Re-discovering my father through his World War II Bomber Command and PoW experiences. Indertijd had ik niet kunnen bedenken dat het posten van een verhaal van mijn vader over een vliegtuig dat tijdens de Tweede Wereldoorlog een ‘wheels-up landing’ bij Zandeweer had gemaakt het een en ander los zou maken. Destijds werd ik aangemoedigd door Jan Pentinga (zelf ook een oud-inwoner van Zandeweer) om mijn analyse van het gebeuren dat mijn vader had gezien iets bij te schaven. Die post werd vervolgens weer aangevuld door Ties Groenewold, wiens informatie een nauwkeuriger bepaling van de landingsplaats van de Halifax III NP bommenwerper – de HX333 NP ‘Jane’ – mogelijk maakte. Ties Groenewold was zeker van zijn zaak, hij had een paar jaar terug met een metaaldetector sporen van het desbetreffende vliegtuig gevonden. Ik was blij en tevreden. Ik had tientallen jaren terug m’n vader een keer gevraagd of hij zich dingen van de Tweede Wereldoorlog kon herinneren. M’n vader werd geboren in 1929. Toen de Tweede Wereldoorlog begon was hij net een paar maanden 11 jaar oud; toen de oorlog eindigde was hij net 16 jaar oud geworden. Pa vertelde me over een vliegtuig dat min of meer intact een noodlanding had gemaakt in Zandeweer, min op meer op loopafstand en goed zichtbaar vanuit het huis waar hij destijds woonde met zijn ouders (mijn opa en oma Vogel).

Op 18 april 2024 verscheen voor het eerst een post over de ‘wheels up landing’ over de bommenwerper die op eind januari 1945 bij Zandeweer aan de grond werd gezet. De post is HIER te lezen. Op 3 mei 2024 verscheen opnieuw een post over dit gebeuren, die post bevatte extra informatie en is HIER te lezen. In beide gevallen wordt een nieuw tabblad geopend.

Van Ties Groenewold verscheen in 2023 het boek Rottumer Oorlog. Ik heb het destijds aangeschaft vanwege de relatie met Rottumeroog, het eiland dat ik enkele keren heb bezocht en dat naast Rottumerplaat ligt, de plek waar mijn vader in het begin van de jaren vijftig van de vorige eeuw werkzaamheden voor Rijkswaterstaat heeft verricht. Op bladzijde 131 van dit boek las ik (tot mijn grote verwondering) over de jeugdherinnering waar mijn vader me over vertelde. Het boek van Ties Groenewold was de directe aanleiding voor het schrijven van de eerste post over het vliegtuig bij Zandeweer. Toen ik las hoe Ties Groenewold een en ander had beschreven herinnerde ik me het kleine korte gesprekje met mijn vader over dit onderwerp…
Halifax Mk111 HX333 NP-J van het 158e Squadron Flight op weg voor een operatie boven Berlijn. Ik vond deze afbeelding van een schilderij van het daadwerkelijke vliegtuig dat mijn vader heeft gezien op het Internet. Ergens las ik dat een evolutie van het voorgaande model was. Geen wonder dat de Duitse militairen niemand bij het vrijwel intacte vliegtuig in Zandeweer wilden hebben. Het was voor hen waarschijnlijk een zeer interessante buit…

Langere tijd dacht ik dat ik daarmee alle aspecten van m’n vaders herinnering beschreven zou hebben, ware het niet dat ik op een goede dag in oktober ‘24 een reactie van Mark Cote vanuit Canada op één van de posts over deze kwestie kreeg. Indertijd, in 1945, hadden alle bemanningsleden de ‘wheels up’ landing bij Zandeweer overleefd. Alle zeven bemanningsleden waren uiteindelijk in Duitse handen gevallen en werden krijgsgevangen gemaakt. Pas na de oorlog kwamen ze vrij. Leonard ‘Len’ Cote, de staartschutter van de bewuste bommenwerper was de vader van Mark Cote. Leonard ‘Len’ Cote kwam vrij toen er tegen het einde van de Tweede Wereldoorlog een gevangenenruil plaats vond en keerde terug naar de stad Regina in de staat Saskatchewan in Canada. Mark’s vader overleed toen Mark nog maar acht jaar oud was. Toen Mark Cote wat ouder werd heeft hij geprobeerd om het leven van zijn vader en de avonturen die zijn vader had beleefd te reconstrueren, dit resulteerde uiteindelijk in een boek onder de titel ‘That lucky old son’. Zoals zoveel mannen die gevochten hadden in de Tweede Wereldoorlog vond ook Mark Cote’s vader het lastig om over zijn belevenissen te praten. Dankzij veel archief- en speurwerk is Mark Cote er in geslaagd om een behoorlijk compleet beeld van de belevenissen van zijn vader te schetsen.

