Recruits to No 27 Course of the Empire Air Training Scheme began service with the Royal Australian Air Force on Anzac Day, 25th April 1942.
For most ex-servicemen the war will never be over. There are so many events, good and bad, that show up in later life because of the experiences, both physical and mental, of service in war.
This story is one of the better of those experiences of some of the ordinary people who played a small part in the Second World War.
LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT IT…
I was the pilot of a Lancaster Bomber of 463 Squadron Royal Australian Air Force.
After carrying out 31 bombing operations we were having a well-earned leave from flying duty. During our leave many of the Squadron did two long twelve and a half hour trips to Koningsburg. We were glad we missed that lot. Our first operation after returning from leave was to Nurenburg. The next was to be our 33 and last operation and we were hoping for a nice easy one.
THE AWAKENING
The room was large, old fashioned and dilapidated. It may once have been the best lounge room in the home of a well-to-do family. (Later research suggests that it may have been the sick bay in the Britannia Hotel, which was then the German Head Quarters.) The walls were about thirteen or fourteen feet high, probably four metres. Around the top of the walls was a large ornate cornice on which the remnants of a colourful past could still be seen. Around the bottom of the walls was a deep moulded timber skirting.
On the wall to the left was an old fashioned fireplace with a marble mantle-shelf and a huge cast iron grate in which was a roaring fire.
On the wall in front was a single door surrounded by wide moulded timber architraves.
Between the door and my slowly awakening eyes was the foot-end of an old fashioned cast-iron bedstead. Sitting on a chair between the foot of my bed and the fireplace was a young blonde in a strange green jacket.
The blonde, seeing me beginning to stir, handed me a cigarette with a comment that, even had I been in full command of my senses, I would not have understood.
“Fur Sie der krieg ist beendet.”
Consciousness was gradually increasing as the blonde in the green costume went out the door, to return a minute or so later with a tall slim man in a black suit, who handed me a small glass of cognac, which, although it increased my awareness, also increased my bewilderment.
Particularly puzzling was the black suit on which I began to notice different coloured ribbons, and badges and epaulets with silver linings. It was the high fronted, narrow peaked cap, which also had a badge on the front that brought me to the realisation that all was not well. It was the uniform of a German officer.
Then I realised the significance of the green uniform of the young blonde. He was a German soldier, a sick bay attendant, a medical orderly, and he was watching over me.
“Fur Sie der krieg ist beendet,” said the German officer.
“For you the war is over,” he translated.
“I sent men out through the minefield in a small boat to pick you up,” he said, impressing on me that they had risked their lives for me.
“You were floating unconscious about a mile out in the middle of the river,” he continued, in a strangely familiar accent, “But, I have shot the rest of your crew.”
“My crew! My God!” By now I am fully awake although, despite the roaring fire, still shaking and shivering with cold and shock. “My crew! What's he mean he’s shot the rest of my crew?”
“This couldn’t be happening. It’s a dream. This was our thirty-third trip and scheduled to be the last of our tour of operations. What was it that Bill Forbes, our squadron commander had said at the end of briefing?”
“You can lead the Squadron today, Dack, seeing that it’s the last trip of your tour.”
“Geez, we were only doing a short trip, an hour there and an hour back. Nobby Blundell, our Chiefy and his boys will be crook on me for not bringing back ‘P-Peter’, our beloved Lancaster.
“We had a room booked at the ‘Horse and Jockey’, the local pub in Waddington Village, the favourite of the boys from 467 and 463 Squadrons, for the night’s celebrations with our ground crew. No this can’t be happening...”
The German officer was still talking.
“Where do you come from in
“Melbourne,” I said, forgetting all about ‘name rank and number only’.
“Oh,” he said, “I know Melbourne well. I was an engineer and I served for two years installing the Lurgi Plant at Yallourn.”
As he talked on I realised through my daze that he knew Melbourne better than I did. No wonder his accent was familiar.
“How stupid. Makes you wonder what war is all about. He’s trying to shell the allied troops across the river, I’m trying to drop bombs on him, he shoots my aircraft down and says he’s shot all my crew, and yet he risks the life of his own men to save my life. What’s it all about?” I thought, as I drifted back into unconsciousness . . .
THE BRIEFINGThe Battle Order had been posted the night before, and we were listed for early morning briefing. Looks like we've got our wish for an easy one to finish off our tour.
After breakfast of two eggs and bacon, pre-flying meal was always two eggs and bacon, the crews rostered for duty wandered down to the flight offices ready for the briefing.
