by Steve Holmes
‘Warrant Officer Prowd, Sir; that was Lofty Matthews’s voice.’
‘You sure, Flight Engineer?’
‘I’m more than sure Skipper, take a look to starboard, fifty feet below.’
This wasn’t happening, this couldn’t be happening. Lofty’s crew shouldn’t have even been in the air, they’d been told the day before they had time off. He’d sat with Lofty yesterday evening enjoying a beer in the Sergeants’ Mess as Keith approached the table and told them that something was wrong with another aircraft and the commanding officer had asked them to step in. He’d asked them… just asked them, it wasn’t even an order. And of course Prowd had consulted with his crew and to a man they’d agreed. It was never going to be an issue, that’s the way they were.
The outer starboard engine was on fire, with smoke billowing out into the night sky. It was an easy target now and John almost willed Lofty to take the necessary action and feather the engine. It was no good; John watched in horror as the aircraft started losing altitude. It wasn’t just the engine on fire, it was the entire wing, and the flames were spreading along the fuselage.
On board Keith Prowd’s aircraft the army dispatchers were busy pushing the containers out of the side back door but it was clear that the fire on the starboard wing was getting worse. They had dropped to around 1,500 feet and the German air batteries had locked on the stricken Stirling as another two explosions rocked the aircraft.
Lofty Matthews called into the radio.
‘We’ve lost two more engines, Skipper – we’re going down.’
Prowd couldn’t increase the power to the remaining engine for fear that more petrol would cause an explosion. He knew no one would survive an explosion at that height. He gave the only command he could.
‘Bail out men, bail out.’
The fire was burning fiercely now, the whole of the starboard side ablaze. One by one the crew bailed out; George Powderhill, John Wherry, Reg Gibbs and Jim Gordon. The two air dispatchers of 63rd Airborne Division also leapt out into the unknown. Lofty Matthews was the last member of the crew apart from the pilot to bail out. There was one remaining pannier left on board and Lofty was determined that whatever it was inside there would make it down to earth to help with the war effort. He heaved at the pannier and as the law of gravity kicked in and it started to slide downwards he leapt on top of it.
Prowd’s altitude needle read 750 feet and he knew he had to get out of the aircraft quickly. He was satisfied that everyone had evacuated the plane and strapped his parachute on as he rushed back to the main spar, shouting to make sure it was clear. He went back to the escape hatch up at the front of the Stirling and happened to notice the altimeter which read 550 feet. He pulled back on the control column trying to level the plane up. The ground was fast approaching. It was no good – he had to go now.
Warrant Officer Keith Prowd jumped out and uttered a string of profanities as he pulled the rip cord. Within a few seconds the Stirling crashed into the ground and erupted into a ball of flames.
‘No one could have survived that,’ John whispered to Reg. ‘Even I’m not that optimistic.’
Reg had no words of comfort for his Flight Engineer, well aware of how much he thought of Keith Prowd and Lofty Matthews.
‘Did you see any chutes Sherlock?’
‘None.’
‘Me neither, too much smoke.’
Prowd was one of the lucky ones; he’d landed in a pine forest with his parachute caught in a tree. After a brief struggle he managed to release himself and crashed 15 feet to the forest floor. He lay there winded but nevertheless glad to be alive and he looked to the heavens.
‘What do you want me for, Father?’
He was convinced he should have been killed. It wasn’t long before the Germans located him and it was hopeless to resist. The twelve German soldiers stood him up against a tree and pointed their rifles at him. Keith Prowd closed his eyes as he feared the worst. The shots never came; it was the Germans’ idea of a little fun.
Every member of Prowd’s crew had been picked off by German rifle fire as they floated down into enemy-held territory. It was almost like a sport to the German infantrymen as they located the huge white parachutes and homed in on the bodies dangling underneath. Reggie Gibbs was killed, as was Lofty Matthews, his body found on top of a nearby hotel still clinging to the pannier he’d forced from the plane. He’d been shot dead on the way down. The two RASC dispatchers were also killed.
