PART 1: VICTOR POPPA STORY…YOU WILL LAUGH, CRY OR BE OFFENDED

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When I think of Victor Poppa I want to laugh and cry at the same time. (I think Victor will be pleased with this story wherever he is.)
I have been considering this story for more than 40 years. Should the life of Victor Poppa be edited…be sanitized in other words. Or should it be presented just the way he wrote it back in 1984. I decided to be true to Victor and present the story just as he wrote it. Rough and real. Soft and sweet. Some people will be disturbed no doubt… either by the brutality of the World War II bombing of Germany or by Victor’s sexual exploits when on the ground.
alan skeoch oct. 2019

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Take a moment. Look closely at Victor. His face in 1987 needs to be burned into your brain. Look at that smile. And look deeper if you can. VICTOR POPPA was such an unusual man that I have difficulty finding a place to start my story of his life. He was unique in many ways but foremost was his ability to make every moment of his life magnetic, humorous, tragic and yet so enjoyable.
VICTOR POPPA:
alan skeoch Oct. 2019
As mentioned in my story titled “the Last Flight of HX 313, Victor was the tail gunner in a Halifax bomber that was strafed and set afire on a bombing run over Bourg Leopold on May 17/28, 1944. He was trapped in his bubble and sure to die as the big plane pirouetted out of the night sky burning in its death throes. Then by a quirk of fate the plane made a violent turn that threw Victor out to the open bubble. His parachute was only attached by one thin strap and Victor had to pull the strap down to grab the D ring. When he did so HX 313 and Victor were separated but both in free fall.
Victor survived but was badly injured. That much you already know but there is so much more that I would like to share with you. Initially I only knew Victor from his letters sent to me in 1984. He cried when I first initiated contact with him. MY letter was sent 40 years after the crash. Totally unexpected. Victor was then living in a trailer camp near Lake Elsinore, California. Retired air industry worker who moved to California when the AVRO Arrow was scrapped by the Diefenbaker government in Canada.
Sometime around 1990, Marjorie, Andrew and I visited Victor. I had a short term sabbatical leave from teaching and we flew to New Zealand and Australia to look at their educational systems at our own expense. On the return flight we stopped for a few day in California to visit with Victor and Louise Poppa. We had no idea what to expect. Our visit made New Zealand and Australia fade into the background.
Victor met us at the airport in Los Angelus driving a very large and very dated Cadilac. He had a grin a mile wide. He loved us and made no pretence otherwise. In those few days with the Poppa family a lot of things happened which are stories in t themselves so ‘let me count the ways’ as the love poem stated.
1) The Cadillac. It had seen better days at least a decade earlier. We never made the trip to Lake Elsinore. On one semi deserted California road, the Cadillac stopped. “Damn thing, let’s me down too often.” It was around 9 p.m. and the problem seemed easy to me. “Phone the AAA and we can get a taxi to your place.” “Not that easy, Alan.” “Why?” “Someone has to stay with the car…can’t leave it by the side of the road…” “Why not?” “It’ll get stripped.” “Surely not…” “Fact of life here…got to be careful.” “Who will stay with the car? Victor , I can stay here…no problem.” “Would you mind, Alan? Louise and Marjorie and Andrew can get home with me by taxi. You stay with car and tow truck until it’s safely put away…won’t take long”
So away they went by taxi while I was left to mother the Cadillac and wonder what evil persons were watching from the California darkness. Probably waited only an hour or so. Not long. No incidents.
My initial image of California was based on Hollywood. Great wealth. Extravagant lifestyles. Splendour. Well, Victor did not live that way. His home was a long trailer in a sprawling trailer park where Victor had a lot of space to keep things. Things? Lots of spare tires, fuselage of a light plane with no wings, motor parts…that kind of thing.
2) “You and Marjorie can sleep in this room.” “Nice.” “Got to be careful though.” “Why?” “Close to the Mexican border…never know who is passing through.” “Dangerous?” “Could be. Look under your pillow. There is a pistol there. If someone comes in through the window shoot first, ask questions later.” (I thought Victor was joking and maybe he was. One thing certain is that there was a real pistol under the pillow.)
“Nice picture above the bed…sort of contrasts with the pistol.” (Not sure if I said this or just thought it. Above our bed was a picture of Jesus Christ with a beating heart with words like “love” and “peace.”.) “We are Catholic, Alan, maybe you and Marjorie would like to come with us to mass on Sunday.” “No problem.” The picture of Christ and the pistol under the pillow were formost in my mind by then. The two things just did not fit. That became my image of California.
3) “This is Shadow, our dog.” “What breed?” “Pit bull…good guard dog.” “Dangerous?” “Never know around here. This is not a gated subdivision.” “I mean is Shadow dangerous?” “Can be, but I have a solution to that. Look here.” (Victor pulled a baseball bat from behind the front door. Not just an ordinary baseball bat but a bat that he had ‘improved’ by driving long spikes through drilled holes so that the long points were exposed.) “What’s it for?” “Shadow. If he attacks someone or just attacks another dog, I give him a good rap on the nuts with this bat.” “You are joking.” “Nope, I take Shadow for a walk every with and take the bat along with me. You can come with us.” (And sure enough, Victor was telling the truth. His great grin never left his face all the time we were with them. The grin fooled me often.}
4) Shadow was a nice dog. He liked us. Shadow made me laugh so hard one evening that I nearly died. I mean it. I nearly died. Victor saved my life that evening. I must tell this story for it shows another facet of Victor. He had many facets…many skills…a heart so big it enveloped all. That is probably why he was so lucky with English girls when on leave in England. He was very heterosexual. Those stories will come later …in full detail if I have the nerve to transcribe them.
“Alan, let me tell you a story about Shadow.” “Don’t tell me he bit somebody.” “Shadow does not bite…just looks like wants to bite if things get tense.” “Story” “A couple of nights ago Shadow was eating his dinner. Bowl was almost empty when a mouse jumped in the bowl. Shadow was surprised and looked over at me. Then he looked back at the bowl with a furrowed brow. And he then did the weirdest thing. He parted his lips and slurped the mouse up. Then looked at me again. The mouse was trapped in his mouth between his lips and his teeth. And the mouse was running back and forth making bulges in Shadows mouth. Shadow was startled. He seemed to be asking me what he should do with the mouse…not eat it but where could it be released… set free…where could he put the goddamn thing gently.”
