by Peter Rees
After the camp had been operating for about a month, Lucien warned the men that the risk of discovery grew with every passing day. He gave them each 5000 francs and told them that if the Germans attacked the camp, it was every man for himself and they were to get away as best they could. Anxiety levels increased. ‘We all slept fully dressed and with our boots on, ready for a sudden dash if required,’ Noel said. He heard more and more men at night talking in their sleep, while others became neurotic. ‘Several of the men in the camp had been shot down more than six months previously and they knew that after six months their category would be changed from “Missing” to “Believed killed in action”, and their next-of-kin advised accordingly.’
As the weeks went by and more and more airmen arrived, a second camp was established. Seventy was considered the maximum number that the first camp could accommodate. Big John set up the second camp about thirteen kilometres away, still in Fréteval forest. He became its commander but visited the first camp frequently. Soon there were 152 aircrew evaders in the two camps, hiding under the noses of the Germans and hoping that Allied troops would reach them before the Germans did.
The original camp was expected to be discovered within a month, at most. Before then, it was hoped, the Allied armies would have liberated the area. However, with the Allied advance held up around Caen, liberation was well behind schedule and time was running out. Finally, on 11 August, a British armoured column appeared in a nearby field, and the camp residents received the joyful news that they would be picked up the next day. A wild celebration began. ‘We all broke camp and went to a nearby village and had a drink of wine with the locals who were also celebrating their liberation,’ Noel said.
In the event, it was another three days before jeeps, cars and civilian buses arrived to clear the camp. Noel was relieved that the hiding was finally over. ‘So without any backward glances, we picked up our few—very few—personal possessions, boarded the buses and chugged off to Le Mans.’ That night they stayed at a POW camp where scores of Germans were now behind barbed wire. It gave Noel ‘a rather strange feeling to see for the first time men caged up like animals’.
Next morning they set off again, passing through Caen, which had been devastated by the fighting and bombing. As they drove towards the coast, Noel saw a seemingly endless stream of military equipment going the other way: guns, tanks, trucks and other vehicles, many loaded with troops. ‘As we passed all these machines of war and troops going towards the front, the Americans with us kept up a mindless chant of “Give them hell, boys”!’ Arriving in Bayeux, about ten kilometres from the Channel coast, they were issued with army battledress and interrogated. Later, Noel and his mates looked around the town. ‘As we expected the francs we had on us [were] to be taken from us when we arrived back in England, [so] we bought anything we could with them, regardless of the price. There was hardly anything in the shops to buy, my purchases being two wallets,’ he said. On 18 August they were driven to Banville airfield, loaded onto a Dakota transport plane and flown to England.
After landing we were taken into a building at the airport where there was a man from Air Ministry with a Gladstone bag full of money which he exchanged for our French francs, much to our surprise and delight as the francs had only been on issue to us in the first place. I was sorry I had spent those francs in Bayeux. He also asked what valuables we had lost since being shot down and the value thereof. I was astonished by the number who had lost expensive gold watches.
Noel immediately sent cables to his parents and ‘that lass in Sydney’—Enid Stumbles—to say he was back safe and well. He stayed in London for a few days being interrogated by MI9 and having a medical examination. RAAF headquarters in London decided to send him back to Australia, and on 24 October 1944, he left on the Mauretania for home. Noel was one of eleven Australian evaders freed from the Fréteval forest camp as the Allies consolidated their grip on northern France.
31
SHOT DOWN
Nearing the end of his tour, Bill McGowen returned from leave to 467 Squadron anxious about his next ops. First up was a 378-bomber raid to Culmont-Chalindrey, a railway hub near the French-Italian border. On 18 July, Bill and his crew joined a daylight attack on the Normandy battle area, near Caen. Their task was to bomb an area known to contain enemy defensive and HQ locations that lay a few kilometres ahead of advancing British troops. As their Lancaster neared the target, a Lancaster above them opened up its bomb-bay doors. Alarmed, navigator Mark Edgerley yelled out that it was about to drop its load right on top of them. But it was too late. One 1000-pound bomb fell right alongside the fuselage, between the mainplane and tail plane, and the others missed by a wider margin. Bill knew they had been unbelievably lucky. ‘It was too close a shave and we would have liked to find out who the stupid bastard was.’