Keith was immediately whisked off to a holding area in Arnhem where he was subjected to aggressive questioning by a very big blond German. His interrogator wanted to know if there were any raids planned for the next few days. Keith remained silent and the German officer whipped him with an Italian Berretta revolver he held in his hand. Prowd was beaten senseless and stripped of his watch and signet ring that were given to him by his parents in Australia for his 21st birthday. When the German aggressor realised he wasn’t going to get anywhere with the stubborn pilot he gave the order to his colleagues.
Prowd was on his way to Wiesbaden where the professional interrogators would deal with him.
It was as if John had lost his brothers. Those men had meant so much to him. He lay on his bunk as Patch sat on his chest and he did everything in his power to fight back the tears. The billet was ghostly silent. George Tickner had tried to offer a few words of reassurance, said what great men they were but still John couldn’t tear his eyes from Lofty’s empty bunk. He fought his demons throughout the remainder of the night and sleep wouldn’t come.
They’d landed late in the afternoon and at the debriefing Wing Commander Baker had confirmed his worst fears; that it was suspected there had been no survivors.
‘No chutes reported gentlemen, I’m afraid,’ the Wing Commander whispered quietly. ‘And no contact thus far with any chaps on the ground.’
At 10.15 John climbed from his bunk.
‘C’mon lad we’d better get something to eat, your stomach will think it’s throat’s been cut.’
Patch wagged his tail and jumped from the bed. John wandered through to the bathroom to get washed. When he returned the little dog was lying on Lofty’s bed whining gently. He’d fought the tears all night but this time his defences crumbled as he picked the dog from his friend’s bed and sobbed like a child.
John tried to be rational, told himself there was a war on and casualties were to be expected, but it didn’t deaden the pain and he couldn’t shake the thought that the war was nearly over and why did it have to happen so near to the end of hostilities. Christmas. He kept thinking of Christmas, Christmas back home and celebrations and festivities – the best ever – and reunited families and prisoners returning from overseas. Three bloody months, Lofty, why couldn’t you have hung on three bloody months?
Len Jones, George Tickner, Doug Handley and Reg Tammas sat having breakfast.
‘Sherlock’s taking it bad, lads,’ Handley said. ‘He looked like shit when I left him this morning. I swear he hasn’t slept all night.’
‘I don’t think anyone has,’ said Reg. ‘Sherlock and Lofty got along just great, it’s only natural he’s cut up about it.’
George took a mouthful of tea, looked around at the men sitting at the table.
‘It gets worse. I hear we’re all up again tomorrow, same place, same time.’
‘You’re kidding?’
‘I’m not, I’ve just checked the briefing board, we’ve another meeting in that bloody gym and that can only mean one thing. As sure as eggs are eggs we’re back out to Arnhem again just as quick as you like.’
Len Jones stood up as he lifted his breakfast tray.
‘I’ll go and tell Sherlock the good news, see if I can rally him round a bit before the meeting.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
17 Stirling aircraft of 196 Squadron flew out to Arnhem at lunchtime on 20th September. No one could have envisaged that of the aircraft that took off from RAF Keevil only one of them would return to base completely u
nscathed. The honour on that particular evening went to Flight Sergeant J.W. Hill and his crew.
Warrant Officer Tait and his crew were shot down and crashed, the entire crew perished. Pilot Officer JF Ellis was badly injured in the cockpit and his aircraft crash landed in enemy territory. His crew survived. Warrant Officer George Oliver’s Stirling was shot down at Eindhoven, though miraculously all crew members survived. Flight Sergeant Peter Avrill’s plane encountered enemy flak over the drop zone and he ordered his crew to abandon the aircraft. They all survived. Flying Officer McComie’s plane came under fire and the Flight Engineer Sergeant D Clough bailed out through a gaping hole in the fuselage, convinced the plane was about to break apart. He was shot and killed by enemy fire as he parachuted to the ground. McComie managed to bring the plane under control but crash landed soon after. He survived along with the rest of his crew.
Pilot Officer Charlie King sustained heavy flak damage over the drop zone and made a forced landing at Woodbridge. His crew survived.
