Come to the night of 22nd February 1945. On making out the battle order that morning I put myself down to 
take F/Lt Luger and crew, myself as captain. As it was my habit to order a crate of beer to be left out for 
consumption in the mess by myself and any one else who wanted a drink in the mess on my return. As I did so 
I remember I paid for it at the time which was not usual at all. I took off and flew to the south coast, here 
we were quite late on plan. It was my prerogative to go through target in the first wave we always reckoned 
that this was the best spot before the defences warmed up. As we were late I moved out of the pilots seat 
and handed over to F/Lt luger, I reckoned that his crew should respond automatically to their own skipper 
with whom they trained all the while. However unfortunately we got later and later until we were twenty minutes 
behind schedule as we came up to the last turn east for target. 

Unseen a night fighter came in astern and hit the rear gunner which started a fire in the rear turret. We heard 
his screams and then the intercom burnt out, the wireless op soon had the emergency intercom working. The young 
mid upper claimed to have got a good burst into the fighter as he broke upwards. Meanwhile the hydraulic fluid 
supply to the rear turret was burning merrily and the whole turret was ablaze. I decided that we would go straight 
ahead through target and bomb. The intercom began to fade so I directed the crew that after ‘bombs away’ the bomb 
aimer would jettison his escape hatch and prepare to jump. All parachutes on Flight eng to be behind BA but within 
reach of my boot. Nav to be behind me W/Op to be ready to move aft to the door and pull mid upper out as well. Then 
the pilot to follow me from the front hatch. I said that on the first shudder I would order OUT, kick the engineer 
and he would likewise the BA. At the same time I would push and point the nav to the rear. There were pleas that 
we would stretch to our own army lines nearly up to the Ruchwald forest line. I said that we would not make it as 
the fire would result in the severance of the whole tail unit. However the question was settled by a night fighter 
coming in and the unwelcome sound like a hydraulic pick. Luckily no one was hit and I gave the order OUT We were at 
about 17000ft and I later learned from the W/Op that indeed the tail came off and that he was catapulted through a 
ring of fire where the tail had been. 

As I dropped out of the plane my count was erratic, 1...2...4...5...8.9.10 then came a jerk and a fluttering white 
canopy above me.  Strangely it gave me a great sense of peace and I can well understand how in post war years 
parachuting became a popular sport.

I could see the target and hear the last of the raid.  The ack-ack died away and the search lights went out by groups.  
A hun fighter circled and, rightly or wrongly, I thought he might have crack at me however, he sheared off.  Then I was 
able to take a look around me.  In the sky to the south was a ball of fire the poor old Lanc, to the east the target to 
the west and north, a scattered trail of small fires.  The night was clear and a half moon rising so that the ground was 
visible as a dark pattern below me.  There was a wonderful sensation of solitude and serenity however the direction was 
downwards and various exercises previously read about and lectured about were now tried out.  Turning left and right, 
spilling air and side dipping.  By now the ground became clearer and trees visible.  A large paddock of some sort appeared 
in the line of flight.  It was tree-ed on approach and to port and starboard so that the idea was to drop somehow into 
the open space.  After some haphazard pulling on the rigging lines the approach seemed good and then suddenly the ground 
could be seen approaching rather rapidly so I just let myself go slack and hoped for the best.  With a gentle bump and 
roll I found myself lying on soft earth with my parachute collapsing ahead of me.  Remembering the drill for such an event 
all was gathered in and I made towards the nearest hedge.  On the way I found a large potato clump.  Lengthwise it ran 
parallel to the north south hedge I tucked down beside it away from and screened from the hedge.  These continental clumps 
seem to be much bigger than those I remember in the UK and the gutter around the base wider and deeper.

The sound of feet, instep and dogs barking approached from the south and the other side of the hedge.  The men were talking, 
but not excited or with care.  The dogs did not have aggressive barks but rather an "on exercise" note.  I cowered in the 
clump ditch concealing as much of my parachute as possible under me.  The sounds passed and died away by my reckoning it was 
a reluctant patrol turfed out into the night to look for something they did not believe existed.  

Now came the stock taking.  My escape wallet of maps and money had blown away in the slipstream on my exit.  I still had my 
box of Benzedrine, biscuits, Horlicks tablets and cheese.  My field service cap was still wedged inside my battle blouse 
and under my belt, I had both boots on and was unscathed.  In my pockets I turned out a packet of 4 Players cigarettes, a 
box of matches-safety-12, 2 plain new handkerchiefs (no laundry marks) and a blank Cox and Kings cheque form. 1 service 
omega wristlet watch, the small pen knife in my "escape type" flying boots plus a wad of toilet paper (form 0.0. sandpaper 
pattern).