Back at the base, the crew were told they would be flying again that night, to hit the oil storage tanks at Revigny, about 200 kilometres east of Paris. It would be their twenty-eighth op. Worryingly, 1 Group and 3 Group had made unsuccessful raids on the previous two nights. The Germans would certainly be prepared for a third raid. Take-off time was 2256 hours. Bill McGowen had the ‘horrible feeling’ that this time they would be lucky to get back. ‘It had been said that a lot of aircrew could feel when their time was up. Shortly after take off I panicked when I thought that I had forgotten my parachute. I hastily checked, but there it was. I clipped it on my chest straight away because the feeling that I would need it was still there.’
For only the second time on his tour, Bill felt real fear. As they crossed the French coast near the invasion area, the action started immediately. German aircraft above them dropped flares that lit up the sky like daylight. Fighters shot down the first Lancaster in flames, and more bombers were attacked and set on fire. Bill logged five shot down in less than five minutes. On the approach to the target, aircraft were still being shot down all over the place.
A Lancaster on our starboard and about one hundred yards away was attacked and set on fire. For a few seconds there was a sheet of flame from his engine and then darkness. His fire extinguishers had worked and the fire put out. We all gave a cheer. I sat back on the Glycol tank and started pushing out Window through the chute. That moment the 30mm cannon shells smashed into us from the rear to the front underneath. The noise was terrific and heart-stopping. My front turret disappeared in a burst of fire and I could feel the jar of explosions in the bomb bay. I looked through the inspection panel to see that it was on fire. The port wing was also on fire. Tom [Davies, the pilot] pressed the fire extinguishers and feathered the port inner engine. No good, the flames were getting larger.
The crew reported in turn to Tom they were OK, but there was no reply from Col Allen, the rear gunner. Wireless operator ‘Ned’ Kelly was told to check and found Col slumped over his guns. The turret was wrecked and Col was obviously dead. Despite the initial shock of the attack, Bill was calm. Tom Davies called over the intercom that the fire was out of control. Soon after, he uttered the words all of the crew feared hearing: ‘Emergency! Emergency! Jump! Jump!’ These were the last words Bill ever heard from Tom as he made for the escape hatch in his compartment. He pulled the ring cable to release the hatch but it jammed.
I pushed down on it as hard as I could, panic helping give me extra strength. I’m sure I tore metal as I pushed it free. Straddling the hatch prepared to jump, I checked my parachute, helmet undone, and revolver secure. There was a momentary hesitation as I looked into the black hole, but the roar of the flames gave me an added incentive to jump. My hand on the ripcord I did a rolling dive into the darkness. I was floating free, quite a pleasant feeling really. I caught a fleeting glimpse of our aircraft and marvelled that it was still flying.
Bill counted to ten and pulled the ripcord. For a split second nothing happened. Just as he wondered if the parachute was going to open, it billowed out of its bag with a loud crack and almost cut him in half.
My helmet was torn off almost
taking my ears with it; my gun fell out of my blouse giving me a crack on the head. Swaying in the chute I tried to orientate myself. The noise was fantastic, bombs going off, cannon fire from the fighters and the place lit up like a Christmas tree. I could see by the light of the flames that I was falling straight towards what I thought was a river. I tried to steer away from it by pulling one side of the harness, but too much air spilled out of my chute and it started to oscillate badly. I gave that away and just waited to see what would happen. My only thoughts were that I would be in France any second and what were my Mother and Father going to think.
The river disappeared and before he could prepare for it, Bill hit the ground. He stood up on a bitumen road in the middle of a pine forest. The sky was now clear of aircraft except for a lone fighter that Bill thought must be firing at phantoms. It was now about 0230 hours. In the darkness, Bill lit a cigarette, sat down and thought about what he was going to do. After several cigarettes he hid his parachute beneath some bushes on the roadside and threw away his revolver. For some reason that he later could not fathom, he also buried his wallet, which contained £40. Despite a painful back from the rough landing, he started walking. Three hours later, he came to a small village. It was almost dawn, and he could see people peering through the curtains. However, nobody came outside.
