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This story has been submitted to the People's War site by Peter Stutchbury and Barbara Ware on behalf of Stanley Munns and has been added to the site with his permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions.

BELGIUM

The Belgium Police took us across the fields to a large detached house, the owner being a Wine Merchant.

That evening we were plied with strong Brandy until we were highly inebriated. We were then given pencil and paper and asked to answer a number of questions These questions were mainly associated with the RAF and if the other two airmen did not know the answers it did not matter because I was so high on the brandy I was shouting out the answers like a Television Quiz.

Our next move was to the town of Neerpelt where the New Zealander and myself stayed with the local Shoe Repairer, After a two day stay I was taken (we were only moved one person at a time in this instance)to the nearby Railway Station where I met a short dark haired man who was to be my guide to Antwerp. This I found out after the war was a new escape route as Allied Airmen and their Guides had been caught on the existing route to Brussels.

On arrival at Antwerp I was taken to a Cafe called “The Swan” where the wife of the proprietor was British, I only stayed overnight at the Cafe and the next morning boarded a train for Brussels with the new Guide.

On arrival at Brussel's Railway Station I was met by a young girl who was to act as my Guide. After she had made a telephone call we made our way to a flat in the City. Unbeknown to me some American Airmen were already in the flat and had been teaching another young girl some basic English. As I came through the door of the flat the girl shook my hand and said “Hello you F............ Bastard” to which the Americans roared with laughter.

I was later taken to a house to stay for a few days. The house was occupied by an elderly lady and her two adult sons, one of whom had been in the hand of the Gestapo and seemed to be in a mental state and very rarely spoke. The other son was a Civil Servant and apparently very helpful in his position to the Underground Movement in Brussels. The Movement, I later discovered, was known as the Comet Line which was organized for the escape of allied Airmen and I was the 243rd Airman helped by the Organisation to evade capture by the occupying forces.

Whilst I was staying in this house I managed to get my first bath since bailing out, although I had only a few inches of luke warm water. After a few days a man came to see me and said he would be taking me to the Railway Station the next day and in the meantime I was to get my identity tags which were tied around my neck, sewn inside my trousers. As I did not see any point to this I did not bother, but the next day on public transport with this man he asked me if I had done as he said, and as I replied “no” he then took a penknife from his pocket and cut the string holding the tags around my neck. He put the tags in his coat pocket, I though he would give them back to me at later date, but after seeing me to the Station and meeting another Guide I never saw him again and therefore lost my only means of identity. We were given tickets and boarded the train and was told to get out when the Guide did. We travelled to a small country town near the French border. It was dark on arrival and we were taken to a Farmhouse and given a meal. Later, with our Guide, we crossed the French border in a local train

FRANCE

When we reached our destination we were handed over to three Guides who were to take us individually on a fast train to Paris. I was accompanied by a woman Guide. As we disembarked I noticed the large Paris Station was packed with German troops and was amazed to see two high ranking officers give the Nazi salute as a greeting. The woman Guide took me on the Metro to a Paris suburb where I was placed with an old couple in a small flat. There was already two Americans staying so we had to bed down in one room on the floor.

The following day was the 25th December, and this must have been the strangest Christmas of my life although not an unpleasant one. The old couple's granddaughter and other members of the family came to visit in the evening. Our Christmas meal had Oysters as starters, and as I thoroughly dislike such things I forced them down, and when asked if I had enjoyed them, being polite I said “yes” and I was promptly given some more. However, the rest of the evening was enjoyable enough, after a few drinks the two Americans and myself sang songs in English at the top of our voices which must have been heard from yards around, but we were not asked to stop.

Shortly after Christmas we were taken to a Photographic Studio to have our photographs taken for fake Identity Cards, but because men in France up to the age 25 years had special youth Identity Cards, and these were unavailable to the Resistance people, my blank card was made up showing my age as 26 years.

As I was a young looking 19 year old and taking into account the loss of my Identity Tags, I was not feeling very happy about my present situation.

