Photo Credit: Steve Brew
10 April 1945, from England to Holland
We took off at 1000 hours and headed east. There are three other pilots with me: one, Pierre, for my squadron and two others, Canadians, for theirs. I do not know Pierre properly yet. We met several times, but apparently he is not of the kind who rush to introduce themselves, even though he is sometimes talkative. Our Anson transport is well loaded: four passengers with all their kit. But it is a fine day for flying: clear skies with a light easterly wind. We crossed the Channel and sighted the coast of France – at the very place where the first of our soldiers landed on that day of action. This beach, which saw one of the mightiest battles in this war, is once more serene and silent. But the traces of that battle have not yet been effaced. It is bomb-cratered throughout like a sieve, and strewn with remnants of the Western Wall. France is a chequerboard of sunny fields, farmhouses and outbuildings, villages and towns. Only here and there, along the railways and canals and at factory sites, bomb scars still catch the eye with lighter colours than their surroundings… and so over Belgium to Holland.
We landed at midday at the field where we were supposed to find our squadron, but instead we found the Canadian wing. I inquired after my mates who are in this wing's squadrons – and there they were in the mess hall. It was pleasant to meet again, especially with B and H, with whom I had trained for so long in Canada and England, and who are two of the best friends I made in the RAF. We dined together and had a proper beer to mark our reunion. We talked – they told me that M, the Bostonian, had been hit a few days before and had bailed out. They still didn't know whether or not he survived and was taken prisoner.
Meanwhile we found out that our squadron has moved north, across the Rhine, to a field not far from the German border and only a few miles from the front line.
As we approach the Rhine, the traces of battle and warfare steadily increase. The ground is strewn with craters, the towns are in ruins, the roads smashed, the bridges destroyed, and the tank tracks churn all over the fields in curves and circles that draw imaginary figures. Every strategic point is enmeshed with trenches, and the cannon emplacements loom dark and shadowy in the bright sunlight… on both banks of the Rhine, all is ruin and destruction.
We flew low over Weisel (?). Not a stone is left standing in this town… Only a few days ago, the war thundered here. Now – only our long convoys, endless convoys, hauling supplies and reinforcements to the front, which has advanced far north and east of here, while these horrifying ruins lie basking in the spring sunshine…
At 1340 hours we landed at Twente. The field was captured only a few days ago. This is where the first German jet squadrons took off. The field was cruelly bombed and almost none of it remains undamaged. Gangs upon gangs of Dutch labourers at work filling up the craters and repairing the runways; for the time being, we use a grass strip to one side of the field. The Germans appear to have left the place in haste: most of the buildings were left as is, containing various objects. Judging by the example we checked, all the buildings – which are, as usual, covered with camouflage nets – are of stone or reinforced concrete. The Germans set up an eternal abode for themselves here, and now we occupy it… The only trace of the Germans is the derelict signboards and the abundance of equipment, from planes to books…
My encounter with the squadron was very pleasant. Our group commander met us, shook our hands and introduced us to the squadron's other pilots who were in the pilots' room. Afterwards, after seeing to our lodgings, he took us to meet the squadron CO, who impressed me mightily. He shook our hands unceremoniously and welcomed us to the squadron. Overall, officers and Sergeants are on very friendly and colloquial terms – formalities and pomposity are nowhere to be seen: "We have a job to do. Playing at soldiers and boy-scout games are a matter for training camps…"
We spent the rest of the day settling in.
We took off at 1000 hours and headed east. There are three other pilots with me: one, Pierre, for my squadron and two others, Canadians, for theirs. I do not know Pierre properly yet. We met several times, but apparently he is not of the kind who rush to introduce themselves, even though he is sometimes talkative. Our Anson transport is well loaded: four passengers with all their kit. But it is a fine day for flying: clear skies with a light easterly wind. We crossed the Channel and sighted the coast of France – at the very place where the first of our soldiers landed on that day of action. This beach, which saw one of the mightiest battles in this war, is once more serene and silent. But the traces of that battle have not yet been effaced. It is bomb-cratered throughout like a sieve, and strewn with remnants of the Western Wall. France is a chequerboard of sunny fields, farmhouses and outbuildings, villages and towns. Only here and there, along the railways and canals and at factory sites, bomb scars still catch the eye with lighter colours than their surroundings… and so over Belgium to Holland.
