╨╧рб▒с>■  rt■   q                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                ье┴s ┐Ujbjb└ └ %░кkкkQ      ]ЦЦЦЦЦЦЦ***** 6*ъVVVVVVVV╨╥╥╥╥╥╥,¤ЇёФ■ЦVVVVV■6ЦЦVVV666VОЦVЦV╨к@ъ@ЦЦЦЦV╨6Ъ6╨ЦЦ╨J m╗**фR╨ Chapter X - Chedburgh Last night I remembered my mates who flew on high Expiring, like dying comets, in a darkened German sky. On the first of October, 1942, the Squadron moved up the road a bit to Chedburgh, a camp the personnel found vastly different to peacetime station Strad. Len Hiscox, a radar mechanic, relates, "My memories of 214 Squadron are all of Chedburgh, Suffolk. I can remember now the cold and the incessant mud and the vast distances to be covered on that dispersed site. We used to cut wood for the stove and stash it under our beds. The hut was a real mess." Robert Potter, an air gunner, and his crew of five English and two Canadian members, also arrived at Chedburgh during this time. He recalls , "The place was in a dreadful state, far from complete, and the hut in which we slept was infested with cockroaches. There were no lockers to leave clothes in when going off on ops, so one just left them on the bed, hoping they would still be there afterwards. On the night of October 7th, we took off for Aachen, carrying a load of incendiaries. There was an explosion and the aircraft caught fire and crashed in a field near Bury St Edmunds. I was pretty badly burned and spent two weeks in Bury hospital before being transferred to the Burns Unit at RAF Ely, where I remained for the next year, undergoing skin grafts." Bob Potter never did catch up with 214 again. After attending a medical board, he was posted to Coastal Command, joining 218 Squadron, then 461 RAAF Squadron, still serving in his air gunner capacity. He continues, "On discharge, I returned to Chedburgh to report and look for my kit, but found the place almost deserted. No one seemed to know what had happened to 214 Squadron. I did, however, manage to locate what was left of my kit Ц one kit bag, one dirty shirt, and a pair of socks Ц which I found in a store-room." The first part of the October campaign opened with raids on German cities, but by the middle of the month, emphasis was shifted to targets in Northern Italy in support of our forces in North Africa. The Eighth Army opened an offensive at El Alamein on the 23rd, to inflict a crushing defeat on the Axis forces. This drive, coupled with the Allied landings in Morocco, eventually drove the Germans from Africa, led to the invasion of Sicily and Italy, and to those countries suing for peace and departure from the war. Although the southern flank of Germany was less protected than its northern one, and our casualties were very much reduced on the southern one, the length and exacting nature of the flights to Italy still took their toll. The weather over the Alps was sometimes totally different from the forecast, and with the Stirling's poor operational ceiling, it was on many occasions a case of finding a route through the Swiss passes, with peaks towering above on both sides of the aircraft. Often, too, aircraft would reach the Alps, but would then run into severe conditions which would force them to abort, and make the long journey back home with their bombs still aboard. The targets, Turin, Genoa and Milan, as compared with the German cities, were virtually undefended. I remember on one raid to Turin, the city was bathed in moonlight, and we could easily identify the cantilever roofs of the Fiat works, our target for that night. The flak was ineffective, and although we did see a twin-engined fighter, no attack was made and our bombing run was carried out without any interference whatsoever. Above all else, our bombing must have had a marked effect on the morale of the Italian people and, even at this stage of the conflict, I think they realised that they could no longer win the war. It was not on the Italian raids, though, that the Squadron lost two of its crews during October. Sgt R. Davison, RCAF, was shot down at Felde, North Germany, during a raid on Kiel. Two nights later P/O Paape, RNZAF, crashed in the Netherlands returning from Cologne. On the night of October 22, G/Cpt Dermot Boyle, the Station Commander of Stradishall, and survivor of the Hanau raid of April 1st, decided to make his first sortie in a Stirling bomber. Harold Bidmead was appointed to be his engineer for the flight. The operation was a mining one to Deodars, code name for the sea area close to Verdon in the Gironde Estuary. The Groupie planted his vegetables in the waters and returned to base without incident, the round trip being just under eight hours; quite a long journey for a starter trip. In November No 3 Group's, and 214's efforts, were concentrated once more on Italian targets, although Stuttgart was bombed on the 22nd. It was the weather that was the deciding factor, and the wintry conditions limited the number of sorties flown. Returning from Turin on the night of the 21st, Stirling W7584, flown by F/Sgt Corlett, had successfully negotiated the long journey over the Alps, bombed the target, and was nearing Chedburgh on return, when two of the aircraft's main controls failed. F/Sgt Corlett ordered his crew to bale