“The Canadian army has reached the south bank of the estuary of the River Schelde,” said Wing Commander Bill Forbes to the assembled pilots of No 463 Squadron as he stood before the familiar large map of Europe with the route of today’s operation marked out in red tape.
“The German army is shelling the allied troops from Flushing on the Island of Walcheren in Holland, five miles across the river to the north. Lieut. General Crerar has asked for support from the RAF. As all other RAF Commands are already engaged, Bomber Command is to carry out this raid.”
“This is a short daylight raid, the target being the dyke surrounding the Island of Walcheren. There will be seven squadrons operating at five-minute intervals, 463 being first on target. You will climb to eight thousand feet to cross the channel, descending to four thousand at the target. On no account are you to come below four thousand feet.
“Time on target is set down for 1100 hours, but as the Met Bloke has already said, it’s unlikely the weather will clear for some time. You are to go to your aircraft and await the firing of the green flare for take off.”
“Dack, as it’s the last trip of your tour today, you will lead the Squadron. That’s all fellows - Good luck.”
Wing Commander Forbes finished his briefing. Their crews who had been at separate briefings joined the pilots. They adjourned to the parachute section to collect their parachutes and boarded the crew buses to go to their aircraft, somewhere out on dispersal.
“Hey Baron, we’ll still beat you home,” came a voice from the ‘A’ Flight crew bus. It was Flying Officer Cy Borsht, a senior pilot with ‘A’ Flight, and a notorious ‘first-homer’.
“OK Borshty,” I answered, “We’ll see.”
The banter was always light-hearted as the crews went to their aircraft before an operation. Normally there would not be much time for thinking about the problems of the particular operation as there were many pre-flight checks and procedures to carry out before take off. Every member of the crew had his own duties to perform. The pilot had to check with the ground crew on many matters and when all were satisfied, ground and aircrews, the pilot would sign the Form 700.
The weather this day was cold and wet, rain not letting up for hours. As take-off time approached, even the red flare postponing take-off was hard to see through the misty rain.
Squadron leader Des Sullivan, our flight Commander, paid several visits to the dispersals that day. Once he came with a message to say that the target had been changed. Instead of bombing the dykes we were to bomb four large guns which the Germans had set up on the dyke and which were firing across the river into the Canadian Army on the south bank of the River Schelde.
He also brought us some sandwiches.
Time dragged, although spirits never faltered, the general conversation being all about the future.
“Hey Skip, are you sure you’ve got the room booked for tomorrow night?” asked Bob Coward, knowing full well that I had.
“Of course I have, you don’t think I’d forget something like that, do you? The Horse and Jockey is all set and I've paid a deposit on the room,” I answered. “I reckon there’ll be a hot time in the old Waddington Village tomorrow night.”
We all had a strange affection for Lancaster Bomber ‘P’ Peter. It was almost like a love. This wasn’t our original one, which had been lost in a collision over the Channel one night when we were on leave. This one we got brand new and this was our third operation in it.
“Gee it’s going to be great tomorrow,”" said Lofty. “No more ‘stand-by’ bells, no more briefings.”
“And no more wondering ‘where-to-tonight’?” chipped in Jock.
“Wonder what they'll do with us?” queried Jimmy Maple, Anyone volunteering for a second tour?”
“NO THANKS,” came the loud chorus, although I have a feeling that had I said, “Yes, I am. Whose coming with me?” they would all have said “Yes.”
“I think that was another red flare just went off,” said Charlie Kirby. “We won’t be taking off for some time yet by the look of it.” Time continued to drag.
“Hey, that looks like the Flight Commander’s car coming round again. Wonder if he’s coming to us?” said Jimmy McWilliam.
Squadron Leader Des Sullivan did have news for us.
“Time on target is 1600 hours,” he said, “Oh, and by the way, if you don’t fly today you are finished anyway.”
“Oh beaut,” came the chorus again. “Send her down Ewie!”
But Jupitor Pluvius, the God of Rain, decided he had already sent down sufficient for the time being, and the weather cleared enough for the green take-off flare to be fired.
THE LAST MISSION
From all around Waddington Airfield came the sound of two hundred mighty Rolls Royce Merlin engines starting up and going through their warm-up procedures. About twenty-five Lancasters of No 463 RAAF Squadron began snaking away from their dispersal points to line up at the runway, waiting to take off. Minutes later followed the aircraft of No 467 Squadron.