Bill ripped off his stripes and wings, tore the tops off his flying boots and tossed them all into the roadside undergrowth. Pulling his forage cap from inside his blouse, he put it on. Still hungry, he got out his escape kit, ate a few malted-milk tablets and sucked condensed milk from a small tube. As the sun rose, an old Frenchman came towards him on a bike. They exchanged quick Bonjours each and the man rode off. Shortly afterwards, a German truck full of troops rolled up. Bill’s heart sank, as there was no time to run and no cover on either side of the road. ‘I waited for it to slow down and thought that my escape plans were going to be short lived. To my complete surprise it didn’t slow down, but as it passed I got a cheery wave from the soldiers in the back of the truck. I waved back still hoping they thought the uniform was German. I had some trouble after [that] as some of the French thought the same thing.’
After walking for six hours and by now tired and thirsty, Bill saw a bridge over a canal near a village that looked like a good place for a rest and a smoke. As he approached it, an old man came along and they exchanged Bonjours. The man was about to continue on his way when Bill put a hand on his shoulder and said he was RAF. Startled, the Frenchman grabbed Bill’s hand and pulled him under the bridge, telling him to stay there. Fifteen minutes later, he returned with a party of six local men. They tried to question Bill in French, but communication was difficult. Bill spoke some schoolboy French, but his accent did not help. They resorted to sign language. ‘I drew a map of Australia in the dirt to explain where I came from. Fortunately for me they got the message and took me to a nearby cottage.’
The owners fed Bill and, after forty-eight hours without rest, he soon fell asleep. He awoke to see a huddle of villagers standing and watching him. ‘I felt like a Martian, they watched and commented on everything I did. Wine was produced and soon a little party was in progress.’ Bill was told that later that afternoon, after work finished in the vineyards, he would be moved. A utility truck with a canvas back cover duly arrived, towing a huge gas producer in a separate trailer. ‘Quick introductions and we were on our way. These guys were taking an enormous risk and would have faced the death penalty if the Germans stopped us.’
They arrived safely at a larger village, where Bill was bundled out of the truck and told to pretend he was drunk. He was half carried a short distance to the house of Jean Perard, who was told that Bill was RAF and had to be hidden. A hurried conference followed. ‘From what I could understand, I was the last person he wanted anything to do with,’ Bill recalled. But as Monsieur Perard was a member of the Resistance, he was duty bound to take Bill in.
For a time Bill felt like the uninvited guest at a wedding. ‘Things were rather cool between us after the initial shock. It was when I said, in French, that I was an Australian and my father had fought in France in 1915, that their attitude changed—‘Australie! Australie!’ said Jean. ‘Et vous parlez Français?’ They could not get over the fact that we had come so far to help them and that I could speak a little French.’
The Perard family sheltered Bill for more than two weeks. When increased German patrols to their village made the location too risky, Bill was taken to an old farmhouse. A surprise awaited: his crewmates Mark Edgerley and ‘Ned’ Kelly were there.
After hiding there for a couple more weeks with a mounting sense of danger, they made a break across an open field to thick woods, where they hid for two days. They had little food, and when they heard shots being fired nearby they made another dash for cover. Eventually they were picked up by an American patrol en route to Paris. On the way, the three Australians joined the Americans in searching deserted farmhouses for any remaining German soldiers. Entering each building was a terrifying experience, as no one knew what the consequences would be.
In early September, Bill, Mark and Ned arrived in Paris, where they remained for two days before being flown to England. For Mark Edgerley, being on English soil again held a special meaning. For the previous two months his girlfriend, Joyce, whom he had met in Bournemouth shortly after his arrival in England, had waited anxiously to hear any news of him. With no information, she had begun to think she would never see him again. Mark immediately contacted Joyce’s aunt in London to let her know he was safe. She sent a telegram to Joyce telling her to ‘Come quickly!’ ‘I got the next train from Epsom and went to my grandparents’ flat and there he was, wearing an American Army battledress jacket and civilian pants! It was overwhelming to have him back safely and we all went to celebrate at the local pub.’