We were sitting in a restaurant when Victor told me this story. One of those all you can eat places that cater to retired Americans with limited money. I was eating some kind of stew with large chunks of meat. And I was laughing hard. My image of Shadow was so funny I could do nothing but laugh. Then a lump of meat got wedged in my assophogas. Blocked entirely. This had never happened before but I knew that moment that I would be dead unless helped. I was suffocating while Everyone was laughing. No one suspected I was on the verge of passing out…perhaps choking to death. I couldn’t speak. Precious seconds ticked by. I then leaped up on the table trying to gasp…trying to get even sliver of oxygen but failing. Panic. It was then that people realized I was in serious trouble. I jumped down from the table…could not breathe. No one knew what was wrong.
But Victor was a man who knew a crises when he saw one. He immediately jumped from his chair linked his arms around my back below my rib cage and gave me one hell of hug. Bingo! In that split second the lump of beef was ejected and I could breathe again. I will never forget that moment.
“How did you know what to do, Victor? How did you know to give me that hug?” “I didn’t. Never saw that happen before. Seemed you needed help.” “Victor, you saved my life.”
“How did it happen, Alan?” asked Marjorie. “It was that goddam story about Shadow…made me laugh so hard I could cry… make me take a deep breath with a mouthful of food.” “Why so funny?” “Because I pictured Shadow with that furrowed brow while the mouse was running back and forth inside his lips.”
5) And of course we talked about World War II at length. Victor felt devastated when he returned to England after walking out of his POW campt in Germany and trekking with Seeley and nine French nurses through the chaotic ruins of the Third Reich to American lines in what would become West Germany. “George Freeman, I called him Hank, was my best friend…we were both gunners in 424 Squadron, RCAF and that was a bond but our shared life together on military ‘leaves’ really made us as tight as brothers. Someday i will tell you about our experiences with English girls. We met a lot of them. George was about to marry one and would have done so had not that JU 88 strafed his middle gun turret.”
“I am writing a story of my life, Alan…don’t know what to do with it really…let me send a copy to you…I have a good memory for detail. Maybe you can make something out of it.”
Victor did sent me his hand written journal. This is only part of the story. Part One. What do I remember most about Victor? He laughed a lot. His face was creased with a few wrinkles that turned upward and not downward. He was always good company, a person people like to spend time with.
6) My only flying experience with Victor came about almost as an afterthought. I did not know he owned a Cessna 170. It was obvious that he was not a wealthy man since his home was a trailer in a trailer camp that seemed insecure…need for the pistol under the pillow and Shadow the laughing pit bull.
“Would you like to go up, Alan?” “Fly around Lake Elsinore…we can do that…I own a plane…keep it near here. How about it?” “Sure.” (I said that with some nervousness as my experience with light airplanes was not a bed of roses. Flying in S 52 helicopters in the wilds of Western Alaska had been exciting when I was a single male of limited value to anyone. And then later aborting a takeoff on a swampy lake full of deadfalls in Ontario…and doing the attempt again with a pierced pontoon. And hearing tale after tale of bush flights that failed. These made me a little nervous to say the least.) But I said ‘sure’ and Victor drove me to the nearby airstrip where his Cessna sat.
“How long have you had this, Victor?” “Quite a few years…love to fly…wanted to be a pilot back in the war but they had lots of pilots and made me a tail gunner. I just love flying. Get in.” (A Cessna is a light aircraft…could carry two people and a bit of baggage. I notice the paint had pealed off in several places.) “Buckle up, here we go.” Victor was in his element as we taxied to the runway and full throttled our way into the California skies on a clear bright day. “Important to buckle up Alan, because of that door.” “What door?” “Your door doesn’t close properly…easy to push open.” The door was ajar…easy to open. I tried to move a little closer to Victor…this flight was not a good idea. “That’s Lake Elsinore ever there…coming up.” “Do you fly often?” “Whenever I can…mostly alone.” “Why?” “Louise doesn’t like to fly unless we are going somewhere special in the interior.” “Alan, take a look down there…gated subdivisions…more and more of them being built.” “Why…are they needed?” “Rich people seem to live in fear so they have guards at the front of their estate homes. Costs a lot of money. The rest of us live wherever we can find a place No guards.” And Victor circled over one gated community with a fancy Spanish name that I have forgotten. “Can I take your picture Victor….while we are in the air?” “Of course.”
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And this is the picture I want readers to see. This was Victor Poppa around 1990. Beside it is his picture when he was a 22 year old gunner on HX 313. Note one thing. They look the same. They have that devil may care look. Hard to hold back a smile…determined to live life to the full and prepared to share whatever he has with friends.
Now I think you are ready to read Victor’s journal. I have decided not to edit his sexual exploits for they are as funny and sensitive as Victor’s dog Shadow with a mouse running under his lips.
THE JOURNAL OF VICTOR POPPA (sent to Alan Skeoch in January, 1987, transcribed by Alan Skeoch 2019)
Alan, I am going back to day one in the story of my life. Nine months after that gleam in father’s eye,I was born, August 30, 1921. The last of five children. My life up to four was uneventful until one day as was just standing in my back yard my oldest sister Sylvia approached me with one arm behind her back.
“Victor, guess what I have for you?”
She handed me a model airplane with about a 6 inch wingspan with two wings, From that day my life was purely airplanes. I used to walk to the Elliotts airport and watch the airplanes take off and land. Mostly Curtiss Jennies (JN4w’s) I also remember a damaged deHaviland Hornet Moth …a high winged airplane , cabin for 2 people. I can remember sliding my hand over the shiny fabric and dream. Since the airport was near Hamilton bay, we were also visited by a Vickers Vidette, an English airplane.
Elliott’s airport closed down and a new one opened about an eighth of a mile from our house. Here they had four Gypsy Moths (de Haviland) but the airport had a short life because the approach and runway were not ideal. Finally Hamilton’s Civic Airport was built and lasted until the end of World War II when it became a housing tract.

