Tumult in the Clouds

by James Goodson

  Then came the day when the bombers were to hit Stettin, north-east of Berlin almost on the Baltic coast. It sounded like a routine mission and one I could sit out. I had flown every mission for the last month or so and maybe I did need a rest.

  The trouble with that Stettin mission was that the really experienced pilots had either been rotated to the States or shot down. Emerson was the most senior and yet it seemed only yesterday that he had joined the squadron. Still, I’d always advocated training on the job, and here was a good chance to put it into practice.

  I went and sat through the briefing. The mission was routine, escorting the bombers over the target area. Only one thing was a little out of the ordinary. The line showing our return route passed over Peenemünde which we knew to be the centre of Germany’s rocket research.

  Back at dispersal, Bob Gilbert, my crew chief looked surprised and hurt, as he leaned against our Mustang VFB. It was his as much as mine, and he was proud of its polished silver finish, its diving eagle ensign which he had painted on, along with the neat rows of thirty-two swastikas.

  ‘She’s all ready to go,’ he said.

  I shook my head. I watched as one propeller after another started to turn and each engine spluttered into life.

  Then suddenly Emerson cut his engine and the others followed suit. I ran over to his plane and clambered up on the wing. He pulled back his perspex hood and took off his helmet.

  ‘Five minutes delay!’ he said.

  ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘What worries me is how the others feel. If I don’t feel good myself I might let them down.’

  It was then I realised that every pilot in the squadron was watching.

  ‘Okay’, I said. ‘Yellow section is one short. You take it! I’ll take the squadron.’

  I ran back to my plane, jumped in, started up and taxied out to lead the squadron.

  As I had expected, it was a run-of-the-mill mission. As usual, we formed up over Saffron Walden, set course almost due east over Essex and the towns I knew so well from the air but not from the ground: Sudbury, Braintree, Ipswich and Orfordness with the sandbanks on the coast. By the time we were over the North Sea we were at our cruising altitude of about 30,000 feet and with our speed at that height it wasn’t long before we were crossing the Dutch coast north of Haarlem and south of the Hook of Holland. Then in only a few minutes we crossed the Zuider Zee and on over the flat East Holland and North German territory, pinpointing ourselves as usual by the distinctive perfectly-round Dümmer Lake, north of Osnabrück and south of Bremen. Visibility was so good we could vaguely see Hannover and Braunschweig down to our right. Then, still to the right, we saw the bombers feinting towards Berlin. Soon we saw our bomber fleet swinging north and east. I led the squadron above and across them to protect their flank and then swept around in front of them as they started their bombing run.

  Apparently what German fighters there were, had been protecting Berlin. There seemed to be no activity around the bombers, and soon I saw the relieving fighter escort coming in from the west. I figured our only chance of finding German fighters would be to drop down in the hope of spotting some diving home from attacking the other bomber groups. I was also thinking of continuing on down to strafe those special air bases we had not yet hit. We went down in front of the bombers which were now heading homewards and were well protected by the new escorting fighters. At about 20,000 feet I could just make out the thin shape of fighters heading north well below us. I rolled and went into a steep dive to catch them. I kept my eyes on them with an occasional glimpse behind to make sure that the planes behind were ours.

  Because I had rolled into a steeper dive sooner than they had, I was well ahead of them, and I was closing on the last of the German fighters. I could see it was a 109. I could also see an airfield ahead and knew it must be Neu Brandenburg.

  Suddenly I was catching up fast and I realised he was throttling back, entering the circuit to land. It also meant he didn’t know I was lining up on him. I waited until I estimated I was less than 200 yards behind him and closing fast. The first burst scored hits all over him. I immediately pressed the trigger again. I was still hitting him when I had to stomp rudder and throw the stick forward and right to avoid ramming him. I looked back and saw him dive straight down to explode on the deck.

  I was down to about two thousand feet now. Ahead of me I saw the airfield. Then I saw the other 109’s. Two had already landed but one was coming in to land, from the other direction, almost head to me, but dropping fast.

  I pushed the stick forward, I had to dive almost vertically to get down to his level. He was almost on the ground, but still slightly in front when I had to pull out of my dive or hit the ground. As I pulled back on the stick, I pressed the trigger and sprayed him as he flashed underneath me. I saw the hits rake the length of the 109, just before I pulled around into a climbing turn.

  I saw him go into a ground loop and start burning. But out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed something else. It was almost an unconscious recognition; a short stubby profile, a caricature of a plane hidden in a revetment on the perimeter of the airfield.

  I pulled up higher. As I turned I saw it clearly. It was an Me163.

  I stayed in the turn. A number of thoughts flashed through my mind. I could call down the rest of the squadron. They would be coming in above by now. But I was already down here and I knew where the plane was. I had only used a few bursts so far and knew I had enough ammo to take it out. Most important, this must be one of their few prototypes. It was a fantastic chance.

  I tightened my turn to line up on it, but by now I had to cross the airfield. Much worse I couldn’t hug the ground as usual; I had to be high enough to aim over the protective walls of the revetment which were covered with sandbags and camouflage.