Pilot Officer Walter Marshall’s Stirling was shot up over the drop zone and both port engines were deemed useless. They crash landed near Brussels. Marshall and his bomb aimer were badly injured but the rest of the crew escaped with minor cuts and bruises.
It was carnage, the worst day so far for 196 Squadron, and as John sat in the mess hall he took a late breakfast and looked at the glum faces of his friends and colleagues. He wondered if Allied intelligence had perhaps underestimated the strength of the German divisions on the ground.
Vanrenen had been assigned his beloved LJ 949 aircraft again. He was all smiles as he studied the board outside and prepared to walk into the converted gym. John traced his fingers down the crews he would be flying out with later that night. His finger hovered over plane LJ 810.
‘Hey Skipper, Warrant Officer Azouz has been stood down. Why’s that then?’
‘Yom Kippur, Flight Engineer.’
‘Yom what?’
Yom Kippur, the most sacred and solemn day in the Jewish calendar, a day of atonement to ask God for forgiveness for all the bad things that’s happened throughout the year. The RAF recognised it as such and allowed the Jewish boys the day off.
‘I see. I didn’t even know he was Jewish.’
Vanrenen nodded, opened the door and waved John Holmes through.
‘Only he didn’t take them up on the offer.’
‘No?’
‘No. Azouz and his crew are flying with us tonight. Winco said he insisted on it.’
As John walked through the door he noticed Mark on the left of the aisle, sitting with a couple of members of his crew.
It was the fifth lift to Arnhem and 196 Squadron were looking a little depleted. The room seemed almost empty. He noticed the crews of George Tickner and Chuck Hoystead as he took his seat. There were ten crews flying out to Arnhem to drop supplies.
‘No Horsa Gliders today. Thank God for small mercies,’ John mumbled to himself.
The exercise was doomed right from the start.
John had a gut instinct, a feeling that this wasn’t going to be a good night, and before they’d even crossed the English coast Chuck Hoystead radioed in to say that his rear gunner had collapsed in the back of the plane and they were having trouble resuscitating him. The order came through to return to base, it was simply too risky to fly into enemy territory without a rear gunner.
Several miles before the drop zone the flak started. It was heavier than they had ever encountered before as aircraft LJ 949 bounced around the sky like a beach ball on a windy day. Len let out a squeal from the rear gun as a shell exploded less than twenty feet away.
‘Jesus Christ that was close.’
John waited for the call he knew would come.
Sure enough within seconds LJ 843, piloted by Flight Sergeant Green, radioed in to say they’d been hit. John looked out of the starboard side of the plane to see the aircraft plummeting towards the earth as flames poured from the port side fuselage. There were no more messages from the crew of the aircraft.
Vanrenen’s aircraft was eerily quiet; no one needed to say anything. And still the anti-aircraft shells continued to explode all around. Chalky’s voice came through the radio.
‘How long till the drop zone, Tam? We need to bloody well get out of here.’
‘Less than two minutes, Chalky, let the dispatchers know, get them dropped and let’s fuck off home.’
I couldn’t have put it better myself, thought John.
Before they’d even made it to the drop zone they’d lost another two planes. The Stirling piloted by Flight Lieutenant CFA. Brown had returned home without making the drop. The flight engineer had described the carnage vividly as the remaining crews listened in disbelief. A paratrooper had been dropped above them and they suspected his chute had failed to deploy. The unknown unfortunate had smashed into the Stirling at over a hundred miles an hour. His broken body had ripped a ten-foot gaping hole in the fuselage above the bomb bay. The inside of the plane was awash with blood, fragments of bone and body parts. One of the army dispatchers had been injured and lay on the floor of the plane, the other too traumatised to even speak.
Azouz was next to call in; they’d been hit by light flak but were okay, he’d said. They’d carry on to the drop zone and jettison their load.
Flight Sergeant Ronnie Waltrich wasn’t so lucky. His Stirling had taken two direct hits. The starboard outer engine had exploded in a ball of flames and ten feet of the port wing had been blown to pieces. It was less than a few seconds before the aircraft spiralled out of control.
‘Not many of us left chaps are there?’
It was Mark announcing he’d made his drop and was returning home.