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Only a mile from home so I spent as much time there as I could. Enjoyed watching the Piper Cubs land and takeoff. The Cubs had tail skis instead of tail wheels. Hamilton’s first air force Squadron , 424, was formed here. Equipped with Tiger Moths, then later Fleet airplanes with 90 horsepower Kenner radial motors. It was a big day for me when a Lockheed 10 landed. It had two motors and I marvelled at how it could take off and land in such a short space.
Then, for two dollars that I had saved, I got a ride in a Taylor Cub. I walked on the clouds for days after that one. One day a Piper Cub J3 crashed and the pilot was killed. I looked at the crash soberly but my feelings for airplanes and flying were not dampened.
One winter day I was leaning against the 4 foot fence looking at a Curtiss Reid Rambler with its inverted cirrus motor. The owner Ray C. came to his airplane.
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“Mister, I have 75 cents to help pay for the gas, could give a ride?”
He agreed but disappeared for a long time. it was a really cold day and my feet by this time were freezing So I left, downcast, not for my 75 cents but that I had been let down. I had come so close to an airplane ride. The next week end I went back to the airport and while looking at the old Rambler, Ray C. came along. He spotted me.
“Hey, aren’t you the kid that gave me the 75 cents for gas?”
My heart skipper a beat.
“Come on, get in.”
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I climbed nto the front seat, Ray strapped me in. Soon we were taxiing to the active runway. Before i knew it we were in the air in this wonderful yellow airline with tis two wings. We flew up towards Hamilton’s so called mountain where i was treated to steep turns, dives, and spins. The cold day did not matter one bit. The wing arrangement was called Sesqui-plane because of the short lower wing. Had struts instead of wires. At the time, I did not know that Ray’s airplane was a retired airplane from early RCAF days. All this came to light on looking through my 1985, 424 Squadron history book purchased from the squadron reunion in the summer of 1985.
“During these tender years I built model airplanes and I still do for that matter. As a very young lad I was not familiar with balsa wood so I used my mothers’ kitchen knife to split pine boards with the help of a hammer. Mother never said anything about the abuse of her knife. I used my imagination a lot. I made a hanger from a wooden box wirth my squadrons installed as I whittled. By he tie I reached high school my had really progressed with my model airplane building.
“During lunch hours in High School, I didn’t bother with sports or running through peoples back yards, climbing fences, etc. Instead I went over to a small building where Piper J3s were being covered and later assembled at our local airport. I used to enjoy talking to the fellows working there and smelling that wonderfull dope they used. It smelled so ‘airplane like’. (I wasn’t into glue sniffing though.) To me a person has not lived until that person visited a place where airplanes were covered with Irish linen, then painted. The smell was like fine perfume.
“About the last year I was in high school the National Steel Car Corporation of Hamilton was aproached by Ottawa and asked to build an airplane factory in Malton just outside Tronoto. When possibleI would wangle car ride from Hamilton to Malton to see if I could get a job there. Sometimes I travelled all that way on my bicycle. And often I hitchhiked. Finally i was hired on August 28, 1938.
GAP HERE…A PAGE SEEMS TO BE MISSING SO STORY JUMPS VICTOR’S FIRST EXPERIENCES AS A VOLUNTEER SOLDIER
“About 100 of us were loaded in trucks and driven to Long Branch, a suburb of Toronto. We were unloaded, marched and line-up. We were each given a Ross rifle and handed 10 rounds of .303 ammo. On order we were to load and fire at will. Bullets hit rocks and whistled every which way. It was a frightening experience. I almost dropped my rifle but pulled myself together and fired my ten rounds. That was my first World War II shooting experience.
Just before posting out on my first pay parade the paymaster counted out my pay. I was given $10 more than I was due which I returned and was thanked for my honesty. That’s the way I am.
I was posted to Quebec City where I met my wife Louise Voyer. (Louise was a girlfriend not a wife until after the war. In between Victor was never short of female companionship when on leave. And that is an understatement.) Then I was posted to Belleville, Ontario to Number 5 I.T. S. Here we study airmanship, navigation, wireless, etc.
At this school decisions were made about our future positions and placement. I did not apply my energy fully asI should have and as a result I was offered the opportunity to be a Bombardier. Disappointing day. I would not be a pilot.
“If I can’t be a pilot, Just make me an air gunner then.”
“So I was posted #9 Bombing and Gunnery school at Mont Joli, Quebec where the St. Lawrence River is 20 miles wide. We flew in worn out Fairey Battle’s. Two students at a time. Bitterly cold. When we fired our drum fed Vickers gas operated machine guns we would hold one hand on the barrel and fired until the hand was warm, then we switched hands. My flying time at St. Joli was13 hours and 45 minutes. I graduated as a sergeant, given leave and posted overseas from Halifax, Nova Scotia’
Note: Victor’s time spent in Halifax was disappointing. The “two brands of beer tasted more like dishwater” and finding females was nigh unto impossible as”they were gun-shy due to the constant flow of bodies passing them.” After a week he shipped out on the Queen Elizabeth Steamship with 12,000 other Canadians. “We were jammed into staterooms, aisles, every part of the ship.” No luxury. “My bunk was on the floor with three more on top of me. The fourth person slept with his nose touching the ceiling.” there were chocolate bars available in he canteen but the line ups were long. The kitchens ran 24 hours a day. Occasionally they sailed past cork life rafts that were empty. This was sobering. Like floating coffins without the bodies. They Docked after four days at Grennock, Scotland then they were sent to Bournemouth for posting.
Note: He arrived in England May 20, 1943 and returned to Canada on July 17,1945 during that time he flew 49 hours and 45 minutes on daylight bombing runs and 42 hours and 35 minutes night bombing the last of which was May 27/28, 1944 when HX 313 was shot down and Victor became a Prisoner of War. In short Victor spent 12 months in active service May, 1943 to May 1944. One year.
He had one amusing comment about that year in England. “I am Always hungry.”
“On arrival in England Victor was assigned to #22 Operational Training Unit (OTU) flying Wellington Bombers which were twin engined aircraft “of Geodetic Construction mid-winged, 70 foot wingspan, crew of 5, sporting a Fraser back gun turret with four .303 machine guns (Browning), also had a front gun turret which Bombardier was resposilble for” in event of a frontal attack by a night fighter … a rare occurrence.”
