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Despite the constant drain on the Bomber Command aircrew resource due to enemy action, accidents in training and tour expiries, the number of trained aircrew available to the operational theatres appeared to be satisfactory.

The Empire and Home Training facilities were maintained at capacity output from the holding centres that were set up to accommodate trainees between the various stages of instruction. Such a place existed in December 1943 at RAF Scampton. Written messages scribbled on the walls of the 'small rooms' left no doubt in one's mind that it was also the home of 617 Squadron and that 'the Dambusters were here.'

Standing in the gloomy cavernous atmosphere of the hanger I listened to the speculative comments of my crew and of these others around me and pondered, "What the hell now? Will we ever get on 'ops'? How long is it?"

November 1941: Aircrew Receiving Centre, London; Brighton for Kitting; Heaton Park; Moncton in Canada; Harrogate - in between the Initial Training Wing, Grading School; Elementary Flying Training; Senior Flying Training; Advanced Flying Training back in the UK; Beam Approach Unit; Operational Training Unit and now here awaiting the four-engine conversion course.

"Pay attention everyone!" an Australian Squadron Leader had climbed on to a table, clutching a sheet of notes. "Now you are all going on an escape exercise tonight. You will be transported into the Lincolnshire countryside and dropped at least 30 miles away from the base. You are to find your way back using any means whatsoever. This is to be achieved without being apprehended by the Home Guard, the Police Force and other Army units, all of whom having been alerted to what is going on. You will be issued with a set of overalls and each crew will be left at a certain 'dropping point'. Further details and answers to any questions can be obtained from the adjudicators sitting in the offices over there."

Mmm鈥� an escape exercise eh? - not that we intend to be shot down - just in case - this could be a useful dummy run - get back by any means! Realistic and an exciting challenge!

The crew was deep into a serious discussion on how to travel by rail without paying, whether to borrow a car (there could be a petrol problem), a bike and from the rear gunner (whose father rode to hounds) How about a horse? Breaking across the chat I said: 鈥淐ome along you lot - let's find out what it is all about."

The Austin six-wheeled crew bus rumbled on through the stygian December evening - two crews had already been 'dropped off' - each time the Officer had descended from the front seat and quietly given the crew a verbal approximation of their position. The question in the minds of those people left in the bus was voiced by the Wireless Operator - a young man who had definite plans for the night - plans which only had a remote relationship to the escape exercise, providing one could get to a Railway Station of course!

"Skip" said the Wireless Operator, anxiously, "do you think we are still moving away from base - or what?"
"We'll drop off at the next stop and risk it" I said. The rattling of the ill-fitting rear doors and worn spring shackles lessened and stopped.
"O.K. Chaps" I said "this is us - I'II go first. Lurching to my feet I opened the rear door, turned round and stepped down backwards on to the external drop step. "God, what a night" I breathed to myself. A dark overwhelming blackness oppressed everything no stars - no hedges - no bus - no road.

I put my foot down to where it should be and as it found the ground and I transferred my weight to it, I released my grip on the crew bus and something brushed against my shin. "What the devil's happening?" flashed across my mind as I lost my balance and fell backwards. There was a momentary glimpse of a yellow hole in the total blackness, it was the faint reflection of the masked headlights on the road, which I realised was moving towards me as I collapsed flat on my back.

"Christ Skip where are you, what's happened?" cried the rear gunner. No time to answer, to speak, to cry out, to鈥�
"On your side 鈥� roll!"
"Miss the step"
"It's still rolling backwards - I'm going to be run over," I thought. Lie face up? Face down? How do I get away with this - what to do next?

I was suddenly angry - what a stupid idiotic situation to get into! I could still see the glow in the blackness - keep it in the right position. "Missed the step" flicked across my mind. The 'diff' box! I'm a gonner! It will crack my head like an egg.
"Roll man! Roll sideways - miss it - watch the wheels". What a way to die - no - keep going. Is this where the Reaper lurks for me? Why here - no not here.
Why not that time in the Wimpey after all those hours in 10/10 cloud, when we ran into the London balloon 'squeakers'. Why not when鈥�? 鈥淯gh!鈥� Keep rolling - the second 'diff' - the wheels man! The front axle - the steering rods - they're low, you'll never miss them. Roll again. Lie flat - lie flat! Am I still alive or dead?

After an eternity and how many seconds was it? Nine or eight? A crumpled heap lay on the roadway in the dim light of the headlamps. Not a sound had been uttered whilst I fought for life and limb, acting with animal instincts of self preservation. I stayed there for what seemed to be another eternity, mind racing, but afraid to move and perhaps find broken bones or some other injury.

The cab door banged open and an 'Aussie' Officer ran towards me. 鈥淲here the flaming hell have you come from?" There was a tone of shocked, total disbelief in his voice. The adrenalin was still pumping in my body and instinctively I was on my feet checking arms, legs, body, head, even before the Aussie had reached me. "Incredible", I thought. I'm moving - alive!
"You've just run over me, damn it," I said wonderingly 鈥渂ut I think I am OK, all in one piece."

Normality was returning and my actions slowed as I examined myself more carefully for injuries. It was suggested that I got back into the bus and returned to camp but the opportunity to miss the exercise didn't appeal somehow - there was this feeling that I was involved in a real thing - perhaps I was slightly concussed. "No", I said slowly. "No there's nothing broken, bit shaken maybe but who wouldn't be after bailing out!"

So I walked back to camp, dodging imaginary Home Guard 'enemies' for the whole thirty miles, arriving at base half way through the following day, one of the last 'escapers' reporting to very disinterested adjudicators. There was no enquiry and the incident was never mentioned again by the crew or anyone, such was the pace of life and death in wartime conditions.

My crew finally became operational on Lancasters and completed a tour of operations so the escape exercise was never tested in reality. However the possibility did arise on more than one occasion giving cause to reflect upon what a chancy occupation operational flying was - almost as dangerous as getting off a Royal Air Force crew bus on a dark Winter's night!

This story was submitted to the People鈥檚 War site by Becky Barugh of the 大象传媒 Radio Shropshire CSV Action Desk on behalf of Don Street and has been added to the site with his permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions.

See more of Don's stories:

• Don and Doris Street married August 18th 1945
• Under Attack
• The Searchlight
• 鈥橸鈥� for Yoke
• The Kill

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