January 28-29, 1945 – Bomber Command returned to Berlin again with 673 bombers and 3 Mosquitos which made a heavy attack through broken cloud. Previous diversions of 67 Gardening sorties off Germany and an attack by Mosquitos on Berlin several hours before the main attack, as well as other diversions and bombing of night fighter airfields had an effect, but night fighters found the bomber stream over Berlin. This combined with adverse unforecast winds led to the loss of 46 bombers, plus 2 Gardening and 1 Serrate aircraft (Gardening aircraft = vliegtuigen die, zeer laag vliegend, zeemijnen leggen; Serrate aircraft = vliegtuigen die uitgerust waren om de Duitse radar te detecteren en te bepalen waar die zich bevond). 158 Sqn. Halifax III HX333 NP-J ‘Jane’ was badly damaged over the target by flak and came down in Holland, P/O D. Rosenthal, Sgt C.N. Durdin, WO2 L.E.J. Cote, F/S D.A. Robinson RAF, Sgt D.A. Wilkinson RAF, Sgt L.A. Cardall RAF, F/O S.E. Chapman RAF and Sgt G.E. Hale RAF PoW.

Ik had thuis al eens aangegeven dat ik het boek van Mark Cote wel eens een keer zou willen lezen en suggereerde dat het wellicht een aardig cadeautje voor m’n verjaardag zou zijn. Mijn huisgenoten hadden daar echter iets andere ideeën bij. Niet erg, want mijn ‘plan B’ was om in dat geval zelf op zoek te gaan naar het boek (ik had al gezien dat het via Amazon aan te schaffen was). Het aardige was dat Mark Cote mij aanbood me het boek toe te zenden omdat ik op mijn manier ook aandacht aan de avonturen en belevenissen van zijn vader had gegeven. Ik hoefde alleen maar een adres te geven waar het boek naar toe gezonden zou kunnen worden – dat was het begin van een mooie mailwisseling. Weken later kreeg ik op het adres waar ik werk (op de een of andere manier had ik dat adres opgegeven) het boek bezorgd, voorzien van vriendelijke woorden en een handtekening van de schrijver. Ik vermoed dat het boek daar een tijdje in de brievenbus heeft gelegen, zo vaak wordt er niet gecontroleerd of er brieven in de brievenbus bij ons gebouw liggen…

Waar ik echt een beetje van ondersteboven was, was het feit dat er een verzegeld Canadees muntje van $ 0,25 was bijgevoegd voorzien van twee mooie rode ‘poppies’ (= rode klaprozen). In de Angelsaksische landen is de ‘poppie’ het symbool van de gevallenen tijdens de Eerste en Tweede Wereldoorlog en degenen die na de Tweede Wereldoorlog zijn gevallen. Dit specifieke Canadese muntje van $ 0,25 werd uitgegeven in 2010 omdat het toen 65 jaar geleden was dat de Tweede Wereldoorlog eindigde. Of, zoals ik ergens las: For all Canadians, the poppy is a poignant symbol of remembrance. By remembering the sacrifices they’ve made, we’re really saying ‘Thank you’. This Remembrance Day, honour every veteran and current Canadian Forces member by treasuring the Royal Canadian Mint’s new commemorative 25-cent Poppy circulation coin.