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Victor first crew was Bill Tighe, a recently married Englishman. Bob Irwin (Navigator), Ken Sweatman (Bombardier), Wilf Wakely (wireless operator) and Victor Poppa himself (tail gunner). Wilf was experienced having flown on 6 bombing missions one of which was the first 1,000 bomber raid on the Ruhr Valley “which we named Happy Valley because of the intense Flak, Searchlighs and night fighters.”
Wilf Wakely was the only survivor of a Handly Page bomber (Halifax?) so had experience with parachute and escape hatch. Victor enjoyed the training flights and the lectures. One lecture saved his life. Ken Sweatman asked Victor to come to a presentation on photo flashes. Later, Victor failed to properly address an officer and was told as punishment to harmonize the guns on an aircraft being repaired. Bombs had been unloaded safely it seemed. So Victor paced off a target point behind the bomber, set up a harmonizing board, climbed the ladder into the bomber and began walking along the catwalk to the rear of the plane. His arm accidentally caught on the arming wire for the photo flash and pulled out the pin. Time delay began ticking. In seconds the photo flash would explode thereby detonating the other photo flashes and then perhaps the whole bomb load. The photo flash units were bombs themselves though. “At this point I had two choices either to remove the fuse or jump out and run hoping I would be far enough away to survive the blast.” Victor knew all the ground crew would die so he decided to try and remove the fuse. Success. “I descended the ladder and told the armorer what happened. He blanched’ as I handed him the fuse. If I had not attended that lecture with Ken I would not be here today.”
While on training flights in England Victor had ‘real fun’ doing air to air firing from his Wellington gun turret and also “we used camera guns against spitfires” Then they practised low flying where Victor coaxed the pilot to get lower and lower. Ken Sweatman got worried and reminded Victor that “I am a married man as is Bill” All the same they did fly low enough to touch the top of trees, buzz a train and fly through a quarry ‘which was a near miss’. When they to back from one practise run the ground crew pulled branches from the motors.
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“Night bombing was another matter…more dangerous. Initially we did circuits and bumps in the dark…i.e. takeoff and landing. Then cross country flights one of which created panic when a fire seemed to happen just as the plane was on its final approach. “Bill said, ‘I smell fire’ Wilf fired a red flare and we were cleared to land. Bill had not bothered lower the landing gear, flaps were down. Bill did a fancy side slip but we hit the air cushion between the airplane and the runway and started to slide, slide, slide…15 tons of mass takes a fair amount of runway. We skidded onto the grass as the tail swung around. I felt like an anvil on a chain. Our airplane did not burn, fortunately, I had trouble getting out of my turret as the hydraulic lines locked once the motor stopped. The Wellington was totalled…ruined…fuselage was twisted and wing bent up, centre section spar twisted, propeller ruined, bomb bay a mess and the bottom of the motors cylinders mashed. We got out OK…Bob our navigator cracked a couple of ribs. Bill had his log book ‘endorsed” meaning his idea of a fire was not quite valid.”
NOTE: Operational training was no piece of cake. Victor estimated that about half of the dozen or so crew members he started with died before ever getting to fly a bombing run over Germany. One crash must have made Victor and his crew feel really badly as they were partly responsible.
“There were always bad crashes using those tired old Wellingtons which were difficult to fly on one motor. One night in our trading at #22 OTU we were doing takeoffs and landings and while taxiing down the runway Bill managed to get one wheel off the runway. As we were trying to get our Wellington back onto the runway we heard over our raidio telephone another airplane talking to our tower. He said he had one engine out. Tower asked if he could take one more circuit as we were stuck part way down the runway. the pilot said he would give it a try. He did not make it. A few seconds later I could see a big flash of flame. All aboard perished.”
“There was never any talk about about all of the things happening but every day we could see stretchers leaning against the hospital wall with dark brown stains from bloodied bodies.”
NOTE: Victor was young, 22 years old, blessed with a feeling of immortality when he first arrived in England. At OTU that feeling diminished. He kept a stiff upper lip.
NOTE: English girls were great distractions for Victor and for many other airmen who tried to live their lives to fullest for they soon knew their days living on this earth were numbered. So sex was an escape and a pleasure…as Victor graphically describes. Each base provided a big box of condoms. “We could take as many as we wanted and did so,” said a friend of mine.
NOTE: Some readers may find Victor’s stories upsetting because the sexual detail is a bIt rough. Sorry about that. These sexual exploits were part and parcel of bomber command experiences. Some are very humorous. If you find sex disturbing stop reading now. NOW!
“Wellesbourne was my first real opportunity to meet English girls. These girls were easy to get along with and very nice. Wellesbourne sported 4 pubs. We would start down from 1 to 4 and then back to #1. There was a lot of just regular sex with these girls. With some there was a bit more than that which I remember with a smile. This one girl was about 5’ 6” and well proportioned and would wait near a lane for her prey. You could do whatever you wanted providing you were both standing up. One of her first words were ‘you are raping me you know’ to which the response was ‘Uh! Huh’ and kept proceeding. She was my first experience with what was known as a ‘knee shaker’. Later this same thing was done in telephone booths when it was raining. It was fun if a little strange.”
“Another night I was drinking my way back to the base and I was well into my cups and using my bicycle for support. This fellow I knew had two girls with him. He said ‘Vic, I can’t fuck them both, do you want one?’ Sure, I said, I was given my choice. My friends choice of words did not upset the girls. They were both attractive and eager to get on with it. I got mine down the road apiece and over the hedge. This time missionary fashion was great, especially with one nice buttock inch hand. I finally got her back over the hedge, kissed her good night … mutual kiss back. The next morning on my way to the mess hall, the back of my hands were very itchy and I had to scratch them. After reflecting on the problem a bit, I came to the realization that I had deposited my girl onto stinging nettles. I’ve often wondered how much scratching she had to do to her very nice bottom?”
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Dances for airmen were a regular occurrence across England

