I guess I'm one of those very lucky boys that can truly say "my Dad was a hero". This I learned one weekend afternoon, as a young boy of perhaps only 8 or 9 years of age, as I sat at Dad's feet with my sister, and, at the coaxing of my dear mother, he related his entire wartime experience over the next several hours.
Dad volunteered for service in the airforce at the tender age of eighteen. He left his home of the country town of Mulgoa, located on the outskirts of Sydney, Australia, bound for Canada where he would train to fly on Tiger Moths.
Training completed, he was shipped to England where he expected to be placed with fighter squadrons. Instead he was placed with heavy bombers and wound up flying a Sterling Bomber for the duration of the war.
Dad and his crew, seven men in total, flew 29 missions over France, Germany, and the North Atlantic doing bombing runs, dropping mines, or dropping supplies, all night missions. Lots of flak and near misses!
In May 1944 the 29th mission was a low level bomb run over France heading down toward Tours. A clear night, skimming along at several hundred feet, came over a rise to be met with ferocious anti-aircraft guns that blasted along most of the fuselage and destroyed a couple of engines. Dad attempted to climb the stricken aircraft so as to gain enough height for everyone to bail out.... controls not working... most lines severed! He calls for crash positions... "holding off...holding off"... last words from the pilot before crash landing in a French farm field, sliding up a hillside, one wing smashing into an oak tree spinning the Stirling around before it most certainly would have careered over an embankment into a ravine killing all.
My father awoke from unconsciousness, one eye, he thought, was blind, till he discovered it was hot oil from the engine above him mixed with blood from a gash in his forehead dripping into his eye! The rest of the crew had miraculously survived. Only bumps, bruises, and a few cuts.
The plane was now well on fire. It wouldn't be long and the Nazis would come looking for them and the downed British bomber. The decision was made to split up into three groups. My Dad went with his rear gunner, Ken Gandy, and, after wishing each other luck, stole off into the night planning to make their way south, hopefully to a neutral country like Spain or Switzerland.
Dad and Ken covered a lot of ground in the first weeks on the run, hiding in barns and chicken houses by day, travelling by night. There were some close calls with Nazis but somehow they always avoided capture. They finally wound up at a farm where the incredibly kind French farmer and his family gave them refuge, food, and shelter. The Nazis did come checking this farm once or twice, but they were well hidden and so escaped detection.
After 3 to 4 months on the run, Dad and Ken decided to go back north as they had heard of great American ground troop victories and liberation from the Germans. The war was in fact drawing to a close. So after days of travel northwards they met up with American battalions who then saw to it that Dad and Ken got safe passage back to England. Their war effort was done!
The others in Dad's crew made it back to England too, though a couple of them got caught and spent the remainder of the war in a German Stalag. They were finally liberated by Russian forces and then made their way back to England.
Of course a happy reunion was had by these magnificent seven men, involving much alcohol I believe!
Dad stayed on with the RAF a further eight years as a test pilot and instructor, achieving the rank of Flight Lieutenant.
A true gentleman, a great father to me and my sister, an awesome husband to my mum and a genuine hero. My Dad. God bless him