We landed at midday at the field where we were supposed to find our squadron, but instead we found the Canadian wing. I inquired after my mates who are in this wing's squadrons – and there they were in the mess hall. It was pleasant to meet again, especially with B and H, with whom I had trained for so long in Canada and England, and who are two of the best friends I made in the RAF. We dined together and had a proper beer to mark our reunion. We talked – they told me that M, the Bostonian, had been hit a few days before and had bailed out. They still didn't know whether or not he survived and was taken prisoner.
Meanwhile we found out that our squadron has moved north, across the Rhine, to a field not far from the German border and only a few miles from the front line.
As we approach the Rhine, the traces of battle and warfare steadily increase. The ground is strewn with craters, the towns are in ruins, the roads smashed, the bridges destroyed, and the tank tracks churn all over the fields in curves and circles that draw imaginary figures. Every strategic point is enmeshed with trenches, and the cannon emplacements loom dark and shadowy in the bright sunlight… on both banks of the Rhine, all is ruin and destruction.
We flew low over Weisel (?). Not a stone is left standing in this town… Only a few days ago, the war thundered here. Now – only our long convoys, endless convoys, hauling supplies and reinforcements to the front, which has advanced far north and east of here, while these horrifying ruins lie basking in the spring sunshine…
At 1340 hours we landed at Twente. The field was captured only a few days ago. This is where the first German jet squadrons took off. The field was cruelly bombed and almost none of it remains undamaged. Gangs upon gangs of Dutch labourers at work filling up the craters and repairing the runways; for the time being, we use a grass strip to one side of the field. The Germans appear to have left the place in haste: most of the buildings were left as is, containing various objects. Judging by the example we checked, all the buildings – which are, as usual, covered with camouflage nets – are of stone or reinforced concrete. The Germans set up an eternal abode for themselves here, and now we occupy it… The only trace of the Germans is the derelict signboards and the abundance of equipment, from planes to books…
My encounter with the squadron was very pleasant. Our group commander met us, shook our hands and introduced us to the squadron's other pilots who were in the pilots' room. Afterwards, after seeing to our lodgings, he took us to meet the squadron CO, who impressed me mightily. He shook our hands unceremoniously and welcomed us to the squadron. Overall, officers and Sergeants are on very friendly and colloquial terms – formalities and pomposity are nowhere to be seen: "We have a job to do. Playing at soldiers and boy-scout games are a matter for training camps…"
We spent the rest of the day settling in.
11 April 1945, Holland
Today repairs were completed on one of the runways and it was put back in use, but the dust that swirls behind every plane makes it hard for us to take off in formation. The runway itself, though repaired, is still anything but smooth. This morning I completed all the formalities that I had left over from yesterday, and spent the remaining hours till midday talking with the fellows in the pilots' room. HK (or C) was asked by the CO to speak with us and to give us the signals for our flights here. HK is a fine lad, good-looking, very young and personable. We had a most interesting talk with him. I found out, incidentally, that he is a Socialist, or at least tends in that direction – a well-schooled and thoughtful lad.
P was supposed to take off for his first flight in the squadron with the 1300 patrol of four planes. But his plane got stuck among the various obstacles, and by the time he managed to get out the others had taken off; he returned right away as he could not make contact with them. He came back to the pilots' room shamefaced and angry. Our section (?) told me: "You take off with the 1800 patrol, and I hope you have better luck!" [But] fate mucked me up – my Spit wouldn't start, and the others left without me – my rage was endless! What a disgrace…
Our section leader went on the afternoon patrol with HK, and they managed to detect a Messerschmitt in the air, but couldn't overtake it. The CO, who returned first, told us the story. The boys' faces lit up, but when they heard the end – how the German got away – a stormy debate began about what should have been done and how. German planes in the air are very rare now, and when we manage to encounter them there is much rejoicing. For the most part, they don't dare take off except in the evening, which is why everyone wants to do the twilight patrol. The squadron veterans, of course, get to take their turn first.