In Flanders Fields is een oorlogsgedicht geschreven tijdens de Eerste Wereldoorlog door de Canadese militaire arts en dichter John McCrae. De definitieve versie verscheen op 8 december 1915 in het weekblad Punch. Het beeld van klaprozen in Vlaamse velden uit het gedicht ligt aan de basis van de remembrance poppy als eerbewijs aan de gevallenen van het Brits Gemenebest. McCrae vocht aan het front als legerarts en majoor van de Canadian Expeditionary Force, onderdeel van het Britse leger. Hij schreef het gedicht terwijl hij in mei 1915 de geallieerde posities verdedigde in de Tweede Slag om Ieper. Het was een van de eerste offensieven die de Duitsers lieten voorafgaan door gifgas. Toen zijn vriend Alexis Helmer door een granaat werd gedood, leidde McCrae zelf de uitvaartdienst. Volgens sergeant-majoor Cyril Allinson schreef hij het werk de dag nadien in het Advanced Dressing Station bij Ieper, zittend op de tredplank van een ziekenwagen en met een oog op het graf van Helmer in het aangroeiende Essex Farm Cemetery. Op de plek van die hulppost is later de Kanaalsite John McCrae ingericht. Het gedicht was geliefd bij soldaten, die het vaak uit het hoofd leerden of opnamen in brieven naar huis. Hij stierf op 28 januari 1918 aan een combinatie van longontsteking en hersenvliesontsteking, toen hij aan het hoofd stond van het N° 3 Canadian General Hospital in Boulogne. Hij werd 45 jaar oud. Hij ligt begraven op de begraafplaats van Wimereux (Pas-de-Calais, Frankrijk).
In één van zijn mails haalde Mark Cote deze twee regels aan: ‘To you from failing hands we throw / The torch; be yours to hold it high’. Het was eenvoudig om te herleiden uit welk gedicht deze twee dichtregels afkomstig zijn. Ik vond een MP3 van Leonard Cohen (ook een Canadees) die het gedicht voorleest…

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

John McCrae, Boezinge (Ieper), 1915

Klaprozen (poppies) bloeien als andere planten in de buurt dood zijn. Klaprozenzaden kunnen jarenlang op de grond liggen en pas beginnen te groeien als de nabije planten en struiken weg zijn, bijvoorbeeld als de grond werd omgewoeld en vervuild. De meeste klaprozen zijn altijd waar te nemen op plekken waar slooppuin in de grond ligt. De klaproos is namelijk een pionier soort. Natuurlijk was de grond rond de loopgraven in de Eerste Wereldoorlog grondig ‘omgespit’ en besmet door de gevechten en bombardementen. McCrae moet dan ook honderden klaprozen hebben zien bloeien toen hij in 1915 het gedicht schreef. Maar de klaproos heeft nog een andere betekenis in In Flanders fields. Sommige klaprozen, die gerekend worden tot de papavers, worden gebruikt om opium en morfine van te maken; morfine is een sterk verdovend middel dat vaak werd gebruikt om de pijn van gewonde soldaten te stillen – soms voor eeuwig. De laatste verzen We shall not sleep, though poppies grow / In Flanders fields duiden op de verdovende werking van morfine. Daarbij is de aanblik van de bloem vervuld van symboliek: niet alleen zijn de blaadjes rood als het bloed van de gevallenen, en is het binnenste zwart, kleur van rouw, in het hart van de bloem is ook een kruisvorm te zien, christelijk symbool van lijden en verlossing bij uitstek. Daarnaast is de connectie tussen oorlog, Vlaanderen en klaprozen ouder dan het gedicht van McCrae. Al in 1694 schreef James Drummond, 4e graaf van Perth, toen hij een jaar na de slag bij Neerwinden over het slagveld reed in een brief aan zijn zus: ‘The ground that’s cultivated has two stalks of that popie which you call cock-poses for one of grain; and where it is lying untilled a scarlet sheet is not of a deeper dye nor seems more smooth than all the ground is with those flowers, as if last year’s blood has taken root and appeared this year in flowers’.

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Ondertussen heb ik het boek gelezen. Ik moet bekennen dat ik het in amper twee dagen uit had. Waarom zo snel? Ik constateerde dat het – nadat ik eenmaal was begonnen met lezen – erg moeilijk was om het boek weg te leggen. Mark Cote heeft bedacht om het boek ‘That lucky old son’ te noemen. Het was aandoenlijk om te lezen dat deze titel is ontleend aan het, samen met zijn vader, luisteren naar een uitvoering van de song ‘That lucky old sun’ door de Franse groep Les compagnons de le chanson. Oorspronkelijk was de song trouwens geschreven door Frankie Laine, die had er ook een hit mee. De kleine Mark Cote had goed geluisterd, maar in plaats van ‘sun’ had hij ‘son’ verstaan. Deze kleine luisterfout (die overigens héél goed uitpakte) zet wat mij betreft de toon voor het boek.

This a cappella performance of Frankie Laine’s 1949 hit first appeared in British record stores in 1950, backed by the French group’s famous English-language version of ‘The Three Bells’ (which they had previously introduced on a 1946 recording with Edith Piaf). The same two-song pairing was also eventually issued in America on a red label U.S. Columbia, but it was ‘The Three Bells’ side that started up the charts in late 1951 and was reissued soon after (Columbia 39657) with a different flipside replacing ‘That Lucky Old Sun’.