However, I set off the following day with another woman guide on to the Metro heading for another of the large Paris Railway Stations to catch the night train to Bordeaux. As we changed trains on the Metro at one point I was striding out along the interchange platforms, my guide suddenly stopped me and said “you must stop walking like an Englishman and take small steps like a Frenchman” this made me realise how vulnerable I was and how easily I could give myself away.

My Guide accompanied me on the journey to Bordeaux. Also on the train were the two Americans I stayed with in Paris and also another American, I later came to know. Each of us had our own Guide and we were in separate carriages throughout the train.

On arrival at Bordeaux we boarded an early morning train to Bayonne with the same Guides, this was an uneventful journey except at the end of it my Guide insisted I gave her my raincoat, because she said it was needed in Paris for another escapee. I was now dressed in a light sports jacket and light trousers in the middle of Winter and with a dodgy Identity Card in my pocket.

At Bayonne a new Guide took over the four of us, a man, who issued us with tickets for a railway journey to the small town of Dax. As we were nearing the Spanish border we were given to understand that the train would be searched by German soldiers. The Guide only showed us to our seats on the train, two to a compartment and then left us on our own to get out of the train at Dax Station. It was obvious the Guide thought the journey too dangerous to accompany us, but I sat in a seat with a full view of the corridor.

The sight of German soldiers entering the corridor, then the first compartment, sent my heart thumping and as they came closer I began to wish I had not been able to see them, because I was sure that by the time they reached us they would be able to hear my heart jumping up and down.

Eventually a soldier entered the compartment and speaking in French asked for Identity Cards. The French passengers were the first to hand over their cards for inspection and the soldier seemed to just scan them and hand them back. He then took my card and to my horror he spoke to me in French, I did not understand what he said, but I thought he may be referring to my age, so I just sat there tight-lipped.

He repeated what he had said before, more aggressively, I just looked blank at him. He realised he was not going to get an answer from me and with a look that said “I give up” handed back the card.

The train duly arrived at Dax. We stepped out onto the platform and were joined by the other two Americans. We seemed to be the only people leaving the train, so we promptly handed in our tickets and left the station as we had been instructed. In the station yard were two men, one of whom greeted us in English telling us to take a bicycle each from the six cycles propped up against the wall.

This was the beginning of a long cycle ride to the foot of the Pyrenees mountains and I was glad the weather was mild as I had no coat or gloves for the journey. I found out later our two Guides were of Basque nationality and were going to take us through the mountains to Spain. This would not be easy as the French/Spanish border was guarded on both sides and I knew the Spanish jails were worse than the German prison camps, so it was no consolation to be caught in Spain.

However, we started out on the long ride, the two Guides in front and the four escapees following. I soon lagged behind and struggled on for what seemed hours, just following the road. I was slow on my own and hoping that the Guides did not make a detour. Exhausted, I eventually caught up with them outside a Bungalow type building where we were to have a meal and to stay the night.

The next day, early morning, we started out on foot to make our way through the mountains and to cross the Spanish Border, climbing ever higher and stopping only to rest for a little food and some wine from a Goatskin bag. By nightfall we were following narrow tracks, sufficiently high in the mountains to be walking through snow. At this point the American collapsed.

I had been walking quite well during the day and was leading the group at the time and as I came back to see what was happening one of the Basque Guides had been able to get the American into a sitting position and urging him to get up, but without much success. When the Guide saw me standing nearby he said to the American “look how well your English friend is walking” to which the American replied “F***him”, but the Guide's remark was sufficient to galvanise the American to get to his feet and with his arms around the Guides' shoulders he carried on.

We eventually arrived on the bank of the mountain river where one of the Guides left us to see if it was possible to cross by a bridge down stream, but he returned to say the bridge was guarded by Spanish police as the river was the dividing line between France and Spain. So there was nothing else for it but for us to wade through the freezing river and as we climbed out onto the bank on the other side we had to stamp around in the snow to try and dry our wet clothing.