This evening I met Z, who had been in our squadron but after his first flight was ousted by the previous CO for a "heavy landing." Everyone, by the way, attests to the meanness of that CO, who was replaced a few days ago, while praising the new one as a jolly good fellow. For the time being, Z is knocking about the camp in a surly mood. He tells me that he did his training in Egypt and that he visited Palestine -- a wonderful country, with a climate even better than Canada's – and that in Tel Aviv he saw prettier girls than anywhere else in the world. He is contemplating emigration. Could someone like him find his economic footing in our country? I'm afraid that my reply did not lift his spirits. He promised at least to come for a visit.
P went off somewhere to sell some cigarettes and chocolate. The market for cigarettes and chocolate is booming, as the Dutch have money but there is nothing to buy
Today repairs were completed on one of the runways and it was put back in use, but the dust that swirls behind every plane makes it hard for us to take off in formation. The runway itself, though repaired, is still anything but smooth. This morning I completed all the formalities that I had left over from yesterday, and spent the remaining hours till midday talking with the fellows in the pilots' room. HK (or C) was asked by the CO to speak with us and to give us the signals for our flights here. HK is a fine lad, good-looking, very young and personable. We had a most interesting talk with him. I found out, incidentally, that he is a Socialist, or at least tends in that direction – a well-schooled and thoughtful lad.
P was supposed to take off for his first flight in the squadron with the 1300 patrol of four planes. But his plane got stuck among the various obstacles, and by the time he managed to get out the others had taken off; he returned right away as he could not make contact with them. He came back to the pilots' room shamefaced and angry. Our section (?) told me: "You take off with the 1800 patrol, and I hope you have better luck!" [But] fate mucked me up – my Spit wouldn't start, and the others left without me – my rage was endless! What a disgrace…
Our section leader went on the afternoon patrol with HK, and they managed to detect a Messerschmitt in the air, but couldn't overtake it. The CO, who returned first, told us the story. The boys' faces lit up, but when they heard the end – how the German got away – a stormy debate began about what should have been done and how. German planes in the air are very rare now, and when we manage to encounter them there is much rejoicing. For the most part, they don't dare take off except in the evening, which is why everyone wants to do the twilight patrol. The squadron veterans, of course, get to take their turn first.
This evening I met Z, who had been in our squadron but after his first flight was ousted by the previous CO for a "heavy landing." Everyone, by the way, attests to the meanness of that CO, who was replaced a few days ago, while praising the new one as a jolly good fellow. For the time being, Z is knocking about the camp in a surly mood. He tells me that he did his training in Egypt and that he visited Palestine -- a wonderful country, with a climate even better than Canada's – and that in Tel Aviv he saw prettier girls than anywhere else in the world. He is contemplating emigration. Could someone like him find his economic footing in our country? I'm afraid that my reply did not lift his spirits. He promised at least to come for a visit.
P went off somewhere to sell some cigarettes and chocolate. The market for cigarettes and chocolate is booming, as the Dutch have money but there is nothing to buy
12 April 1945, Holland.
Today is the first anniversary of my wedding… Today I flew for the first time over the front line… Today is the first day that we have light in the camp – electric light… Today the dusk patrol managed to find and "kill" a German plane.
A day for reflection.
At night the Germans tried to bomb the field: a lone plane dropped one flare and then another, but our cannon scared them off in short order.
The radio is announcing Roosevelt's death
Today is the first anniversary of my wedding… Today I flew for the first time over the front line… Today is the first day that we have light in the camp – electric light… Today the dusk patrol managed to find and "kill" a German plane.
A day for reflection.
At night the Germans tried to bomb the field: a lone plane dropped one flare and then another, but our cannon scared them off in short order.
The radio is announcing Roosevelt's death
13 April 1945, Holland.
Today we went out on patrol in the same area. We saw the tank formations advancing south from Bremen. The front line, which for the most part is but imaginary, is marked out here and there by columns of smoke, bomb blasts etc. The patrol which was to relieve us came late, and we had no petrol left to sally out for action beyond the bombing line. German planes we saw none, and we returned the way we came.