out, which they did, but by ensuring the crew's safety, he had insufficient time to make good his own escape. Like so many pilots, he forfeited his own life for the sake of his crew. The next raid to Turin was on November 28. Seven machines took part but only three reached the target. The others turned back before reaching the Alps. The Group sent out 48 Stirlings but only half this number reached their objective. One aircraft that did reach Turin was flown by F/Sgt Gatland. Nearing Paris on the return leg, his aircraft was first hit by flak and then shot down by a night fighter. The two gunners and engineer were killed in the crash, the remainder managing to bale out. They were all captured by the Germans, with the exception of the observer, Sgt Penna, who made good his escape. Turin was up on the board again the following evening; another a bad night for the Group. Weather conditions were poor and the aircraft sent out were soon heavily caked in ice. This caused two thirds of the force to abort before reaching the mountains. As for 214, not one of the Stirlings succeeded in crossing the Alps. As November's weather persisted into the final month of the year, flying was greatly curtailed. Although Turin received one more visit and some German targets were bombed, the Squadron's main efforts were concentrated against shipping, without loss of machines or personnel. One close shave, however, occurred on December 16/17, when two crews were detailed to take part in a low-level on Diepholz. F/Lt Johnston, RNZAF, in one of these aircraft, had the misfortune to have the incendiaries in the bomb-bay catch fire, but he managed to jettison his load and to return to base in a badly damaged plane. Here is Sgt Penna's account of his evasion: "In early 1941, at the age of 18, I volunteered for service in the RAFVR. This sounds, at the very least, like a patriotic gesture, but in reality it was no more than a selfish act to ensure that I was able to serve in the branch of the Armed Services that had, for me, the most appeal and glamour. The war had been in progress for some fifteen months, and youths of my age were being conscripted and placed, without choice, in the branch of the Services most in need of manpower. By volunteering, one could opt for a particular branch, and my choice was the RAF. "Little did we know what lay ahead of us, as some thousands of youths of similar age converged on the Air Crew Reception Centre at St John's Wood, London. After various exams and tests we were selected for training as pilots or navigators. I was in the latter category and was soon posted to Aberystwyth Initial Training Wing, and then to No 10 Observers' School, Dumfries. My flying training was completed there, and in May, 1942, I qualified as an Air Observer and was posted to No 20 Operational Training Unit, Lossiemouth. Here I met the other four NCOs who were, with me, to form the crew of a Wellington bomber. Hitherto we had all been trainees. Now we were mingling with seasoned aircrew, veterans of many operations against the enemy, who were having a rest period from combat and who were responsible for putting the finishing touches to our training and so preparing us for operational flying. "The great day finally came and we were posted to No 218 Squadron at Marham. With mixed feelings of elation and trepidation, we assembled at that station, feeling very important. This feeling quickly gave way to one of inadequacy as we talked in the mess with those who had many operations under their belts. We listened with awe to stories of trips over Berlin, and how Hamburg was so well defended that it was possible to walk on the flak from the ack ack. As time went by, and we became more operational, we were to indulge in some line shooting ourselves! Our time at Marham was short and we were subsequently posted to No 214 FMS Squadron, Stradishall. At that time 214 was converting to four-engined Stirling bombers, and so we swapped our Wellington for a Stirling, having done a conversion course at No 1651 Con Unit, Waterbeach. We felt very grand and superior as we landed our four-engined monster on the airfield at Stradishall, but we were soon on the move again as we were to operate from a satellite aerodrome at Chedburgh. "September, 1942, will always live in my memory. We started our operational trips with a visit to Dusseldorf on the 10th and continued thereafter with bombing and minelaying trips at night, over and around the coasts of Europe. In October, targets in Italy were attacked by squadrons based in the UK, and trips to Turin, Milan, Genoa and other Italian cities followed in quick succession. It was a raid on Turin that was to change my life completely. "Aircraft of 214 Squadron were detailed to undertake a night raid on Turin on the night of November 28th. I remember quite distinctly the flare path lights flashing past as we thundered along the runway just before 6:30 pm. We were heavily laden with bombs and fuel and the aircraft laboured on its take-off. The trips to Italy had previously proved uneventful and, apart from the long haul over enemy-occupied France, the climb over the Alps and the descent to the target, things were usually quiet. Little enemy opposition