Jim McPhee- My story, Page 4 continued

Shot Down in Germany

My memories of that night are a ghostly series of frantic plans, drowsing off to sleep for periods, and awakening with a start. The steady rain trickling through the vine produced increasing discomfort. As the morning light allowed me to survey my situation, I found that I had no severe injuries. My right foot felt wet and cold which I found out to be due to a boot full of blood. There was blood on the side of my face, and a very sore spot on my right temple. The cut on my right temple was due to a fragment of metal that had hit me at the time the plane was shot down and while I dangled in my parachute, and had raced into the woods from where I had landed, the wound had bled enough to track down into my flying boot. A few months after I was back in Canada, I had a piece of metal lodge in my cheek while splitting wood with a wedge and a sledge. This formed an abscess; I went to the hospital emergency where an x-ray showed two pieces of metal, one in the abscess and one in the muscles of my right temple. As I lay in my hiding place, I could hear people walking by, the usual noises of a village, such as dogs barking, motor vehicles, and children playing.

My so called "escape kit", a small pocket size plastic like [or maybe metal] contained some horlicks tablets, candies, a silk map of Europe, and a collar button compass. My plan was to wait until dark, then head for Arnhem, in Holland where the battle front was located at that time. The compass gave me an idea of a northerly direction, and I needed to go north-west. When the sounds of the village settled, I climbed out of my hiding place to begin my journey. I found myself to be on the edge of a village, beyond which was some open country and farm land. I soon noticed that there was sound of military activity, the sound of heavy guns, to what I judged to be north-west. As much as possible I avoided built up areas, and main roads. At one point I found myself beside a road, along which people were moving, so that I crouched in a ditch to avoid detection. When it became too light to avoid being seen, I found a wooded area where I could stay out of sight. The second night on the ground, I found another sheltered wood where I could hide, and nearby there was a field where I found some discarded cabbages and was able to eat some of the good parts. This was definitely not very filling and by this time I was getting a little hungry.                                                                                           

 All the time the cold rain was falling and it was getting colder, eventually starting to snow. Of course I was thoroughly wet, but it was still not conceivable that I was going to be captured, so that I slogged on through the dark. I calculated that it was now November 23. As darkness came, I again ran into a heavy wet snowstorm. At one time, early in the evening, I stumbled into a town, found myself close to a troop of juveniles in uniform, marching along singing a song ---Hitler youth!  I had a feeling that they had seen me, but it was quite dark, and as quickly and quietly as I could, I put distance between me and them. Running down a hill to distance myself from this menace, I tripped, landing on my face, lacerating the point of my chin, and knocking myself out. Fortunately, I had eluded the troop, but it was some time before I could carry on. By this time there was quite a coating of snow on the ground, so that I was leaving tracks, but no one seemed to notice or to be following me.


Again, by morning light, I had found a bushy hiding place, but realized that I was beginning to suffer from hunger and exposure. One night while crossing a field, I came across the parts of a Halifax bomber- most of one wing and some debris. I wondered if it was part of the air craft that we took to Germany. While going through the fields and woods, I noted every tree and bush was festooned with metal foil strips, the material called 'window”, which was used to confuse the German radar. Some trees resembled those decorated for Christmas. After another very uncomfortable day in hiding, probably about the last few days of November, I continued my trek towards the sounds of artillery in the north-west.

Above me, I could hear the heavy drone of air craft, my pals from Bomber command, making their almost nightly visits to the industrial heart land of Germany. All night I plodded on, avoiding any built up areas as much as possible, and again trying to find a hiding place in which to spend the day. On an early morning, I came to a farm on the side of a large river, which I assumed to be the Rhine, and no way across. Having been outside, clothes wet, below freezing weather, I could not resist taking shelter in the barn, where I burrowed into the dry fodder and slept soundly. I had intended leaving the barn before daylight, but as I was about to climb out of the hay mow, a very large dog raised an alarm, and I was in no condition to challenge him. A middle aged man, presumably the farmer, came into the barn, spotted me and seemed to be quite alarmed at my presence. As I knew that further thoughts of escape were futile, I indicated to him that I was unarmed, and did not intend to challenge him.

