"Lest We Forget"

George had just changed direction when, without warning, there was a blinding flash followed by an explosion of such violence that I was thrown against the side of the fuselage.  Simultaneously came a shout over the intercom which ended abruptly, followed by silence.  I jumped to the astrodome, from where I could see the starboard wing ablaze, with both engines out of action.  Our poor Lanc went into a dive and looking up front I could see George wrestling with her like a madman.  There was no time for debate; this was it, the dreaded moment we had rehearsed for so often.  George yelled “bale out” and as in a nightmare I clipped on my ‘chute and picking up a torch, scrambled back along the fuselage, being thrown from side to side as I went.  My torch flashed upon the mid-upper turret, it was smashed and poor old Ted was dangling inertly from his harness, lifeless and bespattered with blood.  Sickened, I lurched on past him towards the rear door.  The beam of light flashed past it to the rear turret and to my horror, there, amid what remained of the rear turret, was Winky, slumped grotesquely over his guns.  Having satisfied myself that he was behind human aid, I turned in desperation to my avenue of escape, the rear door, only to find it jammed; the blast must have distorted the air-frame.  There was an axe located nearby and in a frenzy I wrenched it from its mounting and attacked the door, but all to no avail.

As a last resort I turned and fought my way up front, please God let someone still be there!  Then I spied George, all alone, still at the controls, looking back and beckoning to me.  I shot past him and dived down through the front hatch amazed that I had enough awareness to delay pulling the rip-cord until I was well clear.

The ‘chute opened up with a bang and a wrench that threatened to pull me in half - I never did have my harness tight enough!  Funny, but when you practice baling out at drills, you don’t visualise jumping into a black void and hanging, apparently motionless, in ten-tenth cloud, with no way of knowing how near or far away the ground is, or if you are even the right way up!


I remember hoping desperately that George had managed to jump and was aware that, but for me, he would have baled out earlier.  I’ve known lots of chaps who received decorations for simply being luck enough to complete a tour I wonder how many unsung heroes there were whose deeds, like George’s, went unobserved and unrewarded; I shudder to contemplate the outcome for but for his bravery. 


Roy Hill the author of "Survivor" was the wireless operator on "B for Baker" and George the pilot was my father.  They were reunited 40 years after the end of World War II in a little village called Holtzwhir in the Alsace France.  Unbeknown to them their Lancaster had come down in the woods outside the village and all those years later two young men from the village were curious to trace any of the survivors from the doomed aircraft.  Dad and Roy were also reunited with the navigator Eric Dunn from Devon and it marked the 40th Anniversary of the liberation of the village.  

Dad was 22 years of age when the plane was shot down.

"Lest We forget"