大象传媒

That Split Eternal Second (Part 1)
We were based at RAF Snaith, Yorkshire flying Halifaxes. Having almost completed a tour of operations on long range targets over Germany, we had suddenly been transferred to railway targets in northern France, prior to the invasion.

Amid a cloud of winking navigation lights, we climbed over England to our operating height of 7000 feet, and having already doused lights, passed over the Thames Estuary.
Crossing the Dutch coast there was no flak. All was suspiciously quiet and Lewie called up the gunners to keep a look out, as there were already ominous glows in the sky ahead. We were some fifteen miles from the target when we were hit.
We never saw the fighter, if fighter it was, but A-Able shuddered violently under the onslaught, and immediately we were on fire in the port inner engine, close to the fuel tanks. Lewie jabbed the fire extinguisher buttons but without effect. Behind us streamed a cloud of burning petrol, and we knew we had finally had it.
Parachutes were quickly clipped on even before Lewie called, Parachutes on chaps,鈥� and a few seconds later the shout, 鈥淏ale out- Bale out!鈥� galvanised us into action.
The wing was now burning furiously. The escape drill, etched into my mind during every previous trip, now sprang into action.
Lifting the escape hatch under my bombing position, and battling with the roaring wind, I dropped it through the hole, and as Nobby and Mac passed me on their way out, I returned to give Lewie his parachute from the stowage position. He waved me away and motioned me to get out and at that split second the wing exploded and we turned over.
I found myself in the air without fear and in total darkness, the silence absolute. A deep feeling of calm overcame me, and I felt cradled in a great stillness. I seemed to be in another world. It was only when I discovered my parachute and pulled the D-ring that fear returned, as with a deafening crack the chute flashed by my face and I seemed suddenly borne upwards at high speed as it broke my downward plunge.
But I was still falling and below me was the wide expanse of the River Maas. Thoughts flashed through my mind of a dimly remembered parachute drill of how to change direction in the air, and this had some effect. I did not relish the idea of finishing up in the drink鈥�. The appalling realisation that one life was over and that I was now falling into the hands of the enemy was somewhat lessened by the apparent ploughed fields visible below, shining in the moonlight.
Plans for escape filled my mind. I was falling into open countryside, they would never find me.
Seconds later, trees flashed by me and I crashed into a factory roof up to my knees in tiles, smashing my nose on the roof ridge. The huge white parachute hung above, suspended from a tall chimney, advertising my presence.
The silence was broken by shouts and the sound of running feet as Dutchmen suddenly appeared to clamber up the drain pipes to release me from my trap.
Climbing down over their backs, glad to be on solid ground again, they escorted me to a nearby house, where within seconds I was surrounded by smiling faces. The house soon became full to bursting. Cigarettes and drinks were thrust upon me and amid the interminable shaking of hands, excited voices shouted, 鈥淲hen is the invasion - when is the invasion?鈥�
鈥淪oon,鈥� I answered, 鈥渧ery soon!鈥� little knowing when it might be.
I knew no more than they.
I was then officially captured, when the local German army appeared in the shape of a little old man who announced, 鈥淔or you the war is over!鈥� and I was put into a waiting car. During the short car ride, suddenly realising that I had not had time to dispose of my so far 鈥榮ecret鈥� bombing orders, I managed to tear them up and drop them out
of the car window which was very fortunately open. I did not wish the enemy to have any more information than they already had.
On entering the local police station I was able to surreptitiously throw the remains behind a large shrub adjacent to the doorway and I felt relatively happy that they had nothing on me. I knew that interrogation would follow.
The sight that met my eyes caused me to smile with joy and relief. Seated on a stool in one of the cells was Rebel, the mid-upper gunner. He had sustained a slight head wound and with a bandage surrounding his head pushing up a great quiff of black hair, he looked like a Red Indian chief which, with his high cheek bones, denoted his undoubted ancestry.
No news was available on any other members of our crew, but I felt sure that Nobby and Mac should have made it, unless they had been caught up in the explosion. The fact that they were not with us was bad news. We now learnt that we were in Maastricht and together, escorted by two guards, we were taken to the railway station.
On the way through Holland, to where we knew not, we were able to talk, and Rebel鈥檚 escape appeared no less miraculous than my own. As he had been climbing down from the turret to make his way to the rear escape hatch, the broken wing sliced off the end of the fuselage and he was wafted out of the large hole thus created.
We had little idea of what was going to happen to us, but we were grateful to be alive, and watched with interest when we stopped at various railway stations, the antics of the ill-fed labour force working on the railway lines. Upon recognising us, they had probably seen many R.A.F. on the same route to the prison camps, they immediately stopped work and jammed their long crowbars into the ground to form the obvious 鈥榁 for victory sign. It was a mute signal to their only hope of freedom, that same freedom which now applied to ourselves. We had a lot in common, though their hardship had lasted for years.
The train rattled on through Venlo and Eindhoven, where we were
amazed to see the Philips radio factory emblazoned with signs and advertising all in English, though under the iron hand of the enemy. We were later transferred to another train, again with the hard wooden slatted seats, the two guards sitting on the outside so that we had the window seats, where we were able to pass the time watching the countryside flash by.
The train was packed with German troops, armed to the teeth and we began to feel a little nervous as we passed the remains of D眉sseldorf and Cologne, once great cities which we had helped to destroy. Littered streets, and the shells of roofless buildings met our gaze as far as one could see, and we were glad that London had not received the same annihilation. It was a sorry sight, but we felt a certain pride that the R.A.F. was the only force able to carry the war to the enemy at this time, and that with the evident destruction of the heart of Germany, the war, if not won, had no doubt been shortened.
We travelled the length of the Rhine Valley, now clothed in the beautiful pink blossom of almond and cherry on the sloping hillsides, with the huge river meandering below and I thought with all this, why do the Germans want more? Perhaps it was only Hitler and his generals.
And then we arrived at Frankfurt, to which we had been several times before, though in another life. Frankfurt was the main collecting point for the R. A. F. prisoners of war, and with the usual German thoroughness we were to go straight into solitary confinement.
It is difficult to describe the effect of solitary confinement under these conditions. To be pitched into a cell with little light from the high window, with only one s thoughts for company for days on end is a soul destroying experience. With the future uncertain and the stark horror of losing most of ones friends still uppermost in the mind, a state of shock occurs when the body shakes and teeth rattle involuntarily. Thoughts of how one came to be in this degrading position press upon a mind already in turmoil. My parents would not know if I was alive or dead - I would be posted missing - and yet I was alive. It would be months before they knew. Eleanor would immediately know that our aircraft had failed to return, and our last conversation filled my mind.
For two days I could not stomach the meagre food offered, but this was the whole idea of 鈥榮olitary鈥�, to break one down to the state of mmd where any human contact would be welcome and the prisoner would be only too glad to answer all questions at the interrogation to come. After three days the interrogations started in earnest and took the form of two hourly sessions twice a day, first with a very pleasant