SPAIN AND GIBRALTAR

At last I was in Spain, the Comet Line had done its job and four more Airmen had escaped from the occupied territories. However, Spain at this time was no friendly haven, so our journey continued in secrecy and we were hidden in a stable in the hayloft above the horses. There was no glass in the windows of the loft and the bitter wind blew straight in as we settled done in the hay for the night.

There was a stone fireplace in the corner of the loft, but other than burning the hay we could not think of any way of having a satisfactory fire until one of the Americans suggested we took out every other step out of the wooden ladder leading to the loft. This we did and sat around the fire drying out before trying to get more sleep. The American, kindly came to my rescue with regards to the bitter cold by using his heavy overcoat as a blanket for the pair of us.

We did not see our Guides the next morning but about midday a young man and a girl brought us some food on tin plates. The food consisted of red beans, potatoes and mutton with the sheep's wool still attached, as we had not eaten for some time the meal was most welcome. For the rest of the day we sat around the loft debating whether to try to make our way to the nearest town on our own and perhaps obtain help to contact the British or American authorities in Spain.

It was agreed that we would only wait all day and if the Guides did not show by midday we would go it alone. We waited anxiously for several hours next morning, but fortunately for us the two Guides turned up and we were able to continue on our journey. The sun was shining as we made our way along the lower slopes of the mountains on the Spanish side and it was quite pleasant. As it became dark we were taken into a farm house where were fed a type of corn cake baked on the hearth and later slept the night in a chicken run, sleeping on animal furs.

On the following day we walked through the rocky foothills to a small road where a car was waiting for us. We were bundled into the car and the driver gave us a cigarette apiece, but I never finished mine as a I fell asleep exhausted with the lighted cigarette still in my hand. When I awoke we were in the town of San Sebastian on the Atlantic Coast and we were driven to a Hotel with British proprietors.

We were made most welcome at the Hotel and for the first time in weeks I was able to bath in loads of hot water and to sit down to good meals. Eventually a car arrived from the British Embassy, complete with Union Jack flying from the mudguard, to take us to the Embassy in Madrid. With a Spanish Chauffeur at the wheel we set off on the long ride to the capital.

As we drove through the town of San Sebastian the front wheels of our car became entangled with the tramlines which jammed the wheels tightly against the car bodywork. We could not leave the car to help the Chauffeur straighten out the wheels in case we were arrested for illegal entry (the car being considered as British territory). So as we sat in the car, crowds gathered around us. Someone produced a plank of wood as a lever and with the help of several onlookers the wheels were levered into the correct position. Thankfully the Police did not arrive on the scene, much to our relief.

The journey through Spain was a fascinating one: at one time in the mountainous regions of the North it was snowing hard contrasting with the warm lowlands as we neared Madrid where people were sitting outside their houses in the sun. It was dark as we arrived at the British Embassy and strange to see light streaming from windows after years of blacked-out Britain.

After two days at the Embassy, in which I was informed I was the youngest escapee to reach there, we were taken by a British Ambulance to the port of Seville where we joined in a party aboard a free Norwegian ship in the harbour. The party was to confuse the Spanish Harbour Guard. So many people were going on and off the ship that the guard did not realise we had stayed on board when all the other guests had departed. Even so the ship was searched before it sailed and we four sat on a small platform in the bilge until sailing time. We soon arrived in Gibraltar where the three Americans were sent to a Hotel but I was told to report to the local RAF Camp. There I met our Bomb Aimer, Mac, who had arrived in Gibraltar a few days earlier.

HOME AND CONCLUSIONS

Mac and I were given fresh uniforms and flown home. After interrogation at the Air Ministry in London,

Mac the Canadian was told he could return to Canada as his flying duties completed. Being British was another matter: I had to report to an RAF Station to make up a new crew for further operational flights.

F/SARGENT STANLEY MUNNS

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