Met veel liefde en respect voor zijn vader schreef Mark Cote zijn boek. Toen Mark Cote acht jaar oud was overleed zijn vader. In de nadagen van de Tweede Wereldoorlog werd Leonard Cote krijgsgevangen gemaakt nadat hij met zijn parachute uit de aangeschoten Halifax III bommenwerper gesprongen was. ‘Len’ Cote was de staartschutter van het vliegtuig en was tijdens de beschieting gewond geraakt. Uiteindelijk werden alle zeven bemanningsleden door Duitse militairen krijgsgevangen gemaakt. De periode van krijgsgevangene zijn had levenslange gevolgen voor Leonard Cote. Hij mocht uiteindelijk als gevolg van een gevangenenruil terug naar Canada, maar werd lichamelijk nooit meer de oude.

Ook deze foto van Leonard ‘Len’ Cote vond ik op het Internet. Ik heb de foto ingekleurd met behulp van de software van My Heritage en de foto ook iets bijgesneden. Pas nu ik met deze post aan de slag ben realiseer ik me hoe jong deze man destijds geweest moet zijn…

Hoofdstukken waarin Mark Cote terugkijkt naar het gezin waarin hij opgroeide worden afgewisseld met hoofdstukken waarin zijn vader (in de jaren dat hij als Canadees militair functioneerde in het Britse Bomber Command) te maken krijgt met zijn opleiding, en met de rol die hij uiteindelijk binnen het Bomber Command kreeg. Je leest op bijna laconieke wijze over bemanningen die de status ‘FTR’ (= Failed to return’) kregen en hoe de resterende bemanning verder (moeten) gaan met de strijd.

Ik vond het een boek dat mij ‘op de huid’ ging zitten. Zo boek dat je af en toe eventjes (maar niet al te lang, want dat wil niet) weg legt om over na te denken over datgene wat je net hebt gelezen. Ja, ik dacht af en toe wel even van ‘nu leg ik het boek eerst weg en dan ga ik morgen wel verder’. Dat ging echter niet.

Het boek was wat mij betreft een eyeopener voor wat betreft de manier waarop jonge mannen die zicht destijds als vrijwilliger aan hadden gemeld veranderden in doorgewinterde militairen en toch desondanks hun eigen menselijkheid overeind probeerden te houden. Ik kan me goed voorstellen dat de vader van Mark Cote liever niet in detail vertelde wat hij allemaal beleefd en ervaren had. Wie zou het hebben kunnen begrijpen? Ik heb, vooral tussen de regels door, kunnen lezen over de passie en het geduld waarmee Mark Cote het verhaal van zijn vader ‘vlees op de botten’ heeft gegeven en hoe daarmee zijn vader veranderde van een man waar hij niet zo veel van heeft geweten in een man waarover hij met veel liefde en respect een prachtig boek heeft geschreven. Heel erg aanbevolen dus.

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Het boek van Mark Cote gaat niet specifiek in op datgene wat er gebeurde nadat de Halifax III bommenwerper z’n ‘wheels up landing’ (ik denk dat dat het zelfde is als een buiklanding) maakte bij Zandeweer. Logisch ook, want toen het vliegtuig bij Zandeweer aan de grond werd gezet was er naast de piloot nog slechts één ander bemanningslid aan boord. De overige bemanningsleden hadden eerder het vliegtuig met hun parachutes verlaten. Eerder schreef ik dat de 1e piloot Douglas ‘Robbie’ Robinson en de boordwerktuigkundige Lesley ‘Les’ Cardall samen nog maar één functionele parachute hadden. Na enige onderlinge discussie werd besloten dat beide mannen samen het vliegtuig aan de grond zouden zetten. In 1997 verscheen een boekje van de 1e piloot onder de titel ‘Life is a great adventure’. Hoofstuk 7 van dat boek gaat specifiek over de ‘wheels up landing’ bij Zandeweer. Mark Cote was zo vriendelijk mij een PDF van dit hoofdstuk te mailen. Ik heb het hoofdstuk overgetikt en hieronder geplaatst.

