I am the daughter of William 'Bill' Goodman who served in the RAF during the Second World War. He was returning with the crew from a mission to Emden when their plane, a Stirling, was shot down in the Friesland area and they made their way to Ferwerd.
In my father's own words:
"Our intention was to approach the Friesian Islands about 13000 feet, but those atmospherics took our ‘lift’ away and we could get no more than 10000 feet. Even at that height we could be seen in silhouette from almost any direction, which was a potential hazard, and all crew members were asked to keep a very sharp look-out.
We were suddenly shaken by the impact of cannon shells striking into the starboard (right) wing which burst into flame. The shells had damaged the throttle and other controls to both starboard engines and the starboard aileron as well as the bomb doors on that side. Because those two engines could not be controlled by the throttles and lack of aileron control caused the plane to fly on a long circular track, which would bring us down in the middle of the North Sea, but Buck worked up a huge sweat with the exertion of holding some sort of course which would bring us over the Fresian Islands and, hopefully the Dutch coast before the plane exploded. We made it and he gave the order to abandon.
My ‘chute opened and I was drifting more or less serenely to earth, wondering how many had managed to get out when I was startled out of my thoughts by an aircraft which seemed as if had narrowly missed me. It was twin engined, a Messerschmitt 110 night fighter as I remember. I saw the flaming comet which ‘J - Johnnie’ had become curving round on its final course and I wondered how many had managed to escape, Buck especially in view of the way he had captained us and ensured our safety for so long. Suddenly the aircraft exploded into a fireball hurtling through the sky and towards earth. I looked downwards and saw I was falling towards water near the coast. It is so difficult to estimate height yet to fall when above water, and all of a sudden I felt my feet and legs fall into the water. I realised it was just a film of water over mud, thick, foul smelling mud which came up the length of my thighs. It was so thick it was impossible to wade through it, and the only way I could get to firm land was to stiffen my body, fall forwards and literally crawl out of it. An important prerequisite of successful evasion was to hide the parachute and harness, but I was unable to pull them along behind me, so I prayed they would sink into the mud and not be found.
I expected to see signs of block-houses, barbed wire entanglements - even patrolling sentries. But there was no sign of anything, which I could hardly believe. To get over the dyke I crawled on hands and knees, all the while watching out and listening for any sign of defence. On the other side I saw a number of drainage ditches with access paths alongside them, stretching inland at right angles to the dyke. Again I could not see any defences, but still could not believe it. I continued to crawl alongside one of the ditches and heard a sound ahead of me. I dropped into the ditch alongside the path, stopping every now and then and hardly daring to breathe, until I was abreast of a sound of careful movement. Suddenly a voice, in a hoarse whisper said ‘Is that you, Bill?’ It was a huge shock, but it turned out to be John Travis and Mac who had come looking for me in the hope my study of the maps could help to establish just where we were.
Unfortunately we had come off course with first, evasion tactics, then the attempt to get onto a course for home. These, together with the curve we had taken had destroyed my awareness of the final position, and it was too dark to consult the map. What knowledge I did have was enough for me to indicate in which direction we should walk. We stuck to the ditch side paths until we saw a large black motor car on a road ahead. We all dropped swiftly into the ditch until the car was out of sight. That it was large and black made us think it must have been an official car, probably the hated Gestapo, the secret police.
Morning was now with us, and it was becoming very light and indicating a beautiful summers’ day. For the time being we kept to those paths until we came to a house. In Holland at that time the house and barn was under one roof, and livestock was brought in during the winter, which became very cold with most of the waterways being frozen. Our continued hammering on the outside door eventually brought the farmer and his wife out. They were not able to speak English while we did not know their language either, but we were able, by sign language, to let them know we were RAF men who had been shot down. They were obviously unable to help us, but gave us bread and cheese and a drink before we left.
