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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.

COMET LINE ESCAPE
by F/Sergeant Stanley Munns

Part 1

TRAINING

Our group of young Sergeant Air Gunners stood on the edge of the aircraft runway. It was the end of the Operational Training course in mid-summer 1943 and the group were being addressed by an experienced operational Air Gunner. We had all gained our Sergeant's stripes and Air Gunner Badges and I had not passed my nineteenth birthday.

We had been flying outdated “Whitley” aircraft with a crew of five. I was the rear Gunner. Now that operation training was finished we were moved to another Station to gain experience in flying Halifax Bombers and to pick up two more crew.

OPERATIONAL SQUADRON

After three weeks we were sent to 428 Squadron based at Middleton St. George, near Darlington,Yorkshire. This Squadron was part of the Canadian Airforce, and was carrying out Bomber raids on Germany.

It was the custom that the Pilot had to complete two operational raids with an experienced crew before being allowed to operate as a crew on our own. Each crew had to complete thirty operational trips, known as a 'tour', before being stood down for non-operational raids, We discovered the score for the two Squadrons on the Station was six crews having completed a 'tour' and sixty crews were missing.

With the prospect of only one crew in ten completing the thirty required operational flights I was not feeling confident. But there was no going back and we duly took off early evening for our first raid on
Germany.Early evening was chosen because our Halifax aircraft from Yorkshire had further to go than the faster Lancaster Bombers based more southerly. Other than avoiding searchlights and the mass anti-aircraft fire (“flak”), over the target, the trip was very successful.

BALE OUT
I was now an experienced operational air-gunner. The losses of Bomber Command were appalling during this period known as the Battle of Berlin (November 1943 - March 1944). On the night of the 18th November,
1943,the Halifax Squadrons of the Canadian Group were on a diversion raid to Mannheim. It was planned that the Lancaster Bombers would raid Berlin, the inference being the slower and lower flying Halifax's were too vulnerable to take part in the Berlin operation. The following night the target was Leverkusen, as we turned away from the target somehow we were off-course and leaving the main stream of bombers. We were out on our own and probably flew over the well fortified town Aachen. An aircraft on
its own is an easy target for the German Anti-aircraft guns and numerous flashes and puffs of smoke appeared alongside the aircraft, together with clanging noises as shrapnel tore its way through the fuselage. The Pilot's voice came over the inter-com asking me if the rudders were still in place as he had no control over them. As I was sitting in between the rudders in the rear gun turret I was happy to say they were and we came to the conclusion the control wires through the fuselage must have been damaged. A bomber aircraft cannot be landed without rudder control so we knew we would have to bale out sooner or later. It turned out to be sooner as the engines became damaged and the propellers turned in the wind like windmills dragging us down. When the Navigator estimated we had crossed the border into Holland the pilot gave the order to bale out whilst we still had some height. To do this, I had to get into the fuselage of the plane from the gun turret as my parachute was stowed there in a rack. Having obtained my chute, I clipped it on in almost complete darkness as the bulkhead door was closed to the dimly lit centre of the fuselage; fumbling in the darkness for the bulkhead door latch, panic seized me as I made no contact. I wondered if I had time to get back into the turret, turn it round, so that the turret doors could be opened and I could drop out backwards. I decided against it and tried using my forearm to locate the door latch, all the time thinking how much longer have I before the plane plunges downwards with only me in it. At last the latch struck my arm. I quickly opened the door. I saw the
fuselage escape hatch was open where some of the crew had baled out, but there was no sign of any other members of the crew. I glanced at my parachute, the wires around the chute were clipped into the harness clips as well as the parachute holding lugs. I had a quick thought that the trapped wires of the parachute would cause the chute to malfunction, but the necessity to jump overcame my fears as I slid through the escape hatch.

I felt myself falling through space. I pulled the ripcord. This was a stupid thing to do as the chute could have caught on the tailplane, however, it soon pulled me up with a jerk and I was floating down in pitch darkness. Within seconds of my chute opening a huge glow lit the sky as the aircraft hit the ground, I had escaped with only seconds to spare. A few more seconds and I landed flat on my back in a dry dyke, probably the only dry dyke in Holland, I had made a perfect landing.

HOLLAND

I unclipped my harness and parachute and left them in the dyke. I heard planes in the distance going home and I swore at them in the frustration of being stranded on a dark and cold evening in a German occupied country. However, the optimism of youth prevailed and I thought the thing to do was to walk to the Spanish border, so I set off in a northwesterly direction away from the Dutch/German border but also heading for Belgium.

The going was heavy, mud was building up on my flying boots and I was wet around the lower legs. As I approached a barb-wired fence my legs felt as though they had weights attached to them, so I just rolled over the fence. Fortunately I was still wearing my flying suit and Mae-west (life-jacket) so although the wire tore my clothing I was not hurt. Upon finding a haystack I took a rest sitting on loose hay
around the base and with my back to the stack, but the evening was cold and despite my flying attire I was soon shivering and found sleep impossible.

My thoughts at this time were not to contact anybody but to just keep going. I guessed German soldiers were out looking for me and I felt I was leaving them a trail: my parachute harness with my name and number printed on it was discarded in a field and my life-jacket somewhere in a ditch.