“Another high light was when one night a female Cabby offered to take two of us from our unit to Leamington Spa (about 20 miles from our base) for 10 shillings each. We had her drop us off at the local once hall. I wasn’t making much headway until after God save the King was sung at the end of the evening.. While passing through the door I noticed this reasonably shaped female on my left. I slipped my arm under hers and said ‘Let’s go to the park.’ To which she replied ‘The park’s closed, let’s go to my place.’ We did not waste words. Thanks to the blackout my hands were busy. She said ‘I’m glad “.’ ‘Me too1’ I stayed with her all night. When we were really into it she said ‘I don’t care if have a baby’… I said ‘Me, too!’ and kept going. She told me her name was the Honourable Olivia. Olivia must have been between 35 and 40 years old. What a body? and good-looking. I was 22 years old. I awoke at 6.45 a.m. and had 15 minutes to get to the base. We were scheduled to fly at 8 a.m. Olivia asked if I could make it on time. I said sure , ‘I have 7 shillings which is more than enough for the bus.’ Olivia insisted on giving me a 1 pound note (worth about $4.50 Canadian) I did not have time to argue. From time to time I have nice thoughts about the Honourable Olivia.”
NOTE: Victor’s RCAF career…would make a good movie. I like to think that the Honourable Olivia really wanted a baby…needed one for her biological clock was getting past its best before date. Maybe her British army husband had been lost in the disastrous early months of the African campaign…a side story. Maybe Victor really earned that 1 pound note. But that is just speculation…fantasy. Maybe.
FIRST RAID: BOMBING OF HAMBURG (SO intense that the streets caught fire)
“Our Squadron Commander deemed us ready for combat on July 24, 1943. Our target was Hamberg. Mission Number One. All of our training came to a head. At the briefing we were told we were one of 800 airplanes to go on this raid…mixed bag or Wellingtons, Short Sterlngs, Halifaxes, Lancasters.
Once airborne we each got busy with our own task. I loaded my four .303 Brownings and cocked each gun in the ready to fire position. I then switched on my reflector sight and to my chagrin I discovered the bulb for the reflector sight refused to light up This was good cause to turn back but I voted to continue anyway and take the chance. We were very naive at this juncture and it was almost our undoing. However the gods were smiling upon us. We crossed the coast at Scarborough, heading for Heligoland where we met our first baptism from “Flak” (anti-aircraft shells). We were at 20,000 feet and passed over the German Flak ships without damage. We then crossed the coast where the Elbe empties into the North Sea heading inland to Hamberg. More Flak explosions around us. I heard the sharp crack from each shell and saw the black puffs of smoke. I knew we could be hit as the flak was very close. The plane bounced. We were being handed off from one flak battery to another en route to Hamberg. Then there it was…the city. Well lit. Looking down I could make out the streets and see bursts from our bombs exploding. Some aircraft carried 250, 500, 1000, 2000 and 4,000 pounders called ‘cookies’. Others carried a mixed bag…some of the above, Magnesium bombs (400 to a canister) and last but not least, 35 point phosphorus bombs. Phosphorus was nasty…it would stick to anything including flesh. There were 8 of these to a canister. If phosphorus stuck to flesh, it began to burn and could only be put out by sand or water. So people hit by phosphorus had to be submerged in water. And had to stay in water because the phosphorus would begin to burn the moment a person left the water…burns in an oxygen atmosphere. Phosphorus burning people who jumped into water had to stay there. After the war I heard tht the German SS machine gunned their own people to put them out of their misery.”
“This raid to Hamberg was also the first time we used a device called ‘window’…little pieces of foil. When cut to the correct wave length these strips would confuse German Radar. Instead of picking up individual aircraft, German Radar showed hundreds thousands of aircraft. Our losses this night were nominal from the flak but that did not stop the night fighters. A Junkers 88 crept up our tail and got within 100 feet but was down lower…about 25 feet lower so it remained very close. Fortunately we were flying in a Wellington and from his position we could have passed for a Ju 88 which has two motors and at night we must have made the Ju 88 pilot curious. Were we an enemy or a friend? First he put on a big amber light then a smaller green light. I said to Bill to start corkscrewing. Bill’s idea of a corkscrew was not my idea of a corkscrew. The Ju 88 followed. Then, just as we were about to start another corkscrew, the Ju 88 put on a red light, levelled off and was about to give ua everything he had. I Said ‘Bill, 360 port, Go!’ Bill slammed us into a 90 degree bank to Port just as the Ju 88 opened up. Missed us by a split second and at the same time we lost him. Our 360 degree turn was right over the target and right in the middle of our own Bomber stream. Talk about Russian Roulette. We still had our bombs aboard and Ken then let them all go. Not safe yet. We shook off 3 more German night fighters which Bill handled OK.”

