Woodfield Publishing Limited

There was a full moon as we took off from our base at RAF Tempsford at 22.45 on December 22nd 1942, to carry out operation ‘Marrow 12’, a clandestine mission required by Special Operations Executive (SOE). We flew at low level from our airfield in Bedfordshire, crossing Cambridgeshire and the Wash. The bright moon cast the shadow of our 138 (Special Duties) Squadron Halifax on the water, as we crossed the North Sea.

Our target was isolated heathland, flanked by a farm track on one side and woodland on the other, near the quiet village of Ijhorst in Northern Holland. This was the dropping zone for our cargo of arms and explosives, to aid Dutch resistance agents operating in that area. Our bomb racks were full of canisters designed for such low-level parachute drops of vital equipment to assist in the build-up of resistance organisations in countries then occupied by the Germans.

Flying into enemy-occupied territory at very low level was always dangerous, especially with a heavy, four-engined aircraft, requiring the light of the moon to help us to find our small target at night. Our hearts were stepped up a gear and thumped as we avoided the dreaded enemy flak ships off the Dutch coast. Their Radar detection ability was minimised by our flying at low-level throughout the operation. As Flight Engineer I was pleased to hear the rhythmic sound of the four Rolls-Royce Merlin engines, sounding and performing as well as they had done when we completed a successful air test earlier in the day.

We shared Tempsford with 161 (SD) Squadron, which was carrying out similar activities. Whilst it was ‘business as usual’ for the operational squadrons, support personnel at the station were busy with Christmas preparations in their spare time. Such matters, however, were far from our minds as we nervously concentrated on our dangerous mission.

As we crossed Northern Holland, our experienced navigator, Tony Howard, directed us towards our target area. As we approached the dropping zone we climbed to about 3,000 feet, a safe height from which to drop our canisters, and set our four propellers into fine pitch, enabling our skipper, Francis Newport-Tinley, to maintain forward momentum as we circled, just above stalling speed.

We were relieved when we saw torch-lights on the ground, spaced out in their normal positions, acknowledging our arrival, which was spot-on at 0100 hours. As we circled slowly to our correct line of approach, I was asked by the skipper to go to the rear of the aircraft and help our dispatcher, Cliff Hayes, to manhandle two large canvas bags of further supplies for the underground resistance organisation. These were to be dropped at the same time as the canisters were released from the bomb racks; a green warning light from the cockpit would signal the correct timing.

Our squadron aircraft were especially modified for secret operations, without mid-upper or front gun turrets but with a double-door hatch located near the rear of the aircraft, through which resistance agents were parachuted on their dangerous missions. There Cliff and I sat on the floor, facing each other, our feet poised to push the bags through the opened hatch. It was a very tense time as I listened to the high pitch of the revving engines, awaiting the signal from the cockpit. This came within a second or two and our bags and canisters were disgorged, hopefully undamaged and in the right area.

Suddenly, the area around the target erupted with anti-aircraft fire and the skipper called "Let’s get out of here!" The aircraft banked hard to port as he executed an emergency climbing turn, and I knew that the co-pilot, Ben Pick, would be at hand to open the throttles to full power, while the enemy attempted to shoot us out of the sky. The next moment I was hit hard on my left leg and immediately lost consciousness…

When I came round, I was still in the rear of the aircraft and must have been severely concussed. I realised that the doomed aircraft must have burst into flames and crashed from no more than about 3,000 feet. Being in the rear of the aircraft had perhaps saved me from instant death. I learned later that the five crewmembers stationed further forward in the aircraft had been killed. Cliff Hayes, the dispatcher who had been sitting within a yard of me near the rear hatch just a few moments ago, had also lost his life. Strangely, I found myself wondering what had happened to our homing pigeons, due to be released at the same time by the dispatcher. I hoped that they had managed to get away and were able to fly back to England, confirming that our delivery had been accomplished.

I regained consciousness whilst the aircraft blazed around me and I could feel that I was badly burned on my buttocks and my left hand. I tried desperately to move away from the flames, which were engulfing me, but I could not move my legs which were badly damaged. I knew I was in mortal danger and cried for help. Having been brought up as a staunch member of the Christian church I was also desperately calling for the Lord’s intervention.

