My Service Story - part 3 of 4

Part 3 (www.syates.co.uk)

Our Last Mission

We took off from Middleton-St-George on the evening of 4th July, 1944. Our mission was to bomb the marshalling yards at Villeneuve-St-George, South of Paris.

Crossing the coast of France just after midnight, we were attached by a German fighter, which came out of the moon’s glow, not giving Harry or Stan a chance to see him until he was upon us. Subsequently, we were hit and set on fire. Wilf was unable to take evasive action and, because of the damage, was fighting to keep the aircraft as steady as possible. He then gave us the order to abandon aircraft.

I clipped on my parachute and made for the rear door, which I found to be jammed. Harry Pritchard and I managed to free it and prepared to bail out. By this time, Stan was climbing out of the rear turret and Harry beckoned Stan to follow.

When I met Harry again at Bayeau, he explained that he thought he had killed me for as I sat on the ledge with my legs outside the aircraft, about to push myself out against the slipstream, I felt a thump on my back and out I went. Evidently, thinking I was stuck, Harry had kicked me out of the aircraft!

Pulling my ripcord after a couple of seconds, I came to with a bump as my parachute opened with a “thwack” and I found myself swinging from side to side. I managed to stop the swing by pulling the opposite cords and began gliding down to earth.

I looked around me for signs of the rest of the crew but all I could see were flashes of gunfire and sounds of aircraft all around. Being engrossed in looking about me for the others, I was unprepared for the ground!! Maybe it saved me from serious injury, for as I hit, I collapsed in a heap and only really suffered from bruises. Or so I thought!

Picking myself up I looked around and as the moon had come out, noticed that I had landed in a meadow, missing a barbed wire fence by inches. As I began to gather up my parachute, my mind was racing — “what do I do next!”? Remembering our escape lectures at M.S.G., - I must hide my parachute and harness and be aware of the enemy who would be beginning to search for survivors.

In the distance, I could see a five barred gate and made my way towards it, hiding my ‘chute and harness in a hedgerow just alongside the gate. Cautiously I advanced, scanned the road that the gate led onto, but all was quiet. By this time I had a thumping headache and began to feel really ill and realised that I needed help, come what may.

Next to the gate at the left of the field, stood a small cottage. I moved out of the field, approached the cottage and knocked on the door several times. No answer. The thought crossed my mind that possibly old people may live there and were terrified to open the door for fear of it being the Germans.

Moving further down the road I came to a second five barred gate and standing back from it, stood a house. I entered the garden and knocked at the door. I learned subsequently, that if I had gone further down the road I would have walked into captivity as there was a German first aid post set up there.

After a couple of knocks, I heard movement inside and slowly, the door opened partially and a head appeared — a man in his late 60’s. He grunted “oui”, to which I replied, “Je suis R.A.F.” a couple of times. After what seemed like forever, he opened the door, beckoned me in and gave me a chair to sit on. He then produced a glass of clear liquid for me to drink. Thinking it was water I took a big gulp and nearly choked for it was neat Calvados. Getting my breath back, I took it more slowly.

All this time his wife stood in the background, at the foot of a staircase, speaking in a very earnest manner. I cannot speak French, but learnt the odd phrase at M.S.G. during escape lectures. I realised that she was very anxious and urged her husband to get rid of me as I could be the “Bosch” pretending to be R.A.F. so that they could catch the Resistance. On hearing her mention “Bosch”, I replied “Non Madam, Je suis R.A.F.”

The husband must have told her not to worry and moved me further into the room, closed the kitchen door and put a light on. This was when I realised that I had been hit and this was the reason for a thumping headache and feeling so ill.

My silk scarf I wore on Op’s was covered in blood and I had blood down my face. I must have looked an awful sight and could understand the lady of the house being scared. I gingerly touched the top of my head and my hand came away covered in blood. It transpired that along with the bruises, I had had a narrow escape as a cannon shell of flak had struck me a glancing blow.

By this time, the owner’s two sons had joined us from upstairs and finding some cigarettes in my battledress, I handed them around. I asked “parlez vous Anglais?” and was told “non”, but that “mademoiselle parlez Anglais.” One of the sons was sent to fetch “mademoiselle!”

All the time I was trying to indicate that I needed help for my head wound. My parachute and harness needed to be recovered and destroyed, also my Mae West, which I was still wearing.

