大象传媒

It was a bright, summer day in 1945. Our Squadron (No.61, Bomber Command) was in the hangar鈥檚 aircrew room at Royal Air Force Station, Waddington, in Lincolnshire. Suddenly, the squadron commander entered the room and called to six members, 鈥淕et your flying kit on, you are coming up with me.鈥�

Already dressed in flying gear, we went to the perimeter track to board the Lancaster. After completion of routine checks, we started the engines and proceeded to the end of the runway in use. We were cleared for take off.

We climbed high, and headed towards The Wash. Everything went as normal 鈥� and then, out of the blue, it happened. A streak of lightning hit the aircraft, between the fuselage and the inboard engine, where the main petrol tank, holding 600 gallons, was situated. Terrified, we waited for the big bang, but there was no explosion.

Then came the problems. Both magnetic compasses ceased to function. Needles were spinning so fast they appeared like white discs. At the same time, the radio set and the aircraft intercom also stopped working.

We certainly had luck on our side that day. We returned to base, flying low by the airfield鈥檚 control tower. We fired the red Verey light, signalling that we were in trouble, and finally landed after flying round the circuit.

The crew member who came off worst (although he survived) was the rear gunner. The lightning had travelled down the fuselage, discharging itself along the four rear guns and into the atmosphere 鈥� just like St Elmo鈥檚 fire, only more severe.

FLIGHT SERGEANT S.L.MORRIS
61 SQUADRON, BOMBER COMMAND

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