The next thing I recall is a large figure suddenly appearing through the smoke and flames. He seemed to be dressed in a dark overcoat and large hat. He grabbed hold of me by my parachute harness, where the webbing crossed my chest, and dragged me clear of the wreckage. My back made contact with pieces of the doomed aircraft and the ground, which was quite painful, but, fortunately, his action extinguished the flames on the back of the trousers and long flying underwear I was wearing. He left me lying on the cold, frosty heath, some distance from the burning wreckage. Then, after dragging Frank Tierney, our Canadian rear gunner, to lie alongside me, he suddenly disappeared. This led me to believe that he was a member of the Dutch resistance, who left quickly because of the proximity of enemy forces. I was relieved to see that Frank was alive. The rear turret had apparently broken away from the crashed wreckage and Frank had been thrown clear on impact. He was not burnt but he had bleeding head wounds and what appeared to be a broken ankle. He was also in shock and shivering from the cold after the appalling crash we had experienced.

As the aircraft blazed away, I lay on the cold ground, in severe pain from my buttocks and left hand, accompanied by a numb feeling in my left leg, which lay loosely, at a strange angle and was bleeding excessively. I must have again lost consciousness and then revived, briefly, for I recall finding myself shivering and vomiting and feeling my end was near. I prayed again and asked God to give me strength of body and will to sustain me through my predicament and whatever lay ahead.

When I next opened my eyes I saw a pair of jackboots and looked up to see that a few German soldiers appeared to be standing guard over Frank and me. In a dazed state of mind I said to Frank that I could not understand why the Germans were present as this area had been chosen as a lonely spot in the countryside. I also thought I had been dragged clear by a member of the resistance. With my limited knowledge of the German language, learned at school, I was able to converse a little with our guards and was told that there were no other survivors. Frank and I were deeply distressed by this tragic news, which only added to the wretched state in which we found ourselves.

Our crewmates, who had paid the supreme sacrifice in such a worthy cause were:

Flying Officer G.F.B. Newport-Tinley, DFC

Warrant Officer C.A. Howard, DFM

Flight Sergeant H.C. Taylor

Sergeant B.M. Pick

Sergeant B.S. Nixon

Sergeant C.C. Hayes

They were an experienced crew, having previously completed many operations flying Whitley aircraft, with which 138 Squadron had been equipped before converting to the larger Halifax bombers, which were already in service when, later, I joined the Squadron from the Flight Engineering School at RAF St Athan in South Wales.

How long we lay on the ground, under guard and shivering with cold and fear, I cannot recall, but I do remember that the pain from the burns was severe, although the bleeding in my left leg had stopped. However, I was unable to feel any movement and was terrified that I might be paralysed or have lost my lower limb. In the moonlight I was able to detect a flying boot on my right foot only and I was still wearing my flying jacket under my parachute harness. The pain from my burns suggested that the seat of my battle dress and long flying underwear had burnt away and I was lying exposed on the cold, frosty ground.

I was desperate for help and prayed to my Father in heaven to come to my aid. My thoughts turned also to my home in the village of Cadoxlon-juxta-Neath in Wales where my dear mother, father and family would be preparing for Christmas. December 22nd was Mother’s birthday and I hoped my greetings and letter, regretting that I was not able to join the family this year, had arrived. My thoughts also turned to my lovely sweetheart, Nita, had been so disappointed that I was not coming home for Christmas. We had enjoyed such a wonderful time at the two previous Christmases since our courtship had begun in 1940. I hoped that the customary telegram, informing them at home of my misfortune, would not cause too much distress and destroy their festive season. Yet, I was confident that all at home would seek God’s comfort and pray for my survival. I cried with anguish and these loving thoughts were drowned by pain and fear over the awful predicament in which I found myself.