was encountered, but we had to be vigilant for the whole of the eight hour trip, keeping a special watch for enemy night fighters which had been alerted by our outward passage and lurked in the darkness awaiting our return. On this particular trip we were without our regular mid-upper and rear gunners, both of whom had been wounded on our previous sortie. No crew liked changes in personnel, because it disrupted the team work, and it must have been doubly hard for the two lads who flew with us for the first time. We were relieved to reach the target, drop our bombs, and begin the long flight over the Alps back to base. It was a bitterly cold night, the moon was bright, and the attack on the target seemed to have been successful, if judged by the size of the fires burning below. We saw other aircraft twisting and turning against the background of the glow of the fires on the ground, but, thankfully, saw no casualties. "Our return to base was via the north of Paris, and it was just midnight as we neared that city. Suddenly all hell was let loose. An enemy aircraft pressed home its attack after we had been hit by a shell from a ground battery and in seconds we were a ball of fire. The pilot looked helplessly on as the controls went limp and the aircraft failed to respond. Gradually opening the throttles, he gave the order to abandon aircraft, and soon I was floating down to earth, suspended by the silken strings of my parachute. The aircraft lit up the sky as it exploded on hitting the ground some distance away. Then all went quiet except for the drone of the engines of other aircraft as they made their way home. "I hit the ground with a jolt and found myself in a newly ploughed field. Here my training took over and, by instinct, gathered in the white silk canopy of the parachute and stuffed it under one of the piles of sugar beet that were nearby. I was wearing brown leather flying jacket and trousers, flying helmet, and calf-length fur-lined boots. These latter were my pride and joy since they were made of leather and not suede as were many other types. Quickly I remembered what I had been taught. On landing we had been advised to move immediately and put as great a distance as possible between ourselves and the aircraft. I ran and stumbled for what seemed to be hours. With each step I grew more and more aware of the plight in which I found myself. Each hedge became a line of German soldiers with rifles aimed at me, and the sight of a tree on the skyline struck me with real fear. "By four o'clock I was exhausted and had to rest. Climbing a hedge, I found myself in a cabbage field, lay down between the rows and drifted into a fitful sleep. Later I awoke, cold, hungry, and frightened, and in this state began what was to be the most incredible journey I was ever to undertake. "Discarding my leather flying clothes and helmet, I stuffed them into a ditch. Next, I decided to make my way to Calais, get a boat somehow, and cover the 20 or so miles that would separate me from home. It was the pipe dream of an immature boy of 19. Taking off the battle dress tunic that sported stripes and brevy, I slung it over my shoulder, tucked my flying boots under my trouser legs, adopted a slight stoop to disguise my six foot height, and set off. I wanted to retain as much of my uniform as possible as insurance against being captured and taken for a spy. I reasoned that, if I were brazen and walked openly along the road, I would excite less curiosity and with a little luck could reach my objective. I had reckoned without the weather, lack of food, and indeed the sheer loneliness and constant need to be vigilant. "I walked by day and mingled with those who were out and about. I met German soldiers and on one occasion passed a squad on the march. At night I sought shelter in some barn or hedge, sharing a bed with rats and other nocturnal creatures. Many a time my heart stopped beating as a rustle in the hay disturbed my rest, but always it proved to be nothing more than an animal. There were nights, however, when I was befriended by local people, who gave me some of their meagre rations and let me have a bed till morning. I shall be ever grateful to those unsung heroes, the people of France who, at great personal risk, gave me practical help and sustenance. I could speak reasonably good schoolboy French, and was able to converse and make my plight known to all whom I felt I could trust. My first encounter was with a small girl of about ten years of age. She looked wide-eyed at me but was not frightened when I asked her the name of the village I was entering. I found it to be Chauny, and so I planned my route along the road to Ham, Peronne, Bapaume, Arras, and through to Calais. It was a journey of some 225 kilometers as the crow flies, and I could remember my father talking of his time in the Arras area during the 1914-18 war, so hoped that I might get help to get out of France. I managed to find my way to Arras, but on reaching that town I was near to being a nervous wreck, had a high fever, and was footsore. This condition was to be my saviour however, since it brought me into contact with the French people at their best. They nursed me back to health and