‘P’ Peter reached the head of the queue and sat facing down the runway. The brakes were full on as I slowly pushed forward on the four throttles. The runway controller flashed a green Aldis lamp at me and I released the brakes. ‘P’ Peter gathered speed down the runway and took off, climbing away into the low cloud.
Navigator Jimmy Maple knew his job well. All the crew knew we would be at the target at exactly four thousand feet at exactly 1600 hours. The gunners had a fairly easy time. Flying through cloud all the way meant not many fighters to worry about. Jock, the wireless operator, had his work to do, listening out for messages and weather information and the radar screen to watch, the biggest problem being collisions with other Lancasters.
Jimmy McWilliam, the bombaimer is readying his bombsight and studying his bombing instructions ready for arrival at the target.
“Start descending to 4000 feet, Skip,” came the voice of the navigator.
“OK Jim.”
“Ten minutes to target Skip.”
“Thanks Jim.”
“Target coming up in two minutes Skip.”
“OK Jim. We’re almost down to 4000 feet but I can’t see the ground yet.”
According to the various reports from other pilots the cloud base varied from about 3,500 feet to 4,500 feet. Where we were it was about 3900 feet, and we were skipping through the bottom of the clouds without being able to see the ground. But they could see us in our black painted night bomber.
“Hello Skip, there’s light flak coming very close. You’d better get weaving Laddie,” came the surprisingly urgent voice of Charlie Kirby, the rear gunner.
Before he had finished the sentence, Bob Coward, the mid-upper gunner called “We’ve been hit,” and the aircraft was instantly on fire and full of thick, choking, burning, yellow-brown smoke.
“Prepare to abandon aircraft,” I shouted, but nobody heard me, the intercom, along with many other things, having apparently been severely damaged. But they all knew they had to go.
Jimmy McWilliam took the cover off the escape hatch and let it fall away from the aircraft, following it out. Lofty went after him.
“I’m sorry June, I’m sorry June,” I remember saying before
smoke and fumes overcame me. Although I remember Lofty had gone without giving me my parachute, his first duty before evacuating.
The pilot’s parachute pack was stowed in a rack behind the pilot’s head and had to be hooked onto two large hooks on the front of the harness that the pilot wore.
I must have found it myself somehow, or someone else found it for me, because the next thing I knew was being whacked under the chin by something that woke me out of my daze. I looked down and there was the water of the River Schelde and I was in it. ‘P’ Peter hit the water only about two hundred yards away and disappeared in the spray.
As I hit the water the wind picked up the top half of my parachute, as it lay half-open on the sea. I was steering toward the land that looked about a mile or more away.
The fickle wind, however, dropped in a few seconds and left me floundering.
I hit the release button of the parachute harness and it and the ‘chute floated away, but the waves kept going over my head.
“I don't think much of this Mae West,” I said to myself, having forgotten to pull the handle to inflate it. When I remembered to do so, my head stayed above the waves.
The wind and tide, which fortunately was running in, were taking me towards a long narrow jetty, which had a lonely lamppost at the end with one electric light bulb in a goose-necked fitting at the top. The lamp was alight. In broad daylight. I couldn’t understand why. I puzzled over that, despite my predicament. Why would a country at war leave an electric light burning on the end of a pier so close to the open North Sea in broad daylight?
After about half an hour I thought the raid must be nearly over. It was supposed to last half an hour, wasn’t it? I suddenly thought of the shockproof, waterproof sportsman’s watch my family had given me for my twenty-first birthday, just six days short of two years before.
“Wonder what time it is?” I pulled back the left sleeve of my battledress to look, but there was no watch, just a large tear in my arm where the watch should have been. The tear was not so deep where the watchband would have been. This may have saved the artery being cut. That and the cold salt water may have prevented any excessive bleeding.
I then remembered the whistle hanging on the lapel of my
battle dress jacket.
“This is the time to use it,” I thought. “This is what it’s for, to blow and see if any of your mates are over the next wave.” So I put the whistle in my mouth to blow, only to discover that my bottom dentures had gone and the top ones were broken in half.
That must have happened when the parachute strap whacked me under the chin as the parachute opened. It would seem that the parachute had been attached by only one hook instead of two.
For some inexplicable reason, I thought this was very funny and started to laugh, and I laughed, and laughed, and laughed myself into hysterical oblivion. . .
The next thing I knew, some hours later, was the young blonde German soldier saying,
“FUR SIE DER KRIEG IST BEENDET”.
FLUSHING DOCKS – PHOTO TAKEN DURING RAID OF 23RD OCT 1944 – SHOWING HITS ON THE FLUSHING LOCKS. PHOTO TAKEN FROM ROOF OF SHIPYARD BUILDING.
