大象传媒

358 SQUADRON
RAF JESSORE
MAY 1945

After fifty years the memories of experiences in Burma begin to fade: significant events remain deeply etched in the memory but the peripheral incidents begin to merge and it is difficult to remember the exact chronological order in which these incidents occurred. However I have dug deeply into the recesses of my memory and the following narrative is correct although the exact sequence of the events, having become somewhat blurred, may be a little out of "sync".

A week after my twentieth birthday on 18 May 1945, I was looking forward to leaving India having completed over 300 operational flying hours and now due for home leave. I had been a member of 358 Special Duties Squadron at Jessore, the duties being to drop supplies and Special Agents behind enemy lines. We were flying Liberators and I was an Air Gunner/Dispatcher. Air Gunner is self-explanatory: the Dispatcher's duties were to prepare the equipment and agents for the drop. I considered myself extremely lucky to have survived this far. Many were not so fortunate. Apart from the Japanese, our main enemy was the weather and the Squadron lost numerous aircraft during the monsoon season. If a pilot was unable to avoid the cumulus nimbus, there was little hope of survival; cumulus nimbus would rip an aircraft to pieces. My crew's good fortune was due in no small way to the skill of our skipper, Phil Adams, a New Zealander who had learnt to fly, I later discovered, among the mountains of his native Wellington. It was nearly fifty years later when I visited Phil and saw those mountains for myself that I fully appreciated his skill and recalled those terrifying moments when, on a mission to drop supplies, I would hear the bomb aimer say "You've got to get lower, Skip" and on looking out from the turret would see mountains towering above us.

On 28 May, I was approached and asked if I would do one more mission with Flying Officer Harry Smith's crew as it was the first trip for Ft.Sgt Parsons, his Gunner/Dispatcher and he would need to be screened (supervised) by an experienced dispatcher. I suppose that, by now, I subconsciously, considered I led a charmed existence, and saw no reason to demur. It would be untrue to say that I had some prescience of impending disaster, but for whatever reason I felt compelled to put all my things in order, pack my kit box, leave my money in a box with a note stating that I had a No. 2 dress uniform at the tailors ready to take home with me.

I met Harry, a Canadian and his crew 鈥� Ft.Sgt Bob Pool, second pilot; Ft.Sgt Jack Draper, bomb aimer; Ft.Sgt Woods, first WOP (wireless operator); Ft.Sgt Bill Pugh, second WOP; Ft.Sgt Peter Brenchley, navigator; Sgt Bill Pinckney, mid upper gunner; Ft.Sgt 鈥淐urly鈥� Copley, rear gunner; and Ft.Sgt Parsons. As well as the crew, we were carrying three OSS agents - Major John Gildee, Staff Sgt McCarthy and Corporal Naporalski and a special OSS observer Lt Reid Moore. After all the preliminary preparations, we finally took off at 5 minutes past midnight.

I don't recall a great deal about the journey - after 300 hours one journey was much like another until reaching the drop zone. It was at about 0615 hours on a clear cloudless morning when as we approached the target area near a village called Klong-Pai (meaning Bamboo Canal) in the province of Nakorn-Sawarn that all hell broke loose. Apparently from nowhere and without warning nine Japanese Oscar type fighter planes appeared and proceeded to have fine sport with this lone aircraft. The pilots must have thought it was their birthday and Christmas (or the Japanese equivalent) all rolled into one. The noise was indescribable and the amount of damage done was immense - although it was not until later that I realised the full extent - and is well documented in F/O Smith's account. Four members of the crew were killed - Bob Pool fatally hit full in the chest, aged 21; Jack Draper, aged 23; Bill Pinckney, aged 21 and "Lofty" Brenchley. Their bodies were later transferred from their temporary burial places and now lie in the Kanchanaburi War Cemetery in Thailand along with 7,000 other victims, most of them being casualties of the infamous Burma/Siam Railway. It was obvious that the aircraft could not survive the attacks and the alarm bell was sounded to take up our crash positions. The noise of the crashing plane was beyond description - caused by the continuing fighter bombardment, exploding ammunition and oxygen canisters and the sound of the plane's wings shearing off - a deliberate ploy by the captain to attempt a crash landing technique used by Canadian Bush Pilots. That was the last thing I remembered until some time later. To this day, I have been unable to find out exactly what happened subsequent to the crash landing. Harry relates that he was relieved to find the rest of the crew together with the OSS agents struggling to escape from the wreckage. I imagine I must have been with this group but I think I must have lost consciousness because the next thing I remember is coming round some distance from the aircraft. All items had been removed from my pockets and replaced with a silk handkerchief printed in several languages with the information that the holder was a British serviceman and a reward would be given to anyone helping him to return to his base. The aircraft was burning and ammunition exploding all over the place and the ground was littered with table tennis balls. Any available space in a Liberator's wings was packed with these balls so that in the event of a crash landing in the sea, the plane would stay afloat long enough for the crew to emerge. In front of me were the survivors grouped round Cpl Naparolski who was severely injured with a gaping hole in his abdomen and was not long to survive . I started to walk towards them, gathering up table tennis balls, which, in my confused state it seemed to me imperative to collect. The look of incredulity on the rest of the crew's faces when they saw me was beyond reason. Had they thought me dead? I shall never know.