The Farmer and his family

No doubt, I was a sorry sight, dressed in flying gear, bloody from my wounds and surviving for a week outdoor in winter. The farmer did not exhibit any aggression toward me, indicated that I should follow him into the nearby dwelling, and alerted his family, a wife and two `teen-aged girls. One of the girls offered me a chair and proceeded to remove my boots, my wet outer clothing, or at least gave me help as my hands were stiff from cold and exposure. She spread the clothing over some chairs in front of a coal fire. The family was sitting down to breakfast of bread eggs, meat and coffee, which they shared with me. Being young and without any proper food for a week, the offering was most gratefully received. My belief that all Germans were bad people was badly shaken that day. I also did not know that, that very morning in nearby Dusseldorf, a couple of downed air men were hanged on a lamp post by a mob of angry Germans. Obviously the farm people that picked me up were devout Catholic Christians as they had their crucifix on the wall and held their morning religious prayers before eating their breakfast.

Captured

I found this to be most unsettling as I was prepared for a hostile, if not a violent reception. However, as I expected, in less than an hour, a German soldier arrived who they addressed as "feltwebl." He was riding a bicycle. After he had talked to the family for a short time, undoubtedly about the details of their encounter with me, he brought out a cord, like an electrical cord, tied one end to my wrist, and the other end to his wrist we took off with him slowly riding the bicycle and me walking as fast as I could along side. We proceeded along a dirt road for a short distance to a junction of a paved road, and made our way into a built up area. We passed a sign which indicated that we were entering Dusseldorf and I realized that I was a long way from Arnhem. It was a long walk from the farm house to the offices that were our destination, through streets and past buildings which had been bombed out. In many places the street was reduced to one lane from rubble of bombing raids. As it was still early in the morning, we met very few people on foot. Finally we arrived at a building like a police station, where more papers were filled out, and I was placed in a corner of an open office. A young woman clerk was working there, a bright young person who hummed and sang to the music of Straus, which was playing on a radio. When she moved around, it was in a  waltz-like motion. Many times I have wondered what happened to her, and what the rest of her life was like. As yet no one tried to interview me.

Mobbed

About noon, a Luftwaffe NCO arrived, spoke English to me and informed me that we were going to Oberousle near Frankfort-on-Maine. A military car took us to the railway station, where there were lots of people. I was recognized as a British flyer, and was the recipient of anger and obvious insults, even though I did not understand what exactly they were saying. The Luftwaffe person came on the train with me. It was a passenger train with mostly civilians, but some uniformed people. The train was crowded, but I was given a seat next a window with the guard sitting beside me. This was not express service; the train was slow in getting started and crept out of the city. About two hours toward Frankfort, suddenly there was the sound of fast approaching air craft, the chatter of gun fire followed by a bang. The train came to an abrupt halt, and people were diving off the train and crouching in the ditched. In the panic I was separated from the guard as he had jumped off one side of the train and I jumped off the other.

Obviously, the attacking air craft which I was able to get a good look at, had struck the engine and had blown the boiler. The attacker plane, an American Thunderbolt, was well known as a tactical specialist in knocking off rail and road traffic All of this happened very quickly, and was over in a flash. As people recovered from the shock of events they again took notice of me, and started shouting, and threatening me. Fortunately my guard appeared, shouted orders at my tormentors, who backed off. After a wait of an hour or so, another locomotive was brought in and we continued on our way to Oberousl. As we were getting off the train, a group of ten to fifteen women began crowding us, shouting and spitting, becoming more and more agitated and angry. My guard drew his hand gun, positioned himself between me and the menacing mob. Gradually he backed me into a comer of the brick station platform, shouting orders; and obviously threatening to shoot if necessary. Gradually the mob quieted down, backed off and dispersed.