I went for a walk in the camp and found, in one of the half-ruined buildings, the remains of a library that were left behind by the Germans. Rooting among the torn and scattered books, I found only three kinds: First, Nazi literature (Mein Kampf, the Nazi party platform, the race doctrine, politics and so on); second – science: a lot of books in various areas of war-related science (electricity, radio, navigation, mathematics, weapons, aircraft etc.) But most of the books were actually "belles lettres", recreational reading material – and judging by their [library] cards, it seems that these had the most readers. Among these books, tales of heroism and biographies of heroes take pride of place, and second is detective and mystery literature. Then come pornographic novels – which had the most readers of all. I could not find a single volume of the German classics. Most of the books were printed, and apparently were written, in recent years.
The dusk patrol commanded by G encountered a German plane and "killed" it – joy!
Today we went out on patrol in the same area. We saw the tank formations advancing south from Bremen. The front line, which for the most part is but imaginary, is marked out here and there by columns of smoke, bomb blasts etc. The patrol which was to relieve us came late, and we had no petrol left to sally out for action beyond the bombing line. German planes we saw none, and we returned the way we came.
I went for a walk in the camp and found, in one of the half-ruined buildings, the remains of a library that were left behind by the Germans. Rooting among the torn and scattered books, I found only three kinds: First, Nazi literature (Mein Kampf, the Nazi party platform, the race doctrine, politics and so on); second – science: a lot of books in various areas of war-related science (electricity, radio, navigation, mathematics, weapons, aircraft etc.) But most of the books were actually "belles lettres", recreational reading material – and judging by their [library] cards, it seems that these had the most readers. Among these books, tales of heroism and biographies of heroes take pride of place, and second is detective and mystery literature. Then come pornographic novels – which had the most readers of all. I could not find a single volume of the German classics. Most of the books were printed, and apparently were written, in recent years.
The dusk patrol commanded by G encountered a German plane and "killed" it – joy!
14 April 1945, Holland.
It is a cloudy and foggy day, and combat flying is impossible. P and I were due to fly out in an Anson and fly back with to new Spits, but the Anson arrived only at 5 p.m., when the fog and low clouds let up slightly It took us an hour and ten minutes to get there in the transport plane, and only fifteen minutes, from takeoff to landing, to get back -- how the Spits make it faster! I crossed the Rhine again and saw the scars of war – “all wounds and bruises and putrefying sores” [quoting Isaiah 1:6].
The camp is settling down and life is slowly entering a routine – but a rumour is going around camp that before the week is out we will be on our way to a new field, closer to the front line.
Not all the guesses are the same, but Celle, which is very close to the front line at the moment, gets the majority vote. The advance party leaves tomorrow after reveille, the rest in another day or two.
It is a cloudy and foggy day, and combat flying is impossible. P and I were due to fly out in an Anson and fly back with to new Spits, but the Anson arrived only at 5 p.m., when the fog and low clouds let up slightly It took us an hour and ten minutes to get there in the transport plane, and only fifteen minutes, from takeoff to landing, to get back -- how the Spits make it faster! I crossed the Rhine again and saw the scars of war – “all wounds and bruises and putrefying sores” [quoting Isaiah 1:6].
The camp is settling down and life is slowly entering a routine – but a rumour is going around camp that before the week is out we will be on our way to a new field, closer to the front line.
Not all the guesses are the same, but Celle, which is very close to the front line at the moment, gets the majority vote. The advance party leaves tomorrow after reveille, the rest in another day or two.
15 April 1945, Holland.
The weather worsened today, and a light rain kept coming down from the clouds, which lay almost at treetop level. Any flight was out of the question.
We took the opportunity to go down to Enschede for a hot shower (installation of the water system at camp has not yet been completed, and we wash at a tanker lorry that brings water from the lake).
I talked briefly with a Dutchman on the street -- I in my broken German, which is really not German at all, and he in his paltry English, but we did achieve some understanding. The town itself, unlike the other towns in the vicinity, did not suffer much physical destruction, but it was completely exploited and despoiled by the retreating Germans. "They took everything, those scoundrels, and left us only bedbugs and diseases." I asked him whether there were any Jews in town, and he answered that there had been, but they vanished when the Germans came. Where to? He could not say. He pointed to a shop at the end of the street: "That one belonged to a Jew… he was a good and honest man…" I asked him whether Jews had returned since the liberation. "All those that are returning," he said, "pass through this town, where they are given medical care, washed with Lysol to cleanse them of bedbugs and lice, given identity papers, and then they scatter…no doubt there were Jews among them, but who knows were they have gone."