All the survivors had injuries of one sort or another, fortunately, for the most part relatively minor. Harry, the pilot lost a lot of blood from a serious head wound; Taffy Parsons had a bullet through his foot but was mobile; "Timber" Woods was injured about the face and arms; Bill Pugh suffered minor shrapnel wounds in his left arm and forehead abrasions and was mobile; I also had minor shrapnel wounds to my left arm and burns on my left leg, also mobile. The OSS agents suffered more grievously: Major Gildee had a broken collar bone; Sgt McCarthy had a fractured back and other injuries and would need to be carried; Lt Moore had burns to his left thigh but could hobble about. The fact that there were nine survivors, probably the first ever survivors of a crash landing in a Liberator was due solely to the skill and courage of our Skipper, Harry. Never was the DFC (Distinguished Flying Cross) with which he was subsequently awarded, more deserved.

It was now time to take stock of the situation. It was necessary to vacate the crash site as quickly as possible as the Japanese fighters would have reported our position. Harry, against the advice of his comrades, elected to stay with the injured Naparolski who could not be moved but who was obviously not going to survive. We began to move away and after about ten to fifteen minutes we heard voices. We found somewhere to conceal ourselves and observed a group of men who did not appear to be military. Major Gildee, who knew a few words of Siamese went to speak to them. They turned out to be villagers who then escorted us back to their village of Ta-Klee. I understand that this village has long since gone. A group of them went back to get Harry and about two hours later he joined us. As expected Cpl Naparolski had sadly died shortly after we had left them. We were given water, a little rice and fruit. It was obviously a poor village. The inhabitants had very little for themselves but what they had they shared. The next morning what appeared to be a military patrol was seen approaching the village. We feared the worst. Fortunately our fears turned out to be unfounded. The group was a Siamese Military Police Patrol who, it later transpired had been sent to find us and escort us to Bangkok. One of them came up to me and demanded my watch - I was in no position to argue so I was only too happy to pass it over. We were given to understand in pidgin that a Japanese Patrol was on the look out for us so we had to leave the village immediately. We were moved out of the village by bullock cart to a hiding place by a river. During the next few days we travelled by bullock cart during the night, hiding up in the day time. One of the places we stopped was a small village where we were given chicken soup which was extremely welcome, followed by fruit and sugar cane. Hand rolled cigarettes were made of some unknown substance which were said to be fine and seemed to have miraculous properties. As I did not smoke, I missed out on the "wacky baccy". Had I known what they did for one, maybe I would have started smoking then. I do remember trying to teach the small children of the village, who were utterly delightful, such popular songs as "Roll out the barrel"

The next day we were taken to the house of the police captain of the province of Nakorn-Sawarn. The house was, I believe, Mali-Walya House (Jasmine House) where we were given a very good meal. We then had to cross a railway line which was heavily guarded by Japanese patrols. One by one we sneaked across with Copley and myself carrying the helpless McCarthy who must have been in serious pain but never once uttered a sound, before being escorted to a large river, the name of which was, I think Chao Phya where we boarded a small river boat where conditions were very cramped. Whenever the Japanese appeared we had to crouch down behind bamboo screens and pray that we would not be spotted. The toilet area was primitive in the extreme consisting of a box overhanging the rear of the boat and completely open. If we needed to "go", we had to brown our faces, wrap ourselves in a cloak and wear a coolie hat. It was rather hair-raising when Jap troops passed by. I believe such rudimentary facilities are still operating in the far east as I saw a television documentary a few years ago where exactly the same arrangements were in use. The presenter did not, however, need the disguise!

When we arrived in Bangkok, we were taken in an ancient bus whose windows were covered with the ubiquitous bamboo screens to Police Headquarters where we were questioned and spent the night. On waking the next morning, we found that Harry Smith, the OSS agents and "Curly" Copley had been spirited away by the American OSS. It was essential that the agents should not be found by the Japanese. The skipper and "Curly", chosen I understand, because of his long service overseas, were to go with them. The Siamese had to inform the Japs about all airmen they interned and the remaining Liberator crew together with the bodies which we were to learn later had been buried temporarily at the crash site would account for a full Liberator crew.

