大象传媒

On the day before Don Stocker went off to war he went for a walk with his future wife, Mary, and hid a penny in a gate out near Tuddenham. It was a lucky penny. Three years later, after flying more than 40 bombing missions over enemy territory, he returned to collect it. This is Don's story ...

No one these days seems to have heard of the Civil Air Guard which I joined in Ipswich in 1938. It was disbanded after September 1939. I joined the RAFVR (Volunteer Reserve) in 1940 as a cadet and trained to fly in America (Tuscaloosa, Alabama) and to become a bomb-aimer in South Africa (Port Elizabeth) as I found this was what I could do well.

I was commissioned in 1941 after dropping about 50 10lb smoke bombs, riddling a drogue drawn by some very brave pilot. Then I had a long train journey and boat trip to the Middle East where I met my future crew in the famous 37 Squadron (motto: "Wise Without Eyes") and our planes - Wellingtons, known affectionately as Wimpeys. I remember winning a tin of 50 cigarettes for putting out a tiny circle of lights with a bomb from 10 thousand feet.

I had a perfect crew. Eric ("Tubby") Reid was pilot, Jock a superb navigator, Les Sykes, who became a great friend, and "Titch Lewis, an aggressive rear gunner. We were all flown by the ubiquitous Dakota to find that the Afrika Korps under Field Marshall Rommel were on their last legs, although some escaped to Sicily and the toe of Italy and had to be dealt with. We helped to deal with them.

A sumptuous leave in Cairo followed where we stayed with a wealthy Old Harrovian and joined the Mahdi Club, one of the most prestigious in the world. But duty called and soon we rejoined 37 Squadron in Italy in 1944. We were based at the huge American Army Air Force base at Foggia. They had 1,000 bombers and 800 fighters there.

On August 14th 1944 came the invasion of southern France, which is hardly ever mentioned. We on 37 Squadron bombed the south coast of France and softened up the defences for the huge force of Allied invading troops, 100,000 men, mostly American. French brigades were on the flanks and the force soon captured Marseilles and Toulon and then advanced up the Rhone valley. The meeting place between them and the boys who had fought their way down from Normandy was at Dijon. They both then took part in a huge pincer movement north-eastward towards Holland.

37 Squadron, still flying Wellingtons, now continued their advance up the east coast of Italy, supporting the 8th Army. Then came a cry for help from Tito, the partisan leader whose Yugolsavia was being invaded again by Germans heading south. The USAAF and RAF responded at once and in three stages:

1. dropping food for the partisans
2. dropping weapons (sten guns, rifles, grenades) to the partisans
3. bombing railways , roads and bridges.

The German motorised units were soon defeated and not a German was left in Yugoslavia.

Then it was back to business supporting the 8th Army. It was at about this time that my life on this earth nearly came to an abrupt end. We were hurtling along the runway on a mission. I was sitting beside the pilot and used to call out the aircraft's speed - 70, 75, 80. We had a 4,000 pound bomb on board that night and suddenly both engines cut. An old farmhouse loomed ahead. This was it. No one screamed. No one panicked. We all sat and waited for the end. Then, suddenly, the engines picked up and we cleared the roof of the farmhouse by about 13 feet.

Later, I was flying with the Wing Commander when we were stalked by a German night-fighter, a Junkers 188 with a pack of four cannons. I spotted him at 10 o'clock high. It was a fairly moonlit night and the crew took up action stations. Night-fighter against bomber: no contest normally and he came at us head on. But the Wing Commander, a veteran of 73 ops pretended to dive to the left before slamming the plane right at the last minute. The Junkers came in again from 12 o'clock and the Wing Commander did exactly the same manoeuvre. He said: "I think I know where he comes from and he'll try one more attack before he runs short of petrol." He did and the Wing Co did the same thing for the third time. We got away. He had banked on the German pilot being a logical man. So, that was two 0-0 draws in a fortnight.