In the afternoon, the weather was still bad. We were kept in a state of "30 minute alert."
T. – the commander of our squadron's section [?] A – is overall a somewhat odd fellow. The boys say of him that he lives only for flying. Although he has already completed four tours, he is still only a flight lieutenant, because he cares for nothing except flying. On the other hand, he is a great lover of all kinds of pranks, especially any that have to do with flares and blasts. In the attic of his quarters, he has hoarded a lot of bombs, rockets, smokepots, star shells etc. that were left here by the Germans. Under his energetic and active guidance, we sallied out to a field near our quarters, armed with this arsenal of booty, and started shooting or igniting everything at hand. The merriment was great and the air was soon filled with pillars of multicoloured smoke; lights, starbursts and rockets filled the space, to the boys' delight. But we didn't settle for that alone. We entered the houses and set off smokepots in all the fireplaces – so that the chimneys quickly began to spew smoke columns of all colours: blue, green, yellow, red, crimson and so on, to the gang's shouts of pleasure… Suddenly a car came speeding up from the ammunition department to find out what the blasts were about, what was causing them and what was the meaning of all the smoke that began to cover the field. T walked up to the car and asked [the driver] to tell the department officer that he was unable to determine the cause of the blasts and smoke, but that he had established that it was all over. As the car drove off, T lit a yellow smokepot and stuck it into the car's rear, so that it sped off with a yellow smoke trail following behind it… "I'm not sure whether the department officer is going to believe him that he couldn't find out the cause of the blasts and smoke," T joked in great fun as the fellows cheered.
The weather worsened today, and a light rain kept coming down from the clouds, which lay almost at treetop level. Any flight was out of the question.
We took the opportunity to go down to Enschede for a hot shower (installation of the water system at camp has not yet been completed, and we wash at a tanker lorry that brings water from the lake).
I talked briefly with a Dutchman on the street -- I in my broken German, which is really not German at all, and he in his paltry English, but we did achieve some understanding. The town itself, unlike the other towns in the vicinity, did not suffer much physical destruction, but it was completely exploited and despoiled by the retreating Germans. "They took everything, those scoundrels, and left us only bedbugs and diseases." I asked him whether there were any Jews in town, and he answered that there had been, but they vanished when the Germans came. Where to? He could not say. He pointed to a shop at the end of the street: "That one belonged to a Jew… he was a good and honest man…" I asked him whether Jews had returned since the liberation. "All those that are returning," he said, "pass through this town, where they are given medical care, washed with Lysol to cleanse them of bedbugs and lice, given identity papers, and then they scatter…no doubt there were Jews among them, but who knows were they have gone."
In the afternoon, the weather was still bad. We were kept in a state of "30 minute alert."
T. – the commander of our squadron's section [?] A – is overall a somewhat odd fellow. The boys say of him that he lives only for flying. Although he has already completed four tours, he is still only a flight lieutenant, because he cares for nothing except flying. On the other hand, he is a great lover of all kinds of pranks, especially any that have to do with flares and blasts. In the attic of his quarters, he has hoarded a lot of bombs, rockets, smokepots, star shells etc. that were left here by the Germans. Under his energetic and active guidance, we sallied out to a field near our quarters, armed with this arsenal of booty, and started shooting or igniting everything at hand. The merriment was great and the air was soon filled with pillars of multicoloured smoke; lights, starbursts and rockets filled the space, to the boys' delight. But we didn't settle for that alone. We entered the houses and set off smokepots in all the fireplaces – so that the chimneys quickly began to spew smoke columns of all colours: blue, green, yellow, red, crimson and so on, to the gang's shouts of pleasure… Suddenly a car came speeding up from the ammunition department to find out what the blasts were about, what was causing them and what was the meaning of all the smoke that began to cover the field. T walked up to the car and asked [the driver] to tell the department officer that he was unable to determine the cause of the blasts and smoke, but that he had established that it was all over. As the car drove off, T lit a yellow smokepot and stuck it into the car's rear, so that it sped off with a yellow smoke trail following behind it… "I'm not sure whether the department officer is going to believe him that he couldn't find out the cause of the blasts and smoke," T joked in great fun as the fellows cheered.