This is one of the few times that I conceded to myself that I might not survive the war. I tried to express my gratitude to the guard; but he totally ignored me. No doubt he would have been in some difficulty if I had been killed before I had been interrogated, and he probably did not have many warm feelings toward me either. A military mini sort of bus picked us up and we soon arrived at the notorious interrogation center. I was marched to a prison cell, approximately eight feet by four or five feet and eight feet, with a single window at the ceiling, but covered by an outside shutter, and inside bars. Furniture was a single bunk of boards and a grey blanket.

On the wall was a series of marks, vertical strokes like the number 1, in groups of four, and a horizontal stroke through them. The message that I got from these obvious tally marks was that someone was recording the passage of time, likely days. One series indicated thirty, one sixty, and one fifty. The message was that some occupants had been confined to this cell forthat many days. At first one dismissed this as part of a psychological attack, but as the days passed the ruse did have an effect. By this time I had dried out somewhat, but was still in the clothing that I was wearing when I was shot down, a week or more before. By now it was late evening, and it did not appear that I was going to see any more activity until the next morning. 

Interrogration

After a restless night on my very hard bunk, in the very cold cell, I was greeted with a raucous voice shouting “Raus, raus’, a small flap was opened in the door and some vile coffee colored fluid was presented, and I had my first taste of ersatz coffee. A little later the door opened, and I was summoned to follow a guard to an office, where I was greeted by a friendly Luftwaffe officer, invited to sit down and have a talk. We had been ordered to give only our name, rank, and regimental number, as laid down by the Geneva Convention governing the treatment of prisoners of war. The German officer assured me that I was a special case and that the Geneva Convention might not apply to me as I could not be linked with any air craft that had been shot down, and that I was really considered to be a spy. If I would cooperate with him, he might be able to persuade the authorities not to turn me over to the Gestapo. He laughingly stated the obvious, that I had been in the country for a few days. The guard was called and I was escorted back to my cell.

The outside shutter had been closed, which rendered the place completely black dark. Through the day the temperature fluctuated from very warm to very cold, From time to time, I could hear scurrying in the hall and distant voices, German of course, sometimes rising to the volume of shouting.   In the afternoon, I was escorted to another office, where two officers, in black, very stern, demanded to know where I had come from, and what was my purpose. They stated that if I was not properly identified, I would probably be shot as a spy. A Luger hand gun lay on the desk beside them. “Tell us about Village Inn” they demanded, and of course I did not know anything that would have been of any use to them, but I did not know that, nor did they. Realistically, they must have been looking at a very boyish, frightened youth, who would be unlikely to have any great military secrets. However, they were very persistent and aggressive, stated that their patience was very short, and they would give me very limited time to answer their questions.

Again I was escorted to my cell, where later I was presented with my first piece of black bread and bowl of cabbage soup. Being very hungry, I did eat, although I could not imagine how any one could survive very long on such food. As time passed it was hard to keep track of day and night, or the passage of time, as mostly I was in darkness. However, by counting the number of times meager rations appeared I was there for at least a week. Interrogation continued, with alternating shows of friendliness and then threatening confrontation. Rather persistently they continued to enquire about “Village Inn” which was totally unknown to me. After the war I found that it was a code name for some radar system of navigation.