Very few people have what is known as a sixth sense but it saved us on two other occasions. In the Yugoslav affair we were flying in daylight loaded with ammunition for the partisans and a fairly large town was coming up. The pilot asked, "What's the score?" and looked at the map. "Retaken by the partisans two days ago," he added. But as we approached I had a sixth sense of danger and suddenly yelled, "Diving turn to the right NOW!" As we peeled off the sky where we had been became black with flak.

Our next 'escape" came over Austria. Now the Wellingtons had not got the range or the bomb load to get as far as we approached southern Austria, so the Americans "loaned" the RAF some four-engine Liberators, the B24.

One night when on a mission in a B24, I had that strange sense of danger again and called up to our rear gunner, Titch, and asked him if there was any "trade". He relied that it was all clear but I still felt apprehensive and asked him to keep his eyes peeled. Two minutes later I heard the roar of his guns - a night-fighter was closing in. Titch was a fine gunner and told me he saw many hits on this night-fighter as it peeled away in the darkness. "Put it down as a 'possible'," I said but all he wanted to ask was how had I known that there was danger about. Well, at last we reached Austria and bombed the marshalling yards at Villach.

Another escape came in November 1944 but this cannot be put down to any sixth sense. I was travelling back from a party to Foggia in the back of an American Jeep. The driver hit a tree and I was flung out and ended up in a field. The others were all hurt but I was so drunk I didn't know what was happening and just lay there looking up at the sky.

Narrow escapes, indeed. Perhaps it was because my nickname at Ipswich School had been "Jammy"!

The Ploesti oilfields on the Romania/Hungary border must rank as one of the most dangerous targets. This was a huge area and Hitler's main supply of oil. It had to be destroyed. Two fighter squadrons were based nearby along with smokepots and a formidable array of the dreaded 88mm flak gun. The USAAF attacked Ploesti at low level in daylight and lost over 50 planes. One night, it was our turn. It was a "maximum effort" and that usually meant losing five or six planes. This time, our navigator was badly injured by flak and the wireless operator and I did our best to patch him up and save his life. As I was the only other person on board who had done a navigator's course I had to get us back somehow. Nearby was Lake Balaton where enemy fighters were gathered and any aircraft flying over the lighter water were rich pickings. Somehow we got back and the navigator was able to go home to South Africa after several weeks at the huge American hospital. Weeks later we had a postcard from him - he was quite fit but not ready to fly again just yet.

Ploesti was hit, again and again, and lack of oil (and magnetic mines in the Danube) stopped Hitler's mechanised units in their tracks and hastened his downfall.

Later on, we reached southern Germany but it was obvious the War was coming to an end. Our last trip was to bomb Hitler's Wolf's redoubt in Bavaria. We all wanted to be on that last one but at the very last minute the operation was cancelled. Hitler had shot himself in the bunker in Berlin and soon after that the war in Europe was over.

By the end of the War I was Bombing Leader on 40 Squadron at Foggia, with 40 missions under my belt. We kept up our practice bombing and our C.O. had a brilliant idea. All the ground crew, armourers, fitters, riggers, who had done such a great job keeping us in the air under gruelling conditions were given a trip up to Venice and back, a sight-seeing tour, about 20 at a time. This was much appreciated.

Soon after this, I was playing football against the sergeants when a message came. It was home, sweet home for me. The next day I boarded a Lancaster and amid much cheering and hilarity I was flown to England after nearly three years abroad. We were all kitted out at a great demob stations, paid up to
date and given a railway warrant for home. I arrived at Ipswich station to be met by Mary. We were married in the spring of 1947.

What memories. The end of the beginning or the beginning of the end. I remember those days still vividly. The tension, the Mess nights with the hilarious and drunken rugby matches indoors. I regret nothing and will always be proud of my days in the RAF.

Most of all I recall the wonderful flying comrades of mine. They can never be replaced. Fifty-six thousand were killed or missing. But their cheerfulness, their dedication and their sheer lovable ness is their tribute for all time. I doubt if we shall ever see their like again.

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