16 April 1945, Holland.
S, the Scot, has returned from his leave in England. He is a fine fellow, and we soon became friends. This morning we were ordered to pack up and get ready to move.
I took off with the afternoon patrol. Nothing happened beyond the routine. The bombing line has continued to advance. Celle is already well to this side, and we are apparently going to move there. Indeed, toward evening we were ordered to move. The Scot and I were tasked with transporting the baggage. Whoever was in charge did not show enough dispatch, and as a result there was a delay in making out the paperwork for moving it. In the meanwhile, the transport planes, which were sent for us, were loaded with the other squadrons' baggage and left, and we got no others. This ticked us off, as the boys would have to sleep tonight without cots or blankets.
In the evening, R suggested that we all go to the officers' quarters, since only he was left there. As I walked there, carrying my camp cot, the custodian [?] met me with a rebuking question: "Aren't the Sergeants' quarters good enough for you any more?" I answered that R had invited me, and that anyway I saw no reason why four members of the squadron, who all had to rise early the next morning, should have to sleep scattered among the empty houses.
"Relax, I was only joking."
By now R had come out and intervened: "What business is it of yours, if I invited him to my room?"
"Can't you see that I was only joking?"
"I didn't know you were capable of it."
Overall, members of the squadron do not take kindly to outsiders' meddling in their mutual relationships – which are very collegial regardless of rank or seniority.
S, the Scot, has returned from his leave in England. He is a fine fellow, and we soon became friends. This morning we were ordered to pack up and get ready to move.
I took off with the afternoon patrol. Nothing happened beyond the routine. The bombing line has continued to advance. Celle is already well to this side, and we are apparently going to move there. Indeed, toward evening we were ordered to move. The Scot and I were tasked with transporting the baggage. Whoever was in charge did not show enough dispatch, and as a result there was a delay in making out the paperwork for moving it. In the meanwhile, the transport planes, which were sent for us, were loaded with the other squadrons' baggage and left, and we got no others. This ticked us off, as the boys would have to sleep tonight without cots or blankets.
In the evening, R suggested that we all go to the officers' quarters, since only he was left there. As I walked there, carrying my camp cot, the custodian [?] met me with a rebuking question: "Aren't the Sergeants' quarters good enough for you any more?" I answered that R had invited me, and that anyway I saw no reason why four members of the squadron, who all had to rise early the next morning, should have to sleep scattered among the empty houses.
"Relax, I was only joking."
By now R had come out and intervened: "What business is it of yours, if I invited him to my room?"
"Can't you see that I was only joking?"
"I didn't know you were capable of it."
Overall, members of the squadron do not take kindly to outsiders' meddling in their mutual relationships – which are very collegial regardless of rank or seniority.
17 April 1945, Holland
This morning one Anson reached us and we used it to send the first load. We managed to send in this craft at least most of the cots and the blankets, and the pilot promised to come back for the rest. All the other baggage will have to be loaded tomorrow onto the lorry, as there will be no other opportunity to send it by air.
Meanwhile the driver has developed a bad infection on his arm, and he suffered great pain while dashing about on the lorry all day. I decided to stay till tomorrow and to go with him, so as to replace him at the wheel if necessary, and the officer in charge agreed. The drive should actually be quite interesting: 180 miles through newly occupied Germany. The other fellows went on the transport planes.
This morning one Anson reached us and we used it to send the first load. We managed to send in this craft at least most of the cots and the blankets, and the pilot promised to come back for the rest. All the other baggage will have to be loaded tomorrow onto the lorry, as there will be no other opportunity to send it by air.
Meanwhile the driver has developed a bad infection on his arm, and he suffered great pain while dashing about on the lorry all day. I decided to stay till tomorrow and to go with him, so as to replace him at the wheel if necessary, and the officer in charge agreed. The drive should actually be quite interesting: 180 miles through newly occupied Germany. The other fellows went on the transport planes.