The son returned with another brother and their sister, Lucy. She lived next door with Maurice and his wife and two children. Although her English was little better than my French, with hand signals and signs we began to communicate.

Lucy could see the situation and began to organise everything. One brother was dispatched to find my parachute and harness and destroy them and my Mae West was burnt in the stove.

Whilst this was going on, Lucy boiled some water and began to bathe my head and then carefully bandaged it up. The parachute and harness were recovered — the harness was destroyed, but the parachute was folded away and hidden in the bottom of Maurice’s wardrobe I later found out.

All the family began to discuss what to do with me and it was obvious that Maurice’s mother wanted me out — quite understandably! However, the decision was made. Maurice and Lucy would take me off their parent’s hands. Draping a dark cloth over my head to cover the bandage, they led me out of the back door into the garden, through a gate, across a small copse into another garden and into Maurice’s house. Inside I met Madam Yvonne, Maurice’s wife and their two children, Mauricette who was eleven years old and Yve who was 7 years old.

I was then taken upstairs into a small room containing a single bed, bedside table and chair and put to bed. By this time I was exhausted with the throbbing of my head and loss of blood, I spent most of the night slipping into and out of consciousness. Lucy stayed with me all night bathing my forehead with cold compresses to help ease the pain.

By morning the throbbing had eased and I was able to take stock of my situation. I began to be concerned that if I were found with the family, then they would all be made to suffer. I managed to get this across to them, but Maurice insisted that everything was ok and that I was not to worry. Lucy explained that although my head really needed stitches, they could not take me to a doctor for fear of being betrayed. Fortunately, nature took its course and the wound healed without infection or any repercussions.

Next to the house stood a large barn or garage which was a fairly long building and at the far end, stacked six feet deep and to the roof, were logs tightly packed and in front of this on blocks, stood a taxi with its wheels missing. To stop the Germans confiscating it, the wheels were removed and buried in the garden; Maurice had been a taxi driver before WWII.

Before leaving the house, Maurice checked that all was safe and beckoned me to follow him. We went to the back end of the barn and here stood a shed connected to the barn. Maurice opened the shed door and I could see three rabbit hutches stacked against the back and on the floor a thick covering of straw with a dozen or more rabbits all shapes and sizes, running free. They also had the run of the garden during the day. The hutches were approximately a metre off the floor containing breeding mothers and young.

Maurice indicated for me to kneel down under the first hutch. He then pushed the wooden panel at the back wall where it immediately dropped back revealing a metre and a half square room which contained clean straw and a blanket. This was to be my hideaway for at least a week or until the Germans had given up searching for survivors. I was told to crawl inside and shut the panel and secure it with bolts to keep it in place. Maurice confirmed that he and Lucy would bring me food and bathe my head and rebandage it later, but that I must keep quiet if I heard any movement outside.

In the late evening, Maurice and Lucy would bring me food and attend to my head wound and, when safe, I would walk around the garden for exercise and fresh air. Each night I was locked in the shed, rolled myself up in the blanket and slept on the straw floor with the rabbits for company.

Maurice had built this hideaway long before I arrived for the sole purpose of helping allied escapees.

For the next ten days I ate and slept with the rabbits! Occasionally, I came out during the day to take advantage of the sun and during these times the children were my lookouts and would warn me if any Germans were near with the words “Monsieur Marcel, la Bosch”. Because of the nearness of the German first aid post, they often strode up and down the road. After the ten days I returned to my room in Maurice’s house.

Two weeks after I arrived, Maurice was able to obtain a French identity card for me. Back at Middleton-St-George we all had passport photographs taken and sewn into the epaulets of our battledress. Amusingly enough, when I had mine taken, I had sprouted a moustache, but on being shot down, I was clean shaven, so I had to grow another!

On the identity card I was named Marcel Henrie Simon and my occupation was “Agent de Commerce” which, translated, means commercial traveller. They decided on this title to explain that I was able to move around and was there visiting my cousin, Maurice and his family. The name was chosen by Lucy because her favourite actor was Marcel Simon (a French heartthrob of the day!). Thankfully, I was never called upon to produce this card. (You can see the ID card on my website). As a final touch, Maurice fitted me out with French clothes.