Douglas was in the Local Defence Volunteers before joining the Royal Air Force as a pilot. After RAF Babbacombe, he did initial training at RAF Scarborough and then in Rhodesia. Initial flight training in Harare on Tiger Moths was followed by service training on Oxfords at Bulawayo. Douglas had an eventful passage home when his troop ship, the Oronsay, was torpedoed by Italian submarine Archimede and he spent eight days in a lifeboat. After returning to the UK, Douglas went to an Operational Training Unit to get crewed up, initially at RAF Wymeswold and then RAF Castle Donington on Wellingtons. He went to RAF Marston Moor and on to 158 Squadron at RAF Lissett on Halifaxes where he describes an encounter with Group Captain Leonard Cheshire. Douglas relates how a rear gunner refused to fly and was court martialled. Douglas flew three operations to Berlin and, on the third, took a direct hit. After most of the crew baled, he managed to land in the Netherlands before being taken prisoner. Stalag Luft VI, on the border of East Prussia and Lithuania, was followed by Stalag Luft IV after the Russians approached. For three months Douglas was part of the Long March before being rescued by the 6th Airborne Division and flown back home. Douglas stayed on for three years after the war. He was posted to RAF Wing and went up to RAF Cosford as a flying officer. He attended a Lancaster Conversion Unit and flew Lancasters. He finished his RAF career at a development squadron at the Central Signals Establishment. He recalls flying a Lancaster at the first Biggin Hill Air Show in front of Winston Churchill.

Chapter 7. Although I had been flying the previous night I was up in good time on the 28th of January, because we were going on leave. Paddy, being a Southern Irishman, had in fact already gone on leave as he was granted two or three days’ extra time for travelling. I suppose this could hardly be refused as, if he had not come back from leave, nothing could have been done about it. Our leave was due to start after duty on the 28th, but as I was confident that we would not be required to fly, I packed my case and dressed in my best uniform. Lissett being a dispersed airfield, our living site was a mile or more from the mess and the flight office. I telephoned the Flight Commander to see whether we would be needed that day. Two crews from the night were going on leave and the Flight Commander told me that one would be required to act as reserve crew while the other was needed to do an exercise with the ground defense over the Humber Estuary that night. He therefore suggested that we tossed up to see who should have the choice. I won the toss and, as I assumed the reserve crew would be released before the crew that was to do the exercise over the Humber, I chose to be the reserve crew.

I carried my case down the mess and in the early afternoon we attended a briefing, confident in the knowledge that we were not likely to be required. The target was again Berlin, and take-off time was set for the early evening. Before the time came for the crews to go out to the aircraft, the take-off time was postponed by an hour or so. When this happened for the second time, everybody was confident that the operation would be cancelled, as was usually the outcome of repeated postponements. During the evening one of the crews was withdrawn, due to sickness among its members. Efforts were made to put in substitutes, but either the substitutes would not fly with the crew concerned, or the crew concerned would not fly with the substitutes. An impasse was reached and we were told that we would have to fly. Slim Durdin was nominated as mid-upper gunner in Paddy’s place. We were also carrying a second pilot, Sergeant Doug Wilkinson. We went out to the aircraft at about midnight and stood around waiting for the cancellation signal, which we were certain would eventually come, to allow us to go off on our leave. However, it didn’t come and we eventually took off at forty-three minutes past midnight. Dave Rosenthall and Len Coté had both flown over 20 operations and were nearly at the end of their tour. At the other end of the scale, Doug Wilkinson was on his first operation and Charles Durdin was on his third. The remainder of us were on the second half of our tours. Of the 14 squadron aircraft detailed to take part in the attack two failed to take off and three returned early, which left nine of us to attack the target. The journey over the North Sea and across Denmark was fairly uneventful, although there was high cloud and danger of icing.

Douglas ‘Robbie’ Robinson in september 2016.

The target was partly obscured by cloud, but we were able to see the markers and went in for our bombing run. Stan gave me the necessary corrections and told me when to open the bomb doors. He had just said, ‘Bombs gone’, when there was a blinding flash and a terrific bang immediately under the aircraft. The nose started to go up alarmingly and I tried to counteract this by pushing the stick forward as hard as I could. Although I had the stick hard forward, and trimmed hard forward, the nose continued to rise and I realized we were out of control. I then tried to call the crew to tell them to prepare to bail out, but discovered that the intercom was dead. Close to panic, I now realized that I had to get the aircraft under control in order to give the crew a chance to get out. I think fear gave me more strength, and I managed to push the control column so far forward that it almost touched the instrument panel. I did at last succeed in stopping the nose rising and, although we must have been close to the point of stall, managed to get some sort of control. Dave gave me a course to steer and we turned onto it. I then found that I could hold the control column by wedging it with the lower part of my leg. This I did by placing my heels under me on the seat and wedging my knees against the column. I signaled to Doug Wilkinson to put his left leg across me and to push the control column as hard as he could, which he did. Having got a modicum of control, I now debated in my own mind whether I should make for Sweden, but unwisely decided to attempt to get home.