‘We’re right behind you Warrant Officer,’ said Vanrenen. ‘Dropping our panniers as we speak.’
The army dispatchers had just pushed out the last of the boxes when the three Focke-Wulf 190s roared into view, cannons blazing in an explosion of tracer fire that ripped into several of the remaining planes.
‘Bandit aircraft, bandit aircraft,’ went up the shout from Warrant Officer Mark Azouz.
He’d spotted two at first but to his horror another two appeared on the port side. He banked the huge Stirling to starboard in a vain attempt to evade them. Flight Sergeant Bode on the rear gun had seen them too and as they brushed past the plane he rattled off a burst of machine gun fire, catching one of them on the tail. The German pilots had noticed the steady stream of smoke coming from the port outer engine. It was like a red rag to a bull.
The remaining Stirlings had found the cover of cloud but Azouz was having difficulty climbing back up to altitude, his aircraft now functioning on only two engines.
The four Focke-Wulfs regrouped and went in for the kill as they came in from behind him. Mark heard several seconds of machine gun fire as the bullets ripped into every square foot of the plane and then the Focke-Wulfs were past him again. Smoke poured into the cockpit and as he looked to both the port and starboard wings all he could see was a wall of flames on each side. And then the plane went into a dive he couldn’t control.
‘Bail out men, bail out immediately – we’re going down.’
Azouz battled with the controls for no more than thirty seconds until he knew his mission was impossible. The plane was in an almost vertical dive now as Azouz ran back through to the body of the plane to make sure everyone had bailed out. He screamed above the noise, barely making himself heard. The fuselage was filled with smoke.
‘Everyone out, everyone out. Anyone hear me?’
He listened for no more than a couple of seconds and screamed out again. He paused, more than happy that no one called back. His men had made it out of the stricken plane safely and would live to fight another day… everyone that is but his rear gunner, Flight Sergeant Bode, who lay dead in his seat at the back of the plane.
Azouz ran for his chute as he coughed and spluttered hardly able to see a foot in front of him. He located his chute and strapped it in place
as he made his way to the escape hatch. He jumped out with only seconds to spare. Stirling LJ810 ploughed into a flooded field just outside Arnhem.
Azouz was barely fifty feet from the ground when the German infantrymen opened fire. He didn’t stand a chance and was killed almost instantly.
Although six successful missions were completed that day, Vanrenen’s beloved LJ 949 Stirling was the only plane totally unscathed on its return to RAF Keevil. The surviving crews were in a daze as they climbed from their respective aircraft and made the short journey across the tarmac and into the mess hall. John walked with George Tickner.
‘What’s gone wrong, George? They said it would be over in three or four days. I swear the Nazis are getting stronger day by day.’
George hung an arm around John’s shoulder and pulled him tight into him.
‘I wish I knew Sherlock, my boy, I wish I knew.’
John was exhausted but still sleep wouldn’t come. It was simply a nightmare, his worst possible nightmare as his good friends were being wiped out by the day. They’d been led to believe it was all but over. As far as he was concerned it was a disaster, an unmitigated disaster.
Initially, for the first few days, it seemed the Allied operation had been successful and several bridges between Eindhoven and Nijmegen were captured. But the ground forces advance was soon halted when the German forces blew up a strategic bridge over the Wilhelmina Canal at Son. This meant the Allied troops were unable to advance and failed to secure the main bridge over the Meuse in those first few crucial days.
At Arnhem, the British 1st Airborne Division were pinned down by far greater resistance than at first had been anticipated. They managed to hold one end of the Arnhem road bridge but were relying on immediate support to bolster their numbers and this did not happen. The small force of men were overrun on 21st September.
By the end of the battle the 1st Airborne division had lost three quarters of its strength.
The thoroughly exhausted men of 196 Squadron were allowed a day off on the 22nd September. They ventured no further than the Sergeants’ Mess and shared a few beers. John Holmes bid goodnight to his friends at around eleven o’clock and climbed wearily into bed. He enjoyed his first night of uninterrupted sleep for six days and slept for fourteen hours. It was George Tickner who woke him just after one the following day.