We were then taken to hospital where our wounds received good treatment. My nurse was called Watcheree. One day she brought a few of her nurse friends to see me. They were absolutely intrigued with my nose - they had such tiny button noses that mine was an object of amazement to them; they had a fine old time touching it and giggling. One evening we coloured our faces and draped in sheets and wearing native hats, we were taken to a festival in the hospital grounds. I think it was called a Rumwong but cannot be exactly certain after 50 years. There were bonfires and we watched the Siamese doing their local dances and there were many local dishes all based on rice. While we were in hospital we could stand on the balcony, being very discreet and watch the Japanese drilling or repairing telegraph wires etc.

Soon afterwards we left hospital and were taken to the internment camp which had formerly been a boarding school. It was called Tarprachan and was to be our home for the next few months. We met the Commandant and the senior officer, a New Zealander named Major Mackenzie. There were approximately 20 POWs in the camp including a marine, Fleet Air Arm pilots and American Lightning pilots, a right mixture but we all got along very well. I palled up with a 159 Squadron Air Gunner Taff (what else?) Thomas. He was a small lad - I imagine we would have been called the "Long and the Short" and we had the same ideas of what we intended to do in the immediate future which was to investigate as much of our surrounds as possible. We would go swimming in a big old pond: sometimes we would don some old clothes we came across, colour our faces , go out and sit on the road side amongst the Siamese and watch the Japs doing their drill and preparing to go out into the jungle for training; they would be gone all day with just a pocket full of rice. I remember one day we spoke to an Anti-Aircraft Gunner (Siamese) who told us in his broken English that he was duty bound to shoot at the bombers when they came over but that he always aimed to miss. I did not see a great deal of the other crew members in the camp. I mostly associated with Taff Thomas and Americans: we all did our own thing. A few miles from us was the Burma Railway. How any of the POWs working on that managed to survive four years is beyond belief. Of course many of them didn't. I did meet one or two survivors and recently I have met a few other survivors. The mental scars and memories are still too deep for many of them to talk about their experiences.

In August 1945, news leaked through that the Americans had dropped two atom bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki with devastating effects. It was a worrying time as we were unsure whether the Japanese would take any reprisals. From past knowledge it seemed very likely. However, as it turned out, we did not have to worry too long. In the early hours of one morning the American OSS arrived with a lorry into which we all piled and were speedily transported to the house of some high ranking official. We were given the most delicious meal of rice, various meats, fish, fruit, drinks. After the spartan diet of the POW camp, it was ambrosial and it was very difficult not to make pigs of ourselves.

Soon after we again boarded the lorry and made for Ban-Pe aerodrome in the province of Saraburi. However the aerodrome from where we eventually flew was called Pu-Kieo (Green Hills). We took off in an old Japanese "Sally" bomber piloted by an officer of the Royal Siamese Air Force. I can honestly say it was the most horrendous flight I have ever had either before the crash or since and I was mightily relieved when we eventually landed at an air strip in Burma. It was an American base and in the mess it was truly amazing to see the vast quantities and variety of food and drink available.

After a brief respite we boarded a Dakota aircraft for the flight to Rangoon. We had picked up an RAF lad who had been a POW on the railway for three or four years. The memory of that lad has never left me: he looked so ill and was so traumatised by his experiences that he was totally unable to speak. It is difficult, even after 50 years, to forget, much less forgive the unspeakable atrocities which were committed. We were taken to the hospital in Rangoon where we recovered for a few days, after which we were taken to an aircraft carrier - HMS Searcher. The hangar decks had been cleared and there were about 600 repatriated POWs on board. My memories are of the good food, especially the freshly baked bread and of lying on our camp beds watching films. One I particularly remember was "His Butler's Sister" with Deanna Durbin which has remained a favourite although frightfully dated by today's standards. We soon reached Madras, then on to Bombay and finally Calcutta where we met up again with Harry and Curly. What a memorable reunion that was. That was the last I saw of Harry for 40 years when we attended the first reunion of 358 and 357 Squadrons. And that was another memorable reunion - but that's another story. It gave me the opportunity though to thank Harry for saving my life along with the others and for Harry to apologise for the bumpy landing. Some bump!

After all the celebrations and good byes, we set off for Blighty in a Sunderland flying boat landing at Poole, thence by train to London and finally home.

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