About this time someone came and told me that Len Coté had leg injuries and that his turret was unserviceable and unsafe. I told them to get Len out of the turret and into the rest position, so we were now largely undefended.

We flew for four hours or more in this situation. Fortunately we were not attacked and saw very little in the way of ground defense. However, we were unfortunate enough to have a wind of over 100 miles an hour against us that night, and by flying in such a nose-up attitude our ground speed was considerably reduced. My legs, doubled up underneath me, were beginning to feel the strain and I frequently exhorted Doug Wilkinson to push even harder with his leg in order to keep us above stalling speed.

We had been gradually losing height, but after something like four hours’ flying from the target we reached the Dutch coast. I now had to decide whether to go on. Les told me that our fuel situation was getting low and it was obvious that, at the speed we were making across the ground, we would never manage to cross the North Sea. Even if we dis manage to get half-way across, which seemed unlikely, it would be virtually impossible to make a successful ditching with an aircraft in the state that ours was. I therefore reluctantly decided that the crew should bail out. We were by this time at about 6,000 feet, and a light flak battery now opened up on us. It was fairly successful, scoring  a few near misses and one or two hits. I then remembered that we had the enemy recognition signal loaded in our Very pistol and I ordered it to be fired. I then ordered the crew to bail out. As we had no intercom, the order was passed from man to man by word of mouth. George sent a message on the wireless saying: ‘Bailing out over Holland’ in plain language, and this was received at base. As they passed me, several of the crew slapped me on the shoulder or held up their thumbs and then went down to jump. The pilot and engineer’s parachute packs were stowed together, and part of the bailing-out drill was that the Flight Engineer brought the pilot’s pack to him. When Les went back to get our parachutes he found that his had been severely damaged by the flak. I had no alternative, therefore, but to tell him to take mine and that I would then attempt a wheel-up landing. Les said he didn’t want to bail out but wished to stay and help me with the landing. I twice more ordered him to bail out, and each time he begged to be allowed to stay. Eventually I agreed, and told him to close the escape hatch when the others had gone. Having done this, he went back to the rest position to brace himself for the impact of the landing. By this time I had brought the aircraft down quite low and, although it was still not daylight, I could make out the shape of the fields below. The damage to the aircraft meant that only shallow turns could be attempted, and I was also loath to lower the flaps in case they were in any way damaged. I therefore flew along hoping to cross a large field diagonally and after a reasonable short time was successful in seeing one ahead. There were no trees or hedges or other impediments and I was able to cross the boundary of the field very low and cut the engines. I immediately touched down and slithered quite quickly to a stop in the muddy field. As soon as we stopped I went back to find out how Les was. For some reason he had been standing when we touched down, and was unaware of the fact that we had landed. I opened the upper escape hatch and we now searched for the incendiary cartridge with which we intended to set fire to the aircraft. Unfortunately we couldn’t find it, so we piled charts and maps into a heap and tried to start a fire. We then went out of the aircraft and looked at the damage. The elevator trims had been largely destroyed, as had large parts of the elevators, rudder and fins, and most of the underside of the rear turret was missing, with the turret itself damaged. Suddenly Les said to me: ‘There’s someone there with a gun’. I looked round the other side of the aircraft and in the darkness could see a figure standing there. I approached him and found that he was not armed. He introduced himself with a name that sounded like ‘Herr White’. We told him our names and he then asked us whether we would like a meal. I debated whether to go with him but thought that that it was probably best to try and put as much distance as we could between us and the aircraft before it became daylight. We therefore declined the meal and set off across the field. I subsequently found this was possibly a mistake, as in the district there was a Piet de Wit, one of the Resistance leaders, and it is highly likely that this was the man we had met. If we had gone with him, our subsequent experiences might have been quite different.

Het domein van de staartschutter van de Halifax III HX333 NP-J ‘Jane’ . Dit was de werkplek van Leonard ‘Len’ Cote. Duidelijk is de zien dat de geschutskoepel grote schade had opgelopen.

