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I landed on my "bum" from Halifax H663, 17th April 1943 at 0400 hrs. Mine must have been one of the lowest exits on record from which the subject was able to walk away. My flight engineer, Nippy, who left the aircraft well ahead of me, was at least 1000 ft, when sitting up, I spotted him descending some half a mile away. With little chance of joining up, it was a case of every man for himself. I could see the aircraft burning fiercely, a few 100 yards to the west, so I had better get clear away before anyone come to investigate.
I grabbed my parachute, rolled it up and climbed over a fence into a field. I scuttled down the hedgerow and coming to a swampy bit of ground, stomped the parachute down below the surface and in next to no time was on my way again. I quicldy realized I was still wearing my mae west, obviously now surplus to requirements, so it finished up in a clump of bushes. I continued to put distance between the wreckage and myself. I was following a "logging" track, when I heard voices. This caused me to dive into the long grass and cover my face with my arms, hoping I had not been spotted. Not five yards away, two men were talking and gazing ahead at the burning aircraft. I did not understand the language, but later realized it was Flemish. After a couple of minutes, they moved on towards the crash without seeing me. I continued along the log track until a check on the north star made me realize I had been heading east, which was away from the aircraft and also away from "Freedom".
I knew I had to be in Northern France or Belgium, so changed course to southwest, the obvious direction. I tried to leave the track, but dewy grass left a trail a child could follow. I left the log path in a running jump to the right then followed a "tip toe through the tulips" routine, leaping one foot to the right and one to the left. Result — no dew trail. Reaching a stream I trailed along in it until I reached a large wood. Part of it had been cut down for pit props, the branches left in small piles. The rest of the wood was covered in undergrowth. I decided, as it was now daylight, I would be better to hide here until nightfall, so I gathered two of the piles together and made myself a hideaway. I felt sure anyone searching would concentrate on the thick part of the wood and leave mine alone. During the day, I heard voices and noises from beaters in th dense part, but no one came near me. I was fortunate in my choice.
With a full day ahead of me, I had ample time to review my position. I had landed, dressed in my normal battledress, blouse and trousers, no hat, no flying boots. Just my normal walking shoes, and what was worse, no identity discs. This did not encourage me to do a quick surrender to the Nazis. I checked my pockets and disposed, by burying, any compromising documents. I examined the escape kit. I ate the chocolate bar, sucked a couple of horlicks tablets and smoked a cigarette. I pocketed the rest of the gear except for the booster pills. I threw them away, as I thought I would need to be alert for weeks, not hours. This left me with a compass, a map, some money and several horlicks tablets, plus a rubber water bottle.
The hours passed slowly. It was a cold, miserable "Wally", with legs wet, up to the knees. I spent much of the time trying to dry my shoes and socks, by moving them constantly to keep them under the sun's rays, which filtered through the thin cover of branches. At last it was ten p.m. darkish and time to get moving. I set off, keeping to a southwesterly course, with the aid of my compass. I filled my rubber drinking bottle at a fresh, clear stream. I was now about to enjoy my first drink of the day, so I took a good gulp and spat it out immediately. It was revolting. The taste of rubber from that bottle was unbelievably foul. That's one thing I did not fail to complain about when I got back home. Eventually, I came to a secondary road and, as it led roughly in my desired direction, I followed it. Much easier going than hedgerows. After a while, I came to a signpost, which confirmed my position as SE of Bois de Chimey and NE of Hirson. Passing a farmhouse with a milk churn outside the door, gave me the chance of a drink of milk. Unfortunately, the farm dog was not in a generous mood. I'm sure he had mistaken me for a German and not a gallant Royal Air Force pilot! He created such a racket, that I made a hasty retreat along the road and into the nearest wood.
I rejoined the road later and, passing through a village, saw a sign "Burgomeister", thus confirming I was in Belgium. Later, I saw an empty shed, had a look around, and entered to see a bail of straw. I thought I might snatch a couple of hours sleep. Just my luck, the floor was concrete, the straw was inadequate to provide a mattress and a covering. After a miserable half-hour, I was forced to continue my progress southwesterly.
Dawn found me hungry and thirsty. Making my way though a pretty large wood, still in Belgium, I thought I heard voices. I hid behind the nearest tree. After a while, a white bearded old fellow, together with an old lady, no doubt both over seventy, came wandering down towards me, gathering small, plants and leaves (rabbit food in fact), into a basket. Deciding they were harmless, I stepped out from behind my tree, and in my schoolboy French, told them I was an English Aviator and was very hungry.
After the initial shock at seeing me, they told me to hide behind a tree and await their return. I stayed there for what seemed ages. Was it a trap? Should I get away while the opportunity was there? Hunger got the better of me. I hung on, and eventually saw them re-appear from the same direction. They walked slowly past, dropping a bottle of beer and a half French loaf well filled. With their fingers to their lips, they carried on with their work. I thanked them as best I could in a loud whisper. After they were well clear of the area, I emerged from cover and collected my "goodies". There was a slice of meat in the loaf. Boy, how I enjoyed both the loaf and the beer. I discarded the rubber water bottle and took the beer bottle as a welcome replacement. I continued going southwest, crossing over the Belgium/French border into France. It was marked by dummy field guns, half hidden and partly camouflaged - of course, no longer required.
At about ten o'clock, Sunday morning, I found myself within site of a small village. I was in a field with a small cowshed just inside the gate. On examination, it seemed unused. A ladder led the way up to a small loft filled with bales of hay. I climbed up and settled for a space between the bales and the slated roof. Cramped, but pretty safe, I could see the village through gaps in the slates. It wasn't long before the church bells started to ring and I watched the members entering the church. It reminded me of the 1920's when, as a boy, I was attending a similar small village church in far off Devonshire. After a couple of hours, I decided to press on. The hay bales were not comfortable - too many angles about them. I come out of that shed shaped like the letter ‘Z'. Keeping to the convenient hedgerows. I maintained a southerly course until well into the afternoon.
On climbing over a fence into a large field, I spotted a man milking a cow. Says I to myself, "Now's the chance to get that milk you missed yesterday!" I was wrong again. On approaching the milkman, he stood up. My! He was a big fellow! I asked ifI could get some milk. His reply was sharp and to the point - "Allez, toute suite, Allez! Allez! Allez! bosches!" So, I did just that, making for the nearest wood, deciding reluctantly that water would suffice.
I continued on my way and I crossed over a river near St. Michael, east of the town of Hirson, and made for another wooded area. I continued trudging along for most of Sunday night. I made up my mind. It was time I found some real help, or at least a square meal. After due consideration, it seemed wisest to select some small out of the way cottage and knock on the door as soon as the first light came on in the morning. I found just such a place on the edge of a large wood. Even better - a good escape route ready made. I waited outside the door and on queue, knocked firmly. A man's voice from inside asking, "Who is it?" in French, I replied, "Un Aviateur Anglais". A slight pause, then the door was opened and my first French contact was made.