THE YEAR 1981
Sometime in 1981, Max Johnson, my ex-roommate from the officer’s mess at Waddington, met two Dutch couples whilst caravanning somewhere in Queensland.
“Is any one from Flushing?” He asked.
“Yes, I am.” Answered Mr Jan Roelse.
“Are you going down to Melbourne?” he further asked.
“Yes.” Was again the answer.
“Well you had better go and see Johnny Dack because he was shot down at Flushing”.
Jan and his friends did visit me and I showed them some material that I had about the raid. They were most interested. It turns out that they were members of a ‘Documentate Grouep’, which we would call an Historical Society. They were documenting the war as it happened in their area. They asked would I make some copies of my papers and post them to them. This I did.
A short time later I received a letter from Hans Tuynman, secretary of the Group, to say that as a twelve-year old boy, he had seen my aircraft and Cy Borsht’s shot down. We have corresponded regularly ever since and I have visited him at his home in Middelburg, the main town on Walcheron Island.
THE YEAR 2001
Towards the
end of May 2001, I received a letter from Hans Tuynman to say that he had
seen an article in a 1997 edition of a Newsletter of a local Club. It was
written by a German who had been in command of a gun on the Flushing waterfront about the time I was shot down.
His name is Hans Bannick and he lives in Kiel,
HANS BANNICK - 1939
The article mentioned that Hans Bannick saw an unconscious British airman floating in the River and that he and another man rowed out in a rubber boat and rescued the man.
(In my original book, ‘So, You Wanted Wings, Hey!’ reference is made to the fact that the Marine Commanding Officer told me that he had sent two men out in a small boat to rescue me. He impressed upon me that they were risking their lives through the minefields. Hans Bannick says this is not correct. No one told him to do it. It was his own initiative. In fact some of his comrades told him he was wrong, even mad, to do it.)
Hans Tuynman thought that as there was no other airman reported floating in the river about that time, maybe it was me. I thought so too.
My son Stuart was travelling through Europe on business at that time. In response to my request he successfully found Hans Bannick’s address and phone number for me.
I was delighted and excited, but in a dilemma. All sorts of things were racing through my mind.
“Is he still alive? Can I ring him? Would he want to hear from someone who had been trying to bomb him? Does he speak English?”
“My German is only good enough to tell him who I am,” I thought. “No where near good enough to understand what he would be saying to me. I know. I’ll ask one of my German-speaking friends to come and make the first contact.”
However, impatience got the better of me. I had to find out. So I rang his number.
Hans answered the phone himself and to my great relief, he spoke in English. We had a long talk. There was no doubt in our minds that he was the one who rescued me.
We now know that it was him and it was me.
MAGDA AND HANS BANNICK IN YEAR 2000
_______________________________________________
THE LATEST
Hans
Bannick was in Waddington Staying with Roland and Judy Parker, the Vicar of
Waddington. The
Jim
Sheffield looked after him and showed him around the places he knew when he
was a POW in
I think he was a bit stunned to hear from me, but when he phoned me two nights later, he showed great pleasure in what had happened. Since then we have had many telephone conversations. We have also exchanged photographs of ourselves, then and now.
He has also sent a photograph of himself with his wife Magda.
I only wish that I had known of him before. I was in Europe in the year 2000 and we would surely have been able to meet.
EPILOGUE
After Hans and his mate carried me ashore I was taken away, still unconscious, by his senior officers and he knew no more of me.
I had become a POW, as had my Bombaimer and Flight Engineer.
It is my belief, after all those years of thinking about it, that Jim Maple, my Navigator, must have found my parachute and hooked it onto my harness and somehow thrown me out of the escape hatch.
This would have cost him his life. I do not know the truth or otherwise of that, of course, because I was unconscious.
The other three members of the crew were most likely killed during the attack on the aircraft. I believe that was what the German Officer meant when he said he had shot all the rest of my crew. I do not believe that he just shot them in cold blood.
That was the
23rd October 1944.
The Canadian and Scottish forces that had been waiting on the South side of
the estuary for the final assault on Walcheron Island were eventually able to proceed and on 2nd
November, Hans Bannick was himself taken POW and sent to
_______________________________________________
My son Andrew who is working in London left work Wednesday night to go to Waddington for Anzac day and took
Hans back to London for a few days before he flew back to Kiel in
Keil is twinned with Coventry and that is one place he wanted to visit. He now has. I hope he enjoyed his experience. I wish I had been there.
J D