As we crossed the field we decided to make our uniforms look as much like civilian clothes as possible. We removed all our badges and buttons, lifted up some of the big clods of earth, and pushed them underneath. At the edge of the field we came to a wide ditch which we attempted to jump, but having no run-up except the muddy earth, and being in flying clothes and extremely tired, we of course landed in the water.

We crossed another field and again got wet at the extremity of that one, but eventually we came to a village and spent some time working our way around it. In the churchyard we could see a woman laying flowers at a grave, but she was completely oblivious of our presence. Having got twice our feet wet we decided we would reluctantly have to walk on the road. We rested for a short time behind a potato clamp and, whilst we were doing this, a mist seemed to descend. We set off again along the road and suddenly a youth appeared out of the mist. We spent quite a time in a pantomime trying to explain to him not to tell anybody that he had seen us. The mist didn’t last long and soon we came to a corner, at which there was a farmhouse and a farmer leaning against the wall outside. We decided to ask him for assistance and he led us through the farm buildings into the house, which was immaculate. He gave us a drink of water and I asked him if he could tell us where we were. He then produced what looked like a school atlas, opened it at the map of Europe and pointed to Holland. His finger pretty well covered the whole country, so it wasn’t of much assistance to us.

As we went out of the house and through the farm buildings again, I asked him whether we could hide up in the hay loft. He shook his head violently. He said that the Germans were all around. He made his hand into the shape of a gun and pointed it to his head, the implication being pretty clear. We couldn’t blame him for not sheltering us. Unfortunately as we came out of the house two Dutch policemen on bicycles came around the corner. They were armed, but we tried to talk them into letting us go. One of them was fairly young and, I suspect, a collaborator. No way he was going to let us go and, of course, his companion had to go along with what he wanted to do. The second one was somewhat older and was almost in tears at taking us in. we started to walk back along the road to the village that we had just passed. As we did so, I thought about the escape kit which I had tucked away in my tunic. When I thought the policemen weren’t looking, I put my hand in my tunic, pulled out the escape kit, and in one motion let it fly into the ditch at the side of the road. Unfortunately the younger policeman heard the splash and tried to make me get it out again, which I refused to do so. Eventually he gave up the idea and we moved on.

As we passed a house, which stood on its own, there were some children playing on the front lawn. I had put some chocolate from our flying rations in my pocket and realized that the Germans would take this from me, so I threw it over the hedge to the children. Their mother, for obvious reasons, didn’t want to get involved and called the children in. When we got to the village one of the policemen guarded us whilst the other one went into the local post office and telephoned the Germans.

After a little while three undersized members of the master race arrive don bicycles, with rifles tied to the crossbars. The corporal in charge then said to me: ‘You are German prisoner, no?’ and I replied: ‘I am German prisoner, yes’. A large car was then found and Les and I were jammed in the back seat between two of the Germans, whilst the corporal sat in front with the driver. Although I couldn’t understand the language, it was obvious that the corporal kept querying the route that the driver was taking and was worried that he would possibly not deliver us to our correct destination.

Eventually we arrived at a large house, outside which was a sentry box painted in German colors, red, black and white. We were taken to a downstairs room and told to empty our pockets. It was standard practice to empty our pockets before take-off, so I had virtually nothing in mine and Les had only a packet of cigarettes and some of his flying rations. One thing he did have was an orange. These were in short supply in England but must have been in even shorter supply in Germany, as everyone who came into the room looked at it and poked it, to see if it was real. After some time two German officers entered the room. One of them had a round cap on, with the front going up high and the peak down over his nose, and looked very much like the pre-war film star Eric Von Stroheim. The other one had a ‘coal-scuttle’  helmet on his head. The one with the round hat then asked me in German how many crew members there were in my aircraft. He started at five and went six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, and so on. When he reached 15 and realized I wasn’t going to tell him, he lost his temper and stamped about. ‘Coal-scuttle’ then took over the role of nice guy and attempted to get the information from me. When I refused to tell them they didn’t get awkward at all, but just gave us up as a bad job. I was then taken into another room on my own. this was obviously used as a barrack room, as there were beds in it and a table with a few hard chairs around it. I sat on one of the hard chairs and a soldier sat opposite me with his rifle on the table, which he kept trained at me. We sat like this for some time. On the table were some magazines, and at one point I started to stretch out my arm to get one of them. The guard grunted at me and waved his rifle, so I quickly withdrew and sat facing him for what seemed an interminable time.