The bale out would be at about 01.15 hours, it was now 02.15 hours, the casual patrol had not found me so now was the time 
for a plan of action of some sort.  The parachute was buried in the bottom of the clump as best as possible.  The fur lined 
tops of the boots tore off easily as designed thus converting flying boots into shoes.  The two tops opened out and with the 
pen knife I hacked off the zips.  These I stuffed into the clump whilst the two fur rectangles I put under my shirt, flat, 
fur inwards on my chest and back.  I had taken Benzedrine before the war, in fact it had been our 269 squadron hangover cure 
before it went on the dangerous drugs list.  Thus I knew its properties and that it would clear my head of all but the object 
in mind - where to go.  The Allies had taken Cleves which I considered to be to my North West so that was to be the direction.
In other words, "left hand down from the pole star".  Charlie's wagon and the pole star were clearly visible so that gave me 
the line and off I set.  

My landing place must have been on a slight plateau as below from this a burn was visible at the bottom and the copse merged 
into a wood of conifers.  This standing timber was of about 12-15 feet in height, thinned and all ground scrub cleared.  Next 
I came upon a road running about 20 degrees to the north of my course but rather than re-enter timber I took the road.  Traffic 
approached and two or three times the German soldiers in pairs called out "Guten Tag" to which I grunted the same.  Two or 
three solo cyclists did likewise.  As the trees grew taller on both sides of the road I heard the sound of a heavy motor vehicle 
approaching so I moved off to port into the trees and stopped about 30 yards away from the road.  A grunting and groaning lorry 
passed from my direction of travel and went straight on.  The sound died away into the distance and it seemed prudent to stick 
to the timber and get back on course.  It was noticeable that the Krauts are good timber growers, there was little or no ground 
cover, the trees were well spaced and had no lower branches.  The branches started at about 12 feet, the stronger ones starting 
above that.  This line of walk was halted by the burn or stream of about 7 yards in width.  In the moonlight it showed a fair 
speed, level banks a foot or so above the water, but quite beyond my long jump ability.  I followed the burn upstream and came 
to patch of young timber.  This patch was a rearing area, uncleared, quite closely planted and 7 or 8 foot high.  It offered 
ideal shelter.  In I crawled until it became quite dark from knitting of the branches overhead.  Once more it time to take 
stock of the situation. 

 For the first time I wondered what had happened to the rest of the crew, I was of course already aware the rear gunner was 
dead, I hoped the rest had managed to get to ground safely and were evading capture.  My present position, thought far from 
pleasant, was dry and secure.  I decided to take a Horlicks tablet and sleep on things, as this is a neutral condition, being 
a creature of habit before bed, relieved bodily functions away from nest.  Then I lay down and curled up and slept.  About 3 
or 4 hours later I awoke refreshed.  The snag was that my joints were all frozen by frost and had to be eased very painfully 
back into action.  There was the sound of some sort of factory in the vicinity and motor traffic up on the road.  Men's and 
women's voices could be heard talking and singing as of parties of workers being conveyed in the back of trucks.  

As this disturbance died down I worked my way down to the burn I realised there was no way over the water as it was wide deep 
and fast flowing.  There was also a lot more movement on the road and eventually I was spotted.  A line of German troops with 
automatic weapons advanced upon me, I did what any self respecting pilot in that situation would do and gave up.  I was taken 
to a flak post and held.  They at least fed me, the food was terrible, stew, black bread and some sort of tea.  I was held 
overnight and early the next day several other prisoners were brought in Flt Lt Luger and the rest of the crew less the rear 
gunner and navigator being amongst them.  The navigator, we learnt after the war had been picked up by the SS who took him to 
a field and shot him.  A polish slave labourer saw it all from a hiding point nearby.  Realising this was not right when all 
was clear he nipped out and took the nav's identity discs which he gave to the first British troops into the area soon afterwards, 
a matter of weeks.  He had landed away from me and the rest of the crew the latter had all come down in gardens of houses near 
the flak post.  

We were all bundled off to a higher formation, here we had our first interrogation.  They also took any articles of service 
equipment such as service watches although I managed to swipe another from a table.  More prisoners RAF turned up here.  A Geordie 
from County Durham among them.  I knew he was genuine by his broad accent and dialect which I think I alone understood.  In fact 
we both conversed in the broadest of broad Geordie for this purpose.  From here by transport we went to Krefeld then by train to 
Dusseldorf and eventually to Dulag Luft at Oberursel (the Luftwaffe interrogation centre).  Here I spent 12 or 14 days in solitary 
confinement interspersed with interrogation sessions.  We were so well briefed on the Dulag Luft procedure that it was actually 
a most boring procedure.  Whenever I was asked how various radar and navigational aids worked I could honestly say that I did not 
have a clue.  Eventually in exasperation the main questioner slapped the table and shouted "I believe you, you are a bloody rotten 
wing commander, you should know these things".  Ironically on my last day the chief interrogator came into my room and slapped a 
file in front of me, this was my complete file which contained number, rank, name, squadrons and virtually my entire service 
history.  This was the end of Dulag Luft from here off to Wetzlar, a transit camp, and from there to Nuremburg Oflag XIII-B.