NOTE: Victor Poppa believed the German pilot of the attacking JU 88 night fighter got a bit confused since a the Wellington bomber and the Ju 88 looked similar as you can see. Victor’s crew were lucky because the Ju 88 delayed the attack giving the Wellington time to corkscrew and then dodge to Port side. Rear gunners, like Victor, often played major role in detecting night fighters coming from behind. Some felt those Browning machine guns were useless.

Ju 88 German night fighter
{CAPTION}

Wellington Bomber
“Then our intercom went out and I couldn’t get Bill. I flashed my flashlight up the fuselage, Wilf saw my light and figured something was amiss. He checked around and found he had accidentally disconnected the plug. Then our wirelesses quit working. All faults that could kill us. Like I said the gods were smiling down on us. If the intercom had gone out earlier, I would not be here today.”
{CAPTION}

Note: Victor and crew got back to England without another crisis. There were so many things that could go wrong on these fights. Even the accidental disconnection of an electric plug could spell disaster. Tail gunners, many of them, knew the Browning .303 machine guns were not very effective so they did not have itchy trigger fingers. Better, they thought, was to act a spotters should an enemy night fighter be attacking. Alerting the pilot a top priority. Firing the Brownings was a distant second. Bursts of machine gun fire might just allow an enemy night fighter to hone in on an RCAF bomber. Victor does not seem to have total confidence in his pilot which is never a good sign in a bomber crew.
“July 29, 1943, We were sent out on a practice bomb trip to Strensell for Ken’s benefit. That evening we were to go back to Hamburg for our second mission but this duty was not carried out because our ‘Gee’ set would not function. We got 5 degrees east and Bob refused to navigate.”
Note: Abortng a mission was a serious issue. By 1943 most crews knew their chances of successfully completing 20 Bombing runs was slim. Some crews seem to have looked for excuses. Understandable for sure but not acceptable. An aborted mission was always suspicious…always investigated.
“A ‘Gee’ set not functioning was a legitimate excuse to terminate a mission. Bob could navigate without the ‘Gee’ but refused to do so. Bob’s nose could get hard at times.”
“JULY 28, 1943, During the day we did an air test and that night were sent out on another cross country no doubt penance for Bob’s refusal to fly without his ‘Gee’ set/“
“July 29, 1943: We were to got to Hamburg again. Number 3 Mission. We caught hell on this one. It was a hot summer day. We had a total of 780 aircraft going. As before mixed bag of airplanes.Gradually British production of 4 engined aircraft was starting to replace the two engined Wellingtons. I’m not counting theShort Serling. This airplane was a real dog. Once loaded with bombs it could not get to 25,000 feet. Later the Sterlings were given the job of towing gliders exclusively.”
“Bill gave full power for take off with around 10 degrees of flap. when we were over the trees at the end of the runway I could see the flaps creeping up on their own and we were starting to settle down to the tree tops, at this point as we were just skimming the treetops we started picking up more airspeed and slowly started to climb.
“During the war density of air was not known as a factor in an airplanes’ ability to lift weight. The hotter the air the higher the airplane thinks it is at, hence an airplane with ,say, an ambient temperature of 115 degrees might not get off the ground at all. Now, say the temperature is 70 degrees the airplanes’ ability to life the same weight would be alright.
“We followed similar course as we had on our first trip…via Heligoland, the Elbe River to the target. The flak was real close. They had our altitude right on but we were off our Port side by 200 feet. The Flak stayed with us all the way to Hamburg with continuous explosions of 88mm shells. Over the target was not much better.We were briefly caught by searchlights but shook them off. Ken was getting the bombs off and then he turned to get a look as the bombs were released. Lucky. A chunk of flak from below sent shrapnel through the perspex (plexiglass). It struck exactly where his head had been a moment earlier and continued up through the instrument panel . Another piece went between Wilf and Bob and back into space. Shortly thereafter another shell burst above me and one piece went into our carburetor down into our supercharger and we lost 500 rpm to our port Port motor and stayed that way for the rest of the trip.
The fires were fierce on the ground. Detial of city blocks burning were easy to see from our 20,000 feet altitude . Bomb flashes bursting around the fires were also easy to see. The super race was now gettng its’ due.
“A master searchlight was coming up on our Port side. I said to Bill to get ready to dive to port. ‘Go, Bill, Go!’ and Bill slammed the wheel left and pushed down. We shot through the light. Ken said ‘Jeez’ then I saw a this great big Halifax with the master searchlight and smaller searchlights exposing him to everything that could shoot him down. His bomb bays were were open as he was letting his bomb load go. I could even see what kind of load he had…all one type of 4 pound magnesiums (144 to a canister) and it seemed thousands were spilling out. This poor fellow had to continue flying straight and level for two minutes while his aircraft camera took pictures of where his load had landed. Ken’s comment…’Geez’ was Ken’s exclamation as we dove just in front of the Halifax I just mentioned. That was real close.
Note: I am not sure if the Halifax bomber Victor watched was shot down or not. Seems it was.
“Columns of smoke were higher than our altitude of 20,000 feet. On our return to base and just as we crossed the English coast, looking back some 300 miles I could see Hamburg burning.
“We were cleared to land. As we were crossing the runway threshold I could see the fog following. The poor devil coming in behind us never made it and I don’t know where he went as fog was right down to the deck. When we reached the far end of the runway and were now on the taxiway, there was a person trying to signal Bill instructions. Bill could not make him out. So I said ‘Bill, I’ll jump out and get his instructions.’ This I did. I used to wear my parachute tight. As a result when walking I was stooped down slightly. Lucky. Anyway I was starting to jog back to the man on the taxiway. I stopped. And noticed the man was pointing his finger upwards. Turned and looked up and here was our port side propeller going ‘Tick…Tick…Tick’. One more step and I would have been beheaded. I stooped clear, gave a thumbs up thank you and climbed back into my turret. I have often wondered why I stopped that moment…was it mental telepathy that said ‘Stop and look at the man on the ground’? His mind must have been screaming at me. After I plugged into the intercom I said, ‘Bill, why didn’t you shut down the power on the left Port Engine, when you saw what was about to happen?”, Bill said “Vic, I was petrified!”.
We parked the Wellington “J” HF 541, went to the debriefing and had breakfast. This was our third mission to Hamburg anti tiook 6 hours and10 minutes.
On August 2, 1943 we were again selected to go to Hamburg…fourth mission. The weather was not the greatest. In fact was so vicious that more than half our squadron turned back. However, since we lost mission #2 we decided to see it through. Once we crossed the enemy coast the flak followed us all the way to Hamburg. We plowed through numerous cumulonimbus (word?) clouds with up and down drafts where thunder, lightning , wing icing, St. Elmo’s fire, cloud cover was about 10/10ths . Hamburg was still burning from our previous fires. We could see the glow of the fires through the clouds. We found a small hole in the clouds and Ken satisfied himself that we were over Hamburg and then he let our bombs. We returned to base by another route avoiding the Flak. Once landed we were debriefed as usual.
{CAPTION}