Red Cross to the rescue

After a couple of days, I found myself to be covered with red itchy spots worst on my legs and around my waist, and which I was soon to find that the cell was infested with fleas. The “time tallys” that I had noticed on the walls began to take on a very somber significance.  However, after about ten days, I was suddenly removed from the cell, taken to a shower room, and after cleaning up, my clothing, which I had been wearing for the past two weeks or a little more, was discarded. I was given a parcel of clothing from the American Red Cross, whichcontained a couple of sets of summer underwear, a shirt, and a pair of trousers.  From there I was taken to a big room, in which there was a group of other prisoners, mostly American air men of various ranks. After the usual prisoner counts, accompanied by the usual German military shouting, we were taken to the railway station, boarded passenger cars and, were off to a place called Wetzel. We were a motley crew of RAF, USAAF, RCAF, and all looking like we had been through a cement mixer. At Wetzel was what was termed a segregation center, where we were sorted out as to nationality, rank, etc., for trips to the permanent prisoner of war camps. Here we were issued with a razor, tooth brush, comb, and other grooming aids, again thanks to the Red Cross.

Ab Steeves, Pilot - only other Crew survivor

At Wetzel, I came across the pilot of our aircraft, Ab Steeves, who was quite surprised to see me alive. He had been badly wounded, with wounds through the right side of his chest, where he was unprotected by the armor in the back of his seat. He had bailed out, landed in a convent grounds where there was a hospital. The nuns and the doctor there had apparently taken very good care of him, and although he had a ghastly appearance, he was alive and walking. Apparently some of the crew had gotten out of the craft, but only he and the wireless operator reached the ground alive, and the wireless operator had died a very short time after. He was surprised to see me alive as he stated that just after he had left the plane, there was a terrific explosion and he could see a large fire ball above him. He deduced that the craft had blown the fuel tanks, and I assume that the explosion had possibly removed me from the wounded craft. There was now no doubt that he and I were the only survivors. To think that only a couple of weeks previously our fellow crew members were live vital humans and now were gone forever.

Travelling to Stalag

By now it was about December 11 or 12. 1944. The following day we were subjected to a superficial body examination, and were invited to make known any health problems, especially any venereal disease. There was a young American officer who had a typical syphilitic chancre on his penis, and was taken away presumably for treatment. In those days treatment consisted of injections of salvarsan, and hyperthermia in a fever box. What the regimen in Germany in 1944 was, l am not sure. After clearing the process in the segregation center, the British NCO air crew were assigned to Stalag Lufte # 7, at a place called Bankou in southern Poland, about ninety miles west of Krakow. As British aircrew NCO's we were considered to be high risk prisoners for escape attempts, and especially if we had a history of evasion or escape. The now familiar march to the railway station brought us to a box car with straw on the floor. The choice for comfort was stand, sit, or lie down and curl up in the straw. There was a small screened opening at the end of the car, for ventilation I presume. This was to be our home for about five days, with the happy thought that the American Thunderbolts were doing aerial sweeps over Germany to find and destroy the transportation system.

Although, at various places along the way there were air raid warnings and the distant sounds of bombs, and the drone of the air craft, we were not allowed off the box car, the doors being closed and barred. Irregularly and infrequently, we were given a vile cheese, like small rolls of brie, there the similarity to brie ended. It had a waxy consistency and the vilest bland taste that you could imagine. We ate it!   On our trip east, we passed through Kassel, a massive railway marshaling yard. While sitting there, shortly after arriving, the air raid siren sounded, we were locked in the box car and the guards disappeared. The drone of the overhead air craft filled the air with heavy vibration, and soon the familiar thump of exploding bombs rocked the whole existence for about thirty minutes. When the noise ceased, we could hardly believe that we were unscathed.

Presently our guards appeared, very agitated and angry. Obviously, there was extensive damage to the tracks and mechanisms of the marshaling yard, preventing our immediate departure. A walk through the town, to beyond the damaged track was necessary, although we were apprehensive about going through the angry population. The damage was severe, with large craters through the railway yards, and through the town. Buildings near the station were severely damaged or collapsed. A team of dead horses were sprawled in the street, with harness still on, and their wagon on its side nearby. I do not recall any encounter with the people on this march through their town. After a walk of some distance, we again came to a small station where our box car was waiting; we boarded and were on our way.

flight card for  crew

Jim McPhee- My story, Page 4 continued