restored much of my confidence. They renewed my hope and eventually were instrumental in putting me in touch with the Resistance Movement. Once I had been kitted out with civilian clothes, given identity card and name, I began my journey Ц not to Calais, but to Gibraltar! I was taken by car from the little village, outside Arras, that had been my convalescent home, to Arras railway station, and then by train to Lille. The first train journey was a nightmare! I was accompanied by a French guide, but nevertheless sat in a normal compartment with other passengers. I feigned sleep until we reached Lille. When we arrived we went by tram to a safe house in Lille, from which I would later be escorted to Toulouse via Paris and Lyons. "I spent Christmas in Paris, and learned that I was to be part of a convoy of ten allied personnel and ten Frenchmen forced to quit the country because of sabotage activities, or giving help to escaping airmen like me. Eventually we arrived at Toulouse, where I was billeted in the town with French patriots, but the presence of our convoy became known to the Germans and we had to disperse quickly. I went to Nice via Marseille, a very dangerous area to be in during the early part of 1943. The Germans believed that the Allies would invade France from across the Mediterranean, and so security was tightened to an alarming degree. Pedestrians were being stopped, questioned, and searched, as a matter of routine. Despite this, we were still taken for daily walks and lived the life of a normal citizen. On reflection, this was of course the safest thing to do, and excited less suspicion. As long as we were not caught in the cordon and questioned, because of some act of sabotage against the Germans, we were OK. Even so, things at last became rather too dangerous for us to stay any longer, so back we went to Toulouse via Marseille. Our billet was once again in the town itself. We stayed there for a while but one night I was awakened from my sleep and ordered to get dressed. Once more I was on my travels. After a long journey we came to Bergerac, near the Pyrenees, where I was holed up for several days while arrangements were made to cross into Spain. Early one morning I was taken to a village at the foot of the Pyrenees, and there joined up with the rest of the party which was to cross the mountains. The plan was to cross into neutral Andorra, and to achieve this, two Spanish guides had been recruited. It was a business venture as far as they were concerned. The motive for helping us was purely one of financial reward. They were suitably attired, but we had ordinary civilian clothes, necessary to avoid suspicion as we travelled to our point of departure. The sight of twenty individuals all dressed for mountain climbing would, without doubt, have been investigated very rigorously by the Germans. Clad in this way, we had the misfortune to encounter some of the worst weather experienced in the mountains for years. The snowfall was out of the ordinary, and we progressed in single file, each member putting his feet into the prints made by the person in front of him. As the person at the head of the column became tired with breaking the trail, he stood aside and assumed a position at the rear in order to rest a little. After a journey that can only be described as a nightmare, we reached Andorra. "Due to severe frostbite, four of our party including myself remained in Andorra whilst the rest carried on to Barcelona, and then to Gibraltar via Madrid. With the help of the British Consul, I eventually reached Gib as a hospital case. My journey home was in the troopship Stirling Castle bound for Liverpool, and this trip was eventful. On board was a regiment of the Black Watch which Lord Haw Haw had boasted would never reach England. I must say the German U-boats did their level best to make his predictions come true, but despite other losses in the convoy, our vessel was not hit. So, many months and hair-raising moments after leaving England in a Stirling bomber, I returned aboard a ship named the Stirling Castle. I was one of the lucky ones. Three of my crew died and three were taken prisoner. I have often thought about my adventures and can honestly say that I left England an immature boy but, in the few months it took me to get back, I learned a great deal about human beings and developed the knack of being able to make a judgement about whether I could trust strangers not to betray me to the enemy when I asked for help. Fortunately, my intuition was almost always proved right. "I am pleased to be able to contribute to the history of No 214 Squadron . . . forever mindful of those who cannot do so because they sacrificed all. There are many stories of heroism and devotion to duty that remain untold. We who are able to tell of our experiences can do so because a need to survive was the prime motive for our escape or evasion. Fear was the spur. Someone rightly said that a brave man is one who conquered fear. I was afraid and I respect those who succumbed to fear." Cyril Penna was awarded the DFM on his return to the UK and was later commissioned and attained the rank of Squadron Leader. 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