German major followed by an SS type officer who harangued and blustered in the hope of extracting information about our aircraft and our squadron.
Cups of tea and cigarettes were offered, questions were asked, 鈥淲here did you live, where did you go to school?鈥� all these queries finally building to the really important questions to which they required answers.
Bogus Red Cross forms were thrust across the table to be filled in, with the threat that if uncompleted the Red Cross would be unable to make up their P.O.W. lists, and therefore no one would know of my existence.
I was forced to repeat ad nauseam that the Red Cross did not need to know my home address, squadron number or type of aircraft. All that they required were my name, rank and number, and of this I was confident, at which the German interrogator, speaking excellent English returned me to stew in my cell..
This went on for a further five days of halting conversations, coming to an abrupt end on my part when service matters were raised. It became a battle of wits, but I knew that with no doubt more P.O.W.s arriving daily, my incarceration could not last forever.
I thought again of my escape from the aircraft. My last recollection was of standing opposite Lewie in the act of giving him his parachute. When he waved me away, I was still some ten feet from the escape hatch when the aircraft blew up. I could not fathom it, it was a miracle, and then to be able to recover consciousness in time to pull the rip-cord.
I knew that Lewie had gone down with the aircraft. He was one of that gallant band who were to give their lives for their crews.
The interminable interrogations went on daily and at last the German officer in an exasperated mood asked, 鈥淒o you not want to join your comrades in the main compound? They have good food and pleasant quarters.鈥�
I had no means of knowing whether this promise was true or false, but I did want to join Rebel, my one friend, before he was perhaps sent off to a P.0W. camp without me. I asked again for news of the rest of the crew but obtained no satisfactory answer.
After ten days inside, I was at last released from confinement to join the others free to wander the huge main area, to converse at last with my own kind.

This account has been adapted from my book, 鈥淭hat Split Eternal Second鈥� (by Anthony Partridge) ISBN 1844262243 (available from bookshops/amazon)

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