“Photos showed that we laid waste to nine square miles. In addition to our four raids the American 8th air force (USAAF) pasted Hamburg with daylight raids. The american effort was modest in numbers. Approximately 75 B 17 Flying Fortress aircraft. This was the USAAF first taste of deep penetration raids into Germany. The fires in Hamburg were so intense that the asphalt on the streets flowed like lava…a fire storm so intense that the oxygen was consumed and people suffocated in their air raid shelters. There was no respite. People rebelled. Where possible some people began looting but that was difficult for the wind created by the fire storm was hurricane force. Apparently there was terror everywhere. From our altitude we did not see all this misery. Better them than us I suppose.
“Back home we went to breakfast and with no sleep we reported to our respective flight authorities to see if anything was on and, sure enough, we were posted on battle orders. This was to be mission #5, August 3, 1943. As tired as we were the ground crew got pre-flight preparation underway on our Wellington. Lunch time came and went. As usual we had the gut wrenching feelings. The possibility of death being foremost. The feelings are never any different…they tore us apart but as the acton increases a calmness descends.
“This time we are using Wellington “P” LN 448. Dinner time arrives …the only time in the squadron that we ever received bacon and eggs. Sort of last meal kind of feeling. Like the hangman is ready to trip the trap. Then comes briefing time and we then find out where we are to go. A one aircraft mission. Unusual. We are expected to fly into the Bay of Biscay targeting the harbour of St. Nazere on the west coast of France where the Germans have submarine pens and other types of shipping.
“Five aircraft from other squadrons are to go elsewhere into ‘Festung Europe’ so that is all the enemy had to contend with tonight. Our orders were to cross the French coast at approximately 13,000 feet and gradually drop altitude until we were in a position to make our run. Our attack altitude must not be no greater than 100 feet. We had to make a visual sighting of a particular island and from this visual start a timed run towards the harbour and after an exact number of seconds drop our two 1500 pound mines. All of this precaution was necessary as the mines were a very secret kind and our side did not wish the Germans to know their intended use. So far everything was going fine, however, we were in fog at 100 feet. Hopefully Bill was reading the altimeter for our briefing had stressed forcefully that we ‘must’ make our attack at exactly 100 feet. Bob was getting excellent ‘Gee’ flashes and said
‘Vic, stand up in your turret and look down, we are just about over the island…we must have a visual of the island, if not, then we have to take our mines home!’
‘Coming, coming, Now!’
“No visual for me. Because of the fog, I could not see the island. Instead I got a burst of shells from a 20 mm Quad. The quad gunner missed my face by 20 or 30 feet. Close…Real close. So close that it was easy to see the caliber and there were enough tracer shells to see how close his aim was to our airplane’s centre line. The German had our airplane right on. Had he pulled the trigger a split second sooner he would’ve parted our Wellington into two distinct parts right at the centre line. The gunner probably picked up our red exhaust stacks and the noise from our motors. He likely even had time to set his guns vertical and just wait for us to pass over. It was that easy for him. The gods again smiled on us. We did not get our visual therefore our mines were not dropped. No point in doing a second run because the fog was very thick. And, had we tried, we would have been hit by that gunner and 20 mm Quad. We crossed the French coast in a climb and then back across the English Channel to our base. The armourers then were obliged remove the mines. This mission lasted 6 ours and 20 minutes. “August 5, 1943. We are to go out again so we went through our usual routine. At briefing we were to go to the Ruhr Valley. I do not remember the intended target by name. It was a bayonet factory which employed 50 people. The buildings all around the factory were hospitals where thousands of injured from Hamburg were taken and others from previous air raids. It was in fact a hospital town. We were sending 600 bombers to get the bayonet factory and its 50 employees and in the process wipe out the whole town. “After the briefing our C.O. said it was quote, ‘O.K.’ if we emptied the hospitals. I felt real squishy in the stomach. Not the usual nervousness preceding a mission. I did not like the idea of hitting hospitals. Our aircraft was bombed up anyway and just as we were taxiing for take off a red flare was fired. The mission was scratched and I think everyone was relieved. Getting Krauts one way was fine with me but not by deliberately hitting hospitals.
“Sir Arthur Harris was chief of Bomber Command and fondly called ‘Butcher Harris’ by Bomber command aircrews. This mission to the Ruhr could technically have called a war crime.
Note: Much has been written about Sir Arthur Harris and the carpet bombing of German cities. He was never dissuaded by critics. Did Harris know about the huge number of German civilians were killed in his thousand bomber raids? He seems to have known. One day he was stopped for speeding in England. The police officer asked ‘Do you want to kill somebody? To which Harris responded ‘That’s my job to kill people.’ After the war, when the massive devastation of German cities was seen by Allied troops there were second thoughts about the actions of Bomber Command. This ‘after the fact’ criticism hurt the feelings of Allied Bomber Command aircrews.
“August 6, 1943, During the day we flew Wellington “W” HE82 for an air test then in the evening we were ordered go up on our third command Bullseye and cross country flight which was a test of British air defences…searchlights and night fighters. We were coned by shearchlights and supposedly shot down by a Bristol Beaufighter (2 motor kind). It’s a good thing all was fun and games. This flight took 4hours and 45 minutes.
August 13, 1943:Our squadron (427) was moved from Eastmoor to Leeming, a peace time air field in Yorkshire with permanent buildings. The really big news today is that our crew is going to switch from 2 motored Wellingtons to 4 engined Halifax’s
{CAPTION}
{CAPTION}

