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GOOD LUCK SKIPPER

An RAF pilot’s relationship with Lady Luck 1939 to 1945

It was September 1939. Yesterday the Prime Minister had told us that were at war with Germany. The sirens had sounded. Those Luftwaffe boys were quick off the mark? No, it was a false alarm.

With a friend I stood before the red letter box near our home, each holding a letter. We hesitated a moment, looked at each, then pushed our letters in. They were applications to join the RAF and they fell silently toward an uncertain future. Five years later he was a Wing Commander DSO DFC commanding a squadron of Lancasters, while I was a Prisoner of War. Luck of the draw? Yes. Who lived and who died was largely luck.

Luck. The word keeps coming back to me. A year later, towards the end of my flying training, I was stopped by the Service Police late at night, away from my station, without a pass and having drunk rather too much. Oh dear, what a black. I had blotted my copybook. I would be in disgrace: probably taken off flying, the ultimate disaster for an aspiring pilot. Then a few days later, just as I was climbing into my aircraft, a messenger on a bike came looking for me.

“LAC Morison?”
“Yes”.
“The Station Commander wants to see you”.
“When?”
“He says: at your convenience, not to interfere with your flying”.

Well, that didn’t sound too bad so as soon as I could I knocked on the CO’s door and went in. “LAC Morison Sir. You wanted to see me”. The CO was a fatherly figure. He shuffled among his papers. “Ah yes, now let me see. I have a report here from a Corporal, er. Smith, of the Service Police saying that at 22.45 hours on the night of the 15th instant you were seen in Jesus Lane, Cambridge, without a pass, not wearing your cap, field service, and wearing your respirator anti gas incorrectly slung”.

That sounded fairly harmless. Nothing about being drunk and anyway I didn’t need a pass.

“Er. tell me Morison, could that be right do you think?” “Well yes Sir, it could be right”.

“Um. This Corporal, er. Smith. Would you say Morison that perhaps, how shall I put it, this Corporal, er. Smith, was being somewhat overzealous?”

“Well yes Sir, I suppose you might say that”.

“Thank you Morison. That will be all”.

I turned to go. “Oh, and by the way Morison: good luck”.

A wise old gentleman. He knew very well that if I were to live I would need all the luck in the world. It played a big part in who lived and who died.

Now move on a couple of years to one dark night in June 1942. I am the Captain of a Wellington bomber waiting to take off for Essen. The green flight flashes. I turn onto the runway, open the throttles and as the aircraft gathers speed the voices of the crew come over the intercom: “Good luck skipper”. “Good luck skipper”. “Good luck”. Two hours later we can see in the distance the searchlights and flak and fires around the target, then an urgent call from one of the crew warns “Aircraft to port skipper”. At that moment my luck which had been faithfully on duty for so long suddenly went AWOL. There was an almighty crash. “Abandon aircraft” and a minute later I was standing in a Germany hayfield, unbuckling my parachute. And so I became a Prisoner of War, or a Kriegie as we called ourselves — from the German Kriegsgefangener, but, I was lucky to be alive. Lady Luck had come back on duty in the nick of time.

As did all RAF PoWs I soon found myself at Stalagluft III, the Luftwaffe’s main camp. Life was reasonably comfortable, but we all wanted to go home and so escaping became the most popular sport. My next bit of luck was to meet another new Kriegie, Lorne Welch, who became a lifelong friend, and together we schemed, night and day, on how to escape. Eventually we became part of a group planning to walk out through the gate, led by two Kriegies posing as guards, wearing Luftwaffe uniforms and with forged papers.

Lorne and I had long planned that if we ever got out we would borrow an aircraft from the Luftwaffe and fly to Sweden — so much easier than the long walk or train journey to any neutral country favoured by most. Once out we would exchange civilian clothes for the guards’ uniforms which we would need to move freely on a Luftwaffe airfield. When the day came the plan worked perfectly, but it was the last time that it did for it took us a week to find an airfield with suitable aircraft, but when we did we were right by an unguarded gate. So in we went and as we walked round the perimeter track a small plane landed and the crew walked away. It looked perfect. Lady Luck was on duty again as we climbed on board, but alas not for long — there was no electric starter. Lorne got out with the starting handle, but no sooner had he got it in place than we saw the rightful crew walking toward us. I scrambled out and saluted smartly. The pilot gave an order which I didn’t understand. I saluted again, still looking blank until he made a winding hand signal. It was obvious. I climbed up on the wing and wound as best I could, but it wouldn’t start. Then Lorne tried and got it going. We slid down to the ground and stood watching as our beautiful aircraft climbed away toward the horizon.

Despite the disappointment we were still free so Luck was just holding her own as we set off to leave the airfield and get our breath back. She still held on as we passed a Luftwaffe man whose rank we didn’t recognise so didn’t know whether to salute. As we hesitated he bellowed at us demanding to be saluted. We did and hurried on. Luck still keeping an eye on us.

Next morning we returned to the airfield. Again a small plane landed and was left unattended. We climbed on board, but alas it wouldn’t start. Then we saw a Luftwaffe Sergeant walking towards us. “Was wollen Sie mit die maschine?” There was no plausible explanation, not least in my sketchy German, so I just said, “We are English officers”, and that was the end of our little adventure.

Back at the camp we expected to spend the usual few days in the cooler, but not so. We had broken all the rules of escaping. We had worn Germany uniform. We were accused of espionage (wandering round Luftwaffe property?) and sabotage (attempting to nick an aircraft?). We were kept in the cooler for weeks, threatened with Court Martial and with sentence of death, none of which we took seriously. The Senior British Officer wrote a brilliant letter to the Protecting Power, Switzerland, and in the end they just sent us to Colditz, a comfortable place to while away the rest of the war. In the end the Lady held our hands until a fleet of American Dakotas flew us home and landed us at Wescot in Oxfordshire, to face the hazards of the real world on our own.

Walter Morison

Flak and Ferrets, a full account of Walter Morison’s wartime adventures, is available from Amazon UK