Now we were committed to using roads and we were surprised to see a man in uniform coming towards us. We judged him to be a postal worker, even on a Sunday, so we smartened ourselves up and fell into step. As we passed we gave him the typical salute of the Nazi Party and marched on, not looking back. We came round a curve to the right and saw a small square on our right, leading to a church. It was a fair assumption that the vicar’s education included English. There were about a dozen houses in the square, but the largest and nearest to the church must have been his. He answered the door and, yes, he had some knowledge of English. We explained our predicament and asked for his assistance. He asked whether we were Catholics, but none of us were. He said he was unable to help us, but advised us to give ourselves up for our own safety.
We continued into what we came to realise was a small town. Here my judgement of our position brought home to me that this was one of the stations of a railway, and we should wait for a slow goods train, preferably during the night, and ride the rods like American hoboes to bring us towards Amsterdam. The curving road next revealed a large building; obviously the Town Hall or similar. I led our little group along one side of the building where we came across a gap in the railings, with steps going down into the basement. A youth of my own age was leaning on the railings and we marched past, giving the Nazi salute and ‘Guten morgen’. He nodded ‘Good morning.’ That road led to the railway, but on the way passed a school with what looked like the head teacher’s house (it was too fine to be the caretaker’s). We must find an English speaker here. The head answered the door, followed by his wife and two daughters, all of whom spoke good English. They discussed our position, but had no knowledge where we might find help. I was reminded of a hint we had been given by the evader. He suggested getting in with a young lady as a couple were much less likely to be stopped by German police than a single person. My mind swung to this when I saw the elder daughter who, together with her mother and younger sister were in tears that they could not help.
Our next priority was to find a place to hide. The land was flat and there were no coppices in which we could hide. We already knew it was no use trying to hide in a barn, so we lay down in a hollow that was hidden from the road. After a little while we noticed a woman at a bedroom window. She was too interested for our liking. We were not far from the railway, but that would not have been a good place to be. It was now full daylight and people could be seen. We were quite desperate by now, when it occurred the youth at the Town Hall had actually said ‘Good morning’!
We almost ran back and he was still there, grinning, as he nodded us to follow him into the basement. He was the Mayor’s son and his father was just about the last still in post who was an Allies sympathiser, the others having been deposed by the Nazis and imprisoned. His father, Mr Esselink and the Chief of Police had gone to view our crashed aircraft, but should soon be back. The son brewed up [some tea] for us when we saw a large black car pull up outside the Town Hall. We thought it was the car seen earlier and the two men who alighted from it were Gestapo. The son introduced us and we were welcomed most warmly. Chief Smidt soon set about making known contacts, and the intention was to pass us on to another sympathiser. He made several sorties into town, coming back with suitable clothes and rations. We began to kit ourselves out for the journey, always bearing in mind the need to keep some of our uniforms so we should not be classed as spies if caught, and executed.
Chief Smidt arrived back from one of his sorties with a white face and terribly worried. He had been tipped off that one of the pro-Nazi persons in the town had told the Germans we were in the Town Hall and they were on the way to arrest us. The situation was fraught with danger for the good people of Ferwerd, where we were, so he had no option but to detain us. I suggested we assault him, take his revolver and run away. He said he could not allow that, as there might be reprisals against his town. We agreed that was likely, but the war would not go on much longer, thinking of the Thousand Bomber raids, so hurried up to conceal any help Smidt had tried to give us, and leaving them with all the currency from our escape kits. The German Army lorry pulled up outside the Town Hall and were led down into the basement by a huge officer holding what I have described as the largest hand held howitzer ever seen. Smidt, who had pulled out his revolver when he saw the Germans arrive put it back and ‘handed over his prisoners.’ He was able to say he had interrogated us and supplied him with our names, ranks and numbers. I think he was a good policeman to have rounded up the ‘arrest’ as he had done at no risk to the local populace.
Years later I learnt that he had remained as Chief throughout the war and was a respected man who tipped off the Resistance and stopped the Germans from finding out too much. Mr. Esselink was imprisoned during the war as a sympathiser, and resumed as Mayor after the war. His son was executed by the Germans after he had been arrested actually taking evaders ‘down the line’ and home to fly another day.
Thus ended our few hours of freedom before we ended up as Prisoners of War."
My father returned to the area in the late 1990s and contacted the family of the people who helped them... they also returned his flying helmet which they'd kept for all those years - which was amazing.