  So far there had been no flak but the moment I started across the airfield it started. The bright balls of fire came sailing up, seeming to move slowly until close and then whizzing by. There were the little black clouds of heavier flak, with exploding flashes inside them. They were mostly above me. Automatically I was taking evasive action, weaving and jinking, stomping one rudder and then the other, skidding and side-slipping, so that the fire balls passed underneath or behind. But I always kept my eye on the target and soon my shots were slamming into the prototype as I steadied the plane. At the same moment I felt the plane shudder. I heard the crump and smelt the explosive. I felt a numbness in my right knee, and knew I was hit. But it was the plane I felt for. She was like a stricken war-horse. She tried to respond but the life-blood was ebbing. I tried to hold her up, but as I sensed her start to stall, I gently eased the stick forward. And so, tenderly and sadly I nursed her down, feeling her, caressing her, until as softly as I could, I let her settle on the rough ground. As we hit the ground I cut the switch. We bumped and skidded to a halt. Suddenly everything was quiet.

  I slid back the hood, undid the seat harness and the chute and started to climb out. My right leg didn’t seem to be working. I looked down. There was a lot of blood and the brown cloth of my pant leg was torn and shredded. I saw too that there was a gaping hole in the floor of the cockpit.

  I hauled myself out and stood for a moment on the wing. I looked at my name and the thirty-two swastikas representing the official victories. I patted the side of the plane.

  ‘Two more now, old friend, not bad! We went out on a high note.’

  There was an incendiary device to stick in the fuel tank to blow up the plane when it went down; but by now I heard and saw the rest of the squadron coming in above me. I waved to them to shoot up old VF-B and limped off into the nearby woods. I heard the whine of the planes diving and the firing of the guns as they gave her the coup de grâce. then suddenly everything was quiet.

  In the few minutes after I’d been hit, I’d been able to coax the wounded plane a few miles from the airfield. That part of northern Germany was heavily wooded; but as I stumbled deeper into the trees, I saw that these woods were not lik
e the civilised oak and beech woods of England. They were more like the northern bush of the States and Canada. The trees were fir and birch and the soil was sandy. As I crashed through the under-brush, I suddenly saw four deer bounding away; I had dropped into a completely different world.

  I kept going as long as I could, and then slumped down. I looked in a bemused way at the blood seeping through the khaki fabric of my pant legs. The fur-lined flak boot had protected my leg below the knees and the bucket seat and the parachute had partly shielded my body, but the insides and backs of my legs, from above the top of the boots to the back of the thighs, were peppered with little pieces of shrapnel. That wasn’t serious, but there was a numb feeling around the right knee, and a lot of blood. As I probed with my finger, I saw that a piece of flak had gone right through the fleshy underpart and come out on the other side.

  I was still wearing my Mae West inflatable life jacket. I took it off and found the escape kit in the pocket. Inside was a first-aid kit and I used it as best I could.

  Then I took off my oak-leaf rank ensign and my dog-tags, remembering being told by our intelligence officer once that, if I ever went down in Germany, I had a good chance of escaping because I spoke French and some German.

  ‘Tell them you’re a French worker,’ he said. ‘They’re allowed quite a bit of freedom.’

  I looked at my waterproof synthetic flight jacket and my khaki shirt and slacks, and doubted that they were what the well-dressed French worker in Germany wore. Still maybe through the International Red Cross or something, US khaki clothing got through to them. It was worth a try.

  My flak boots were made so that the tops could be torn off to leave the rest looking like a pair of shoes. I decided against this. My slacks covered the tops in any case, and in this rough underbrush it would be better to roll up the pant-legs and use the protection of the boots, at least for now. Anyway, like all fighter pilots, I loved my boots, and thought they were lucky. After all, they’d protected me that day, and many times before. In any case in my state I realised I would have to keep out of sight and travel rough.

  Stuck in the top of one of my boots was an air map of Germany. I pulled it out, and pinpointed Neu Brandenburg. It confirmed what I knew. I was only some eighty miles from the Baltic Sea; and only some seventy miles across that sea was neutral Sweden. Obviously the thing to do was to head north-west to Rostock. It had to be a main port for Swedish ships and even if I couldn’t smuggle myself on to one of them, I could find a small boat and get across to Sweden or Denmark on my own. Looking back on it, the chances of a wounded pilot avoiding capture while limping miles through hostile territory penetrating the closely guarded coastal area, and somehow getting across the heavily patrolled Baltic Sea, were dismally small; but it was about the only chance, so the decision was easy.

  I got up and carefully tried putting my weight on the wounded right leg. I felt no pain, but when I started to walk, it crumpled and I fell. I tried again, slower this time. I learned how to limp along without the leg collapsing and as I struggled deeper into the forest, the knee seemed to lose some of its stiffness.

  In the escape kit there was a minute but accurate compass. I think pilots learn to know directions and keep them in their minds almost automatically, and I had a good idea of which way was north. The compass proved I was right, so I stumbled along in that direction.

  My leg didn’t hurt much. It was more of an ache and a numbness. But one effect of the wound was to make me weak. The going got harder and harder, but I forced myself on. The Baltic Sea seemed further and further away.