By late evening I have found an open barn, just a roof on four legs. I found my hide-out fairly comfortable and protected from the cold wind and I slept the night, but I was awakened early morning by voices in the farmyard nearby. I decided to wait until darkness before making a move I opened my escape kit that consisted of maps and a compass, various nourishing tablets and Dutch, Belgium and French monies and horlicks tablets. I was hungry as I had now been a good many hours without eating. As soon as it was dark I proceeded on my way. A signpost indicated a small village called Nuenen and as I passed a small isolated house I thought I might try my luck for food and shelter. Knocking on the door it was opened partially and a man's face appeared rather furtively, so I said to him RAF he looked blankly at me so I repeated RAF, he started to close the door and then suddenly opened it again and said RAF with a guttural accent. He motioned me in a dimly lit room. He disappeared into the kitchen and came back with some bread and butter, but as soon as I had eaten he motioned me to go, clearly he was very frightened.

I continued along the road and before I had gone very far, I heard a vehicle behind me. I jumped into the roadside ditch, but I was unlucky it was filled with water. There was nothing else I could do but to stand there with the water lapping around my knees until the car had passed, as it was almost certain to be a German transport. I realised my plan to walk to Spain was impossible in these wintry conditions,so I thought I had better find help and a nearby farmhouse seemed a good place to start.

The door was opened by a woman, I said to her, “RAF'' in a similar accent as used by the man at the previous house. She understood right away and without showing any sign of fear said in Flemish “you eat and drink”, the words were similar to English and easy for me to understand. She took me into the living room, where her husband was sitting and sat me at the table and offered me ham and a glass of milk. I tried to engage the man in conversation asking him if he was Dutch. He thought I was saying Deutsche and assured me he was not German, but he did not understand any English.

I was feeling very tired and the woman indicated for me to sit on a couch. I took off my wet boots and laid down and fell asleep. I was awakened later by a man speaking English, who informed me he as an
ex-Dutch Army Officer and asked me if I wanted to get back to England. He did not know himself how it could be done, but thought it may be by Submarine.

I told him I was willing to try to escape if he would help. Whilst I was in Holland I heard that one of my crew had given himself up to the Germans, possibly thinking he was safe for the rest of the war, and although I could not blame him for such thoughts, the prospect of a Prisoner of War Camp appalled me.

The man told me there were small children in the house and the Farmer and his wife were frightened they may talk about me if I stayed in hiding, so he took me on the back of his bicycle along a narrow lane to another farmhouse where I was to stay the night. I slept that night with the Farmer in the main front bedroom, I awoke startled during the early morning to see the Farmer crouching below the window with a wicked looking knife in his hand. There were German soldiers about. I hoped he was not going to use the knife, however, they appeared to move on and all was well.

In the afternoon two men (from the Dutch Resistance Organisation) arrived on bicycles to bring me civilian clothes which included a light raincoat, a razor and bicycle for my use. We set out for the
nearby town of Eindhoven. On arrival at the house I was met by two men. A third man joined us who seemed to be a senior person. Plans were made, but no names were exchanged. Finally he said if I was caught please do not give anyone away. I replied with bravado they would have to shoot me before I would talk and he replied “I believe the word of an Englishman”. After a meal, I was left on my own, and a man who I had not seen before came into the room and started talking. He said, “are you sure you are English because if we find out you are not we will shoot you, do you understand ?”. He then pulled out an automatic gun from his overcoat pocket to emphasise the point. I assured him I was English and he then said, “when the clock on the wall says eight o'clock I want you to walk out of the front door, turn left and walk down the road and take the first turning on the right and go the Church” then left. I followed the instructions
and was sure I was being followed. I thought I might be leading a German Agent to the Resistance Organisation so I walked past the Church. As I did so a Priest came rushing out to me and said, “did you not see the Church”? I told him of my fears and he said I was only being followed to make sure I did not get lost. I was given a railway ticket and informed I was to be taken on a short journey. My Guide said he would do all the talking necessary and I was only to show my ticket at the barrier. We entered a vacant compartment on the train and almost immediately two German soldiers came in and sat down opposite Although it was a short journey I was apprehensive all the way.

Following this a new guide, a young girl, took me in the town of Weert by train. The girl seemed to have no fear and she spoke to me in English throughout the journey irrespective of being overheard. She took me to a small house where I was introduced to a New Zealand airman and an American airman. As we waited in a small lounge the American suggested a plan: if we were approached by one German on his own we would make a fight of it; but if there was more than one we would give ourselves up. Some minutes after agreeing to the plan the door opened and in walked a man with a long dark overcoat and a peaked cap. I looked at the other two, but the first man was quickly followed by another in the same guise so we were confined to our fate. Fortunately the men turned out to be Dutch policemen who were to take us to the nearby Belgium border. One of the policemen said he played in a Dance Band and asked if we could tell him the words to the song “Stardust”. This could have been a further test to prove our identity. After blurting out the words to “Stardust” we three airmen and the two policemen set out on bicycles towards the Belgium frontier, supposedly under arrest, although had we been stopped I felt this ploy would not have held-up under questioning.

We arrived at a small village close to the border and I stayed the night with a family in a gypsy type caravan. When I joined the others the two policemen then took us on foot across the border where we were met by two members of the Belgium Police who took over the escort duty.

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