Bill McGowen sailed for the United States, en route to Australia. He celebrated his twenty-first birthday on board. He had become one of 2803 Allied airmen who were helped to escape or evade capture, by French Resistance groups.
In October 1945, Mark and Joyce were married. Shortly afterwards, Mark was sent back to Australia and seven months later, Joyce boarded a ‘bride ship’, the Stirling Castle, to sail to her husband and her new home.
32
THE STRAIN OF COMMAND
Amid the pressures of leading skilled young men on the ground and in the air at the age of twenty-four, Rollo Kingsford-Smith took himself ‘a bit seriously’. On his own admission, he was ‘a very proper commander’ and ‘a bit of a disciplinarian’. Rollo rightly believed that if a crew were not disciplined in the air, ‘they wouldn’t live very long’. In badly disciplined squadrons, ‘you’d find them turning back, dropping half their bomb load before they got to the target, so they could [fly] higher’. He was determined this would not happen under him.
Survival depended on self-control, and this began on the ground. Though Rollo knew he imposed more discipline than some airmen liked, ‘I decided they should start to get used to a tighter hand whenever they were on duty. This made me a right bastard in some quarters, but I preferred they complain about me instead of their aircraft or their operational duties.’
Bill Purdy heard the complaining first hand when he joined 463 Squadron. He thought Rollo was a very good commander, who ‘got the squadron going very well’, but he was also probably the most unpopular CO they ever had . . . He tried to improve discipline by making people salute. Most did not like it, but they softened him up after three or four months.’
The responsibilities of leadership weighed heavily on Rollo’s mind. He realised there was a fine line between tight discipline and high morale. Inevitably, when his men had time on their hands, youthful exuberance could push the boundaries. ‘That’s when their high spirits gave me problems,’ Rollo said. ‘Some of the more silly ones would throw a Very [flare] cartridge into the fire. A Very cartridge filled the whole room with a brilliant colour plus smoke. They really were a handful, but the problems wer
en’t serious.’
While he had to give priority to his wide range of ground duties, Rollo was also conscious that to keep up the men’s spirit in the face of mounting losses, he needed to go on operations as often as possible. This was particularly so on the more difficult 463 Squadron raids, such as to Berlin. Fortunately, Rollo’s adjutant, Flight Lieutenant Bill Hodge, whom he knew from his Richmond days, was able to keep an eye on the administration work, enabling him to fly reasonably often. Rollo was careful to avoid the tendency of some COs to pick the best plane in the squadron as their own, thus ensuring that it received special attention from the ground staff. He regarded this as unfair to other crews who had to face the same enemy. Instead, he took whatever spare aircraft the flight commanders made available—usually a Lancaster belonging to a crew on leave or sick.
He never got used to hearing that a man under his command had been killed. ‘I always felt guilty. I felt maybe I haven’t trained them properly, I’ve picked the wrong crews, the briefing’s been wrong.’ It was his duty to write to the bereaved families. ‘I wrote personal letters of condolence to the next of kin of each squadron member who was lost, trying to say something about each man. Even when I knew the men the letters were difficult, but much harder when they were lost within a day or so of reporting for duty.’
The psychological impact on Rollo was immense. ‘The only way I could cope if I wasn’t working or flying was to get in the bar and get boozed . . . The only times I ever could relax, I’d borrow my flight engineer’s jacket and I’d go into Nottingham as a sergeant and I could really enjoy myself,’ he recalled.
Once back at the station, he had to become the strict commanding officer again. This was the side of Rollo that Alick Roberts saw. Rollo had just been appointed Chief Instructor and Commanding Officer of 1654 Heavy Conversion Unit, a large training school at Wigsley, Nottinghamshire, that prepared airmen for Bomber Command operations. The unit was in 5 Group and located not far from Waddington.