  Finally I saw more light through the trees and came to the edge of a wheat field. Across the field, in the distance, I thought I could see a road. I realised a field of grain was a good daytime cover. I could even make my way slowly crawling through the wheat as far as the road. There I would wait for darkness, then follow the road until dawn, and then back into the protection of the wheat fields or the woods.

  I ducked down and started my painful crawl through the wheat though it was more of a side stroke than a crawl. My right leg was hard to bend, and I couldn’t put any weight on my knee. I had to keep the leg straight as I trailed it behind. But I had plenty of time. It was July and I knew it wouldn’t be dark until about nine in the evening.

  When I reached the edge of the field, I gave one quick look at the road and then ducked down again and retreated a few yards into the covering wheat. The last planes had long since disappeared from the sky, and the evening was quiet and still. I saw a wheat stalk sway. At the top was a small field mouse nibbling the unripe ear of wheat. It ran down the stalk and scuttled away. I reached up and picked an ear of the wheat and started nibbling it.

  There seemed to be no traffic on the road, but then I heard a distant regular squeaking. I raised myself up just enough to peer out through the grain. Down the road a man was approaching on a bicycle. I quickly ducked down again. Then I heard another sound over the squeaking; a man’s voice singing. As it came closer I recognised the words and the tune. It was ‘God Save The King!’ Then came ‘Hello there! Where are you? I help you,’ with a German accent.

  My first reaction was that it was obviously a trick. Someone on a bicycle would have had time to get there from the airfield, – or the local police had been alerted. The police in England rode bicycles, why not in Germany? But there was a doubt in my mind which I couldn’t pinpoint. Then suddenly I knew. In my brief glance at the cyclist, I couldn’t see whether he was wearing a uniform, but I had the definite impression that he was not wearing any kind of helmet or cap. He was bareheaded. I felt sure that no German policeman or soldier would take off his helmet, even when riding a bike.

  I stood up. The cyclist was a few hundred yards past me. Should I call out? No! I was a lone enemy in a hostile country, and I might as well face up to it. I sank down into the wheat!

  Years later I learned that there were secret anti-Nazi movements in Germany, particularly towards the end of the war. I have often wondered about the mysterious singing cyclist.

  As it got dusk I heard voices and what sounded like the clop of horses’ hooves. I peered through the tops of the wheat and saw a strange sight. Two horses were trotting down the road pulling an old-fashioned open carriage. There were three rows of high seats filled with men in uniform. The whole scene was hard to believe. Then I realized that there would probably be many horses in the agricultural north of Germany, and, with a shortage of fuel even more acute than in England, it would be natural to use the old carriage for transport especially for an evening out.

  It was then that I got the feeling, the strange feeling I always had about wartime Germany. I think it started when I saw for the first time the black crosses on an Me109 reminiscent of the First World War. It was underlined by the horses and carriage, and by the close-fitting green uniforms of the German officers. It wasn’t just a different world I had been dropped into, it was a different and older time. I had stepped back into the past. Perhaps that was one of the main reasons for this war; for the Nazi philosophy. They were still fighting the 1914–18 War. Perhaps German political development had always been behind that of other European nations. It was reflected in the old Gothic characters which were still used and encouraged in German print. It was behind their fantastic loyalty to Führer and Vaterland.

  After the coach-load of laughing army officers had disappeared in the distance, I felt it was dark enough to venture out of my cover onto the road. My knee was very stiff now, but I hoped it would ease up as I used it. I also hoped the pain would stop. In the beginning there had been numbness, but now it was hurting badly.

  There was another problem. I hadn’t eaten since an early breakfast. It wasn’t that I was very hungry, but it made me weak. Down the road I could see a collection of farm buildings. I was sure I would find some sort of food on a farm in mid-summer, perhaps even some warm milk straight from a cow.

  Like most country areas, people apparently retired early in this sparsely populated part
of Germany, and I was able to hobble down the road to the farm without having to avoid any traffic. The farm buildings stood back from the road. I turned in and headed for the barns and stables praying there would be no dog. The house was well separated from the other buildings. I headed for a large barn which seemed to have a stable under it. There was a large wooden door. I raised the wooden latch and pushed and pulled. The door was firmly locked. I went around the building. There was another door at the back, but it was as solidly barred as the first. I went quickly to the other barn buildings. All were bolted and barred. I realised that the methodical German farmers kept everything locked away. Whether this was due to the many foreign workers on the land; the German troops based in the area, or passing through; or just the general shortage and rationing of food; or a combination of all these factors, I didn’t know; but it was obvious I wasn’t going to find any food in the farm buildings, even though I could hear the scuffling of the animals behind the barred doors.

  I was just leaving the farm when I saw a brick building apart from the others. I hobbled over to it. There was a strong rotten smell coming from it, but at least I was able to force the door open. Feeling around in the darkness, my hands picked out two or three rounded objects which I guessed were potatoes. Most of them seemed to be rotting, and I guessed they were being kept to feed pigs. I found four which seemed more solid than the rest and put them in my pocket. In the farmyard was a pump and trough. I washed my face and hands and drank the cold water.