We had a few narrow squeaks, but with the whole family looking out for me, and ushering me into hiding, we avoided trouble.

When I bailed out, I had an escape kit with me that consisted of a silk map of Northern France, water bottle, French currency and compass. Maurice had a radio hidden away and in the evening I would listen to the BBC news and plot on the map where the allies were for at that time they were fighting in Caan and Falaise.

I gave Maurice the French currency and he was delighted as it was the real French notes, not the German equivalent.

Near the end of July 1944, Maurice told me he had been asked by the Resistance to accept another airman. He duly arrived, having been shot down near Rouen and his name was Tommy Sharples, a flight engineer from 57 Squadron, R.A.F. They were also flying Lancasters to bomb marshalling yards near Paris. We shared the room and bed as best we could, also the hideaway. A bit cramped, but we managed.

Once Tommy had settled in, Maurice asked if we would help build an air-raid shelter in the garden. Naturally, we readily agreed and set about digging a hole large enough to take us all. Over the top we placed sleepers and logs, then after covering these with canvass, piled earth on top and grass turfs. The entrance was via a solid door and Maurice built a bed at one end for Madam Yvonne and the children and the rest of us sat on chairs brought in from the house. By the time it was finished, Tommy and I looked like miners, brown from the sun, and covered in dirt and grime. (Photograph also on the website).

A few days after Tommy arrived, we had a visit from a Resistance Officer named Jacques. He told me that Bill Cullen and Harry Pritchard were safe and had been living with him also hiding from the Germans just waiting for them to give up the search for survivors. Eventually the Resistance were able to get Bill and Harry through the German lines to the Allied lines, but as the fighting was fierce, he had no further information to share.

Jacques confirmed that as the allies were launching further offensives, it would be difficult for them to get Tommy and me through. So it was advisable for us to stay with Maurice until the Allies had pushed the Germans back over the River Seine and we could make contact.

During our conversation he told me they had buried my comrade in the La Mailleraye Cemetery — at the time it was difficult to find out whom — but it turned out to be our rear gunner, Stan Swartz. Later, Wilf was re-interned beside Stan.

I was anxious to see the grave and show my respects, so the next day Maurice fixed us up with bicycles and, dressed as French farm workers, we ventured out through the village to the cemetery. We passed some German soldiers patrolling the village but, to our surprise and relief, they took no notice of us. I can only assume that our disguises were good!

At the graves, Maurice took a photograph of us paying our respects and this photograph also appears on the website.

Whilst we lived with Maurice and his family, we ate well. The Resistance supplied ration cards but we often wondered how they managed to be so generous with the meat ration. We found out!!

One particular evening, towards the end of our stay, Maurice asked Tommy and I to go with him “to help”. What, we didn’t know, but were soon to find out. On leaving the house, we passed through the gate and crossed the road to a lane opposite. Making our way down the lane we came across a five-barred gate, the entrance to a field. Inside the gate stood a tree and tied to it was a young bull. Maurice untied it and led it out of the gate and we followed, shutting it behind us and we all headed back up the lane. Checking to see if the road was clear, we quickly crossed into Maurice’s Garden and into the barn.

Inside the barn, Maurice tied the bull to the wall by its horn and, with a rope attached to the other horn, told us to pull tight to keep its head rigid. Imagine our surprise and shock when Maurice produced a sledgehammer and pole axed it! Down it went with a thump. He then cut its throat, attached pullies to its hind legs and with our help, hoisted it up, to allow the blood to drain into a galvanised container. Then he proceeded to remove its intestines. When this was completed, he told us to bury them in a hole at the bottom of the garden. Having made sure no traces were left, we returned to the barn and left Maurice removing its hide.

Next morning we were told by Lucy to stay indoors and not be seen. We had a spy hole in the roof of the house that enabled us to see anyone outside, either in the garden or on the road. During the morning one or two people at a time entered the barn with bags and then came out with them looking rather full.

It transpired that during the night Maurice had cut up the animal into joints of meat and was supplying local people with it. The local farmer, a Mousier Chamberlain who lived nearby and whom Maurice worked for, supplied the beast. The farmer knew of our existence and supplied Maurice with milk, cheese, vegetables etc. This was the reason we ate so well. Madam Yvonne was an excellent cook and her salads were amazing.

Concludes in Final part.

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