Both Frank and I knew that in view of the secret nature of our operations there was a danger that we could be shot for aiding resistors to the German occupation. How much had "Jerry" known about the flight? Were they in the dropping area by chance? Such thoughts were running through my mind as I again lost consciousness, only to be disturbed by movement and flashing lights. Help had arrived and I was relieved to find figures moving around me. By the light of their torches I saw uniformed soldiers, in their jackboots, carrying stretchers towards us. I suffered sharp pain as they strapped my legs together but I was relieved to see my left foot again. The pain in my buttocks was severe as they wrapped a blanket under me and lifted me slowly onto a stretcher. Poor Frank was also lying on a stretcher beside me, close enough to have a quiet conversation. He told me how sad he felt because his wife Maureen, at home in Poole, was pregnant with their first child. I could only think, "Oh Lord, why are we being punished like this?" I felt sad for Frank and Maureen and prayed for their deliverance from this ordeal. However, it was so difficult to see a way out of our desperate plight in enemy hands.

The stretchers were carried some distance across the heathland, where the burnt-out wreckage of our Halifax was still smouldering. This was now the graveyard of my unfortunate crewmates. They had been so young and full of enthusiasm for life, despite the dangerous missions we were called upon to undertake. However, we had become apprehensive about flights over Holland, as we knew it to be heavily defended by light and heavy anti-aircraft guns and German night-fighter squadrons. This was the usual route in for Bomber Command attacks on enemy industry in the Rhur, where a large amount of their weaponry and tanks were manufactured. Both 138 and 161 squadrons had suffered higher losses on special missions to Holland compared to similar operations to France, Belgium, Denmark, Norway and even the more distant targets of Poland and Czechoslovakia.

Our stretchers were loaded into an ambulance, which was parked on a roadway at the edge of the field, and strapped into position by the military ambulance staff. The doors were closed and we drove off, under armed guard. When I asked the guard where they were taking us, he replied, ‘to a Kriegsmarine hospital at Leeuwarden, near the coast of Northern Holland.’ I shuddered to think that this would be a long journey, and so it was, over rough, cobbled, roads with the ambulance slowing down at frequent intervals, presumably to negotiate the many dykes that are a feature of the Dutch landscape. After a while I must have fallen asleep again, only to be awakened when the doors of the ambulance were opened.

In the early light of a cold December morning, we were loaded onto hospital trolleys and wheeled into the reception area of the country hospital. There we were offered coffee with bread and sausage, but I felt sick and, still suffering from shock, managed only a small sip of warm, strange-tasting coffee. I felt I was in urgent need of medical treatment and something to relieve me of the pain and discomfort. I was also very dirty with oil and grime. Our presence drew the attention of inquisitive German military patients who had gathered, in their hospital suits, at an overlooking balcony. The nursing staff appeared to be nuns, who were ordered away from the stretchers by the German guards.

Then, suddenly, there appeared a tall member of the Abwehr, or possibly Gestapo, in dark civilian clothes, who questioned me about the objective of the flight and the base in England from which we were operating. We were in no fit state to answer questions and knew that under the Geneva Convention we were expected to give only our names and Royal Air Force service number. He didn’t threaten me, and soon gave up his questioning and moved on to Frank, who was lying on a trolley on the other side of the reception area. No attempt was made to give us medical treatment or to clean up the mess of dried blood or the dirt and grime of the air crash.

A Luftwaffe officer arrived later and told us we would be taken by train to a major hospital, under their control, at Amsterdam. Some hours later, and still with no treatment of our wounds, we received a pain-killing injection and were loaded into an ambulance for the short journey to a railway station.

A train soon arrived and we were placed on the floor, in neighbouring compartments, each with an armed guard. No other passengers entered these compartments throughout the journey, which took what seemed to be many hours, before we arrived at Amsterdam station. There we were carried by German Luftwaffe personnel, in blue uniform, to the waiting room and, on stretchers, lay on the floor, looking up at a large photograph of Hitler, flanked by Swastika flags.

The word ‘Kriegsgefangener’, spoken by the milling crowd of German military and a smattering of civilians, brought home the horrible truth that, at the age of nineteen years and three months, my youthful aviation adventures had come to a sudden halt. I was now a prisoner of war and I shuddered at the thought of what the future held in store for me.

But as I lay there, in complete helplessness and terror, I closed my eyes and recalled my usual pre-flight prayer, asking God to protect me from danger. Somehow, despite the misery and pain I was experiencing, I thanked God for my preservation and asked for further help to sustain me through the dangers that lay ahead...

 © copyright 2006 ~ William Bloxham ~ all rights reserved