel. But what the hell happened if they missed her? If she didn’t arrive? They had been told no more information. No names, no addresses, nothing. They’d just have to take their chances in Paris.
Gare du Nord bustled with civilians in dark clothing, the field grey of German troops and dark blue of gendarmerie. Kearins exchanged a look with a dark-eyed young woman with distinct cheekbones. He stared at her red coat, beret and the purple foliage in her lapel. Without a nod she turned and began walking towards an exit. Kearins put his hand on Checketts’ back and followed. They had been told to make no physical contact but just to keep her in sight. The station was alive with security as they followed her to the metro station by a route that avoided the checkpoints.
The woman then led them across Paris to the Porte de Versailles in the 15th arrondissement to a building where another twenty escapees were being sheltered. There were back-slaps and animated conversations as the men shared their experiences, but all were careful to avoid mentioning any names.
For two days the airmen rested, making food together with the rations they were given, including a big batch of French onion soup that one serviceman had learned to cook during his time on the run.
Then one morning Kearins and Checketts were taken aside by a grey-haired Resistance man who told them the Spitfire pilots were considered a priority. They would be sent to Brittany and then picked up by Royal Navy submarine to get home. The man held out his hand and wished them luck.
The journey to Brittany would take two or three days, with several changes of train and the constant chance of someone spotting a mistake in the forged documents or their poor French, or simply that one would crack. To lessen the chances of discovery they travelled overnight.
Kearins found himself fast asleep on Checketts’ shoulder when the carriage door slid open and the dreaded word ‘papers’ was barked. Two French policemen stood at the doorway holding out their hands. Kearins scratched at his beard, muttering some unintelligible French, then reached inside his jacket for the document that had been forged in Paris.
The policeman asked where they were going and appeared satisfied by the response. The papers were thrust back into their hands and the door slammed shut. Despite his languid demeanour, Kearins took a few deep breaths then thrust his shaking hand into his coat pocket.
Running in a circuitous route, and after several days spent in safe houses, the Spitfire men had nearly completed their 400-mile journey to the Brittany coast. Kearins looked out of the window at the rolling countryside and allowed himself to relax and dream of England’s green pastures and Edith.
‘Monsieur.’ The word was hurried and just above a whisper. Kearins looked into the big brown eyes of a young F
rench boy. A crumpled piece of paper was thrust into his hand and the boy was gone.
Checketts carefully unfolded the scrap of paper. They were to get off the train immediately. At the next station.
They were two stops from Quimper and both tired from the long hours of travel and living under the constant danger of discovery.
Kearins stared at the floor. Damn it. They were so close to their destination. After Quimper there would be no more long, dangerous train journeys, no more heart-stopping demands for papers or imagining what the Gestapo would do to extract every morsel of information they knew about the Resistance and Spitfires.
The train slowed and came to a halt. There was no security on the platform. As they walked out of the station they heard footsteps behind. Kearins glanced over his shoulder at a middle-aged French woman in black shawl. She held his eye momentarily then quickened her pace. As she passed, they heard the word ‘Allez’ from under the shawl. The pilots kept their distance as she escorted them to a church deep in the countryside.
At the weathered church door they were told that, as a result of Resistance sabotage, the Germans were everywhere and in particular searching people coming off the mainline trains. The pair would be put on a local train.
By the late afternoon, the men found themselves on a small train that chugged along the line, stopping frequently before it reached Quimper. No attention was paid by the police to the local people who got off.