Late in the afternoon an NCO and two soldiers took me to the local station and we boarded a train for Groningen. On the way to Groningen, the NCO brought out a packet of cigarettes and offered one to Les, which he took, and then to me. At that time I was a non-smoker, but I realized that this packet of cigarettes was Les’s packet of Players and so I took one and lit it up. As the NCO had the packet of cigarettes, I wondered who had the orange. When we arrived at Groningen Station the NCO allowed all the other passengers to leave the train first. As we were leaving, the civilian population were attempting to get on and young lady started to climb into our coach. The NCO brought his fist, which was holding his pistol, round and hit her across the face. This did little to endear the Germans to me.

When we left the station the NCO led the way, with his drawn pistol in his hand. At the side of us was one soldier with a rifle and behind us the other soldier, with a tommy gun trained on our backs. I believe this was done to impress the locals, but, far from doing that, we made a fairly triumphant entry into Groningen. As we walked along the streets the people all gave us the thumps-up sign or the victory sign. At one point a tram car, which was fully loaded, kept pace with us and all the people on board were giving us the victory sign and thumps-up sign and cheering us on.

As we walked along the street I noticed a building with big red banners hanging from it. On the banners were big white discs and in the middle of the discs big black swastikas. This sight I found most intimidating, but the reception we had been given by the Dutch people was so encouraging that I felt I could walk along that street indefinitely. Eventually, however, we turned into a courtyard and across to a building which was, I believe, a naval barracks. We were taken to a cell, a door was opened and we were ushered inside. There, much to my surprise, I found all of my crew, except Slim Durdin. They were as surprised to see us as we were to see them, as I believe they had thought that we were possibly dead.

No one had seen Slim Durdin, though someone thought he might have injured himself in bailing out and that he might be dead. This was our belief until the end of the war, when we discovered that he had been picked up by the Dutch Underground and hidden for several months before being apprehended in Antwerp. It was over 40 years before I saw him again.

♦    ♦    ♦

We were obviously the center of attraction to the people in the barracks as the spy-hole in the door kept being moved to one side and eyes peered in at us. Occasionally an eye would come and then move away, and a mouth would appear and the owner would spit through the spy-hole at us. Eventually the door opened and an obviously high ranking German naval officer entered. He looked down his nose at us and said: ‘Roosevelt Gangsters’. For some reason or other I said: ‘No, we’re not Americans’, but he repeated: ‘Roosevelt Gangsters’. Stan said: ‘Oh, forget it, Robbie’, which I did, and he departed. Sometime later that night we were loaded into a bus with barred windows and taken by road to the Luftwaffe Station at Leeuwarden. The guard room here had more than sufficient cells for us to have one each. There was no furniture in the cells except for a bed, a solid wooden affair, rather like a very low table. The head end sloped upwards and it had neither matrass nor pillow and just one thin blanket. It was by this time about midnight on Saturday night and I had had very little sleep since Wednesday night. Thursday night I had been flying with Sergeant Hogg and Friday night, of course, was the night of or last operation. I therefore lay down on the bed and went fast asleep.

I was woken at almost two or three in the morning and aware of several people in the cell, one of whom was, I believe, the Commandant of the station. He again asked me how many people there were in my aircraft, and I replied: ‘I cannot tell you that’. He said: ‘You mean you will not  tell me that’. I said: ‘If you like’, and he made the usual expression of annoyance and departed.

The next morning, Sunday morning, I was taken over to the Headquarters block. It was a beautiful sunny winter’s morning and in the corridor of this block I noticed several posters showing the rank badges of the British armed forces. I was shown into an office where an Intelligence Officer again asked me how many there were in my crew. Again I refused to answer, and I was returned to my cell.

About midday I was given a small mess-tin containing potato and cabbage with, on top, a small piece of meat about three quarters of an inch square and half an inch thick. This was the first food I had had since my egg and chips in the mess before take-off. When I ate the piece of meat first, I didn’t realize that it was the only piece of meat contained in the meal.

We were at Leeuwarden for about four or five days. One morning the air raid siren sounded and the Germans were running around like headless chickens. They fetched us out of our cells and took us down to the cellar, where we stood in a group in one corner, with all the Germans crowded into the other end of the room. After a little while a middle-aged prosperous looking civilian and a young lady came down the stairs into the cellar. We assumed that these were the local collaborators and Stan expressed our thoughts when he said: ‘Look there’s old man Quisling himself’.

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