AM I GOING TO SURVIVE? (The thought that ran through every airman’s mind)
The odds were against survival. Young airmen came to that conclusion early in the career. No doubt many joined the RCAF because it sounded exciting. To fly. Each person on an aircrew was expected to complete a tour of 30 flights over enemy territory. Only 16% managed to reach this goal. Some of these airmen even continued to fly, i.e. more than 30 flights, in spite of the long odds against them. Most, like my cousin George Freeman, looked forward to completing 30 and retiring from active bombing. George Freeman even volunteered and joined extra crews to get the 30 missions completed as he planned to marry if he survived. He did not make it as HX 313 was shot down May 27/28 1944 and he was likely killed in his upper turret bubble.
In the big picture there were 120,000 members of the Allied Bomber Command of which 55,573 died. Of these deaths, 9,919 were Canadians, a death rate that was very high for a country with a small population like Canada.
Statistically that meant that a member of RACAF Bomber Command in a Halifax bomber only had a 17.3% chance of survival.*
Perhaps the darkest way to explain what happened to these young men is to consider it this way. For every 100 men in Bomber Command 45 were killed, 6 were badly hurt, 8 became Prisoners of War and 41 returned to Canada with no visible scars. That does not include the mental scars which for many were deep and long lasting. And that is perhaps why few airmen wanted to talk about their experiences.
END PART 1
NOTE: THIS IS PART 1 OF THE VICTOR POPPA JOURNAL/DIARY WHICH HE ENTRUSTED TO ME BACK IN THE 1980’S. PAGES 1 TO 29. AN EARLIER EXCERPT WAS TITLED ‘THE LAST FLIGHT OF HX 313’…A FOUR ENGINED HALIFAX BOMBER. I HOPE VICTOR’S SEXUAL EXPLOITS IN THIS FIRST PART OF THE STORY ARE READ WITH AMUSEMENT RATHER THAN DISGUST. IT IS IMPORTANT TO REMEMBER THAT RCAF AIR CREWS WERE AWARE THAT THEIR LIVES COULD BE TERMINATED AT ANY MOMENT. THE GIRLS THEY MET KNEW THAT AND MANY OF THOSE GIRLS KNEW THAT THEIR LIVES HAD SUDDENLY BEEN CHANGED FOREVER.

WILD GRAPE JELLY…BRILLIANT FALL COLOURS OCT. 2019

WILD GRAPE JELLY

alan skeoch
Oct. 21 and 22, 2019

“Marjorie, the wild grapes  are loaded  this year.”
“You pick, I’ll do  all the dirty work.”
“Picking is the dirty work.”
“Alan, you  have no idea … None…”
“While you are stripping the wild grapes, I am going
to take a few pictures…leaves are brilliant.
“Typical, look at my hands…now, this  is labour…”
“I’ll be back  in a few minutes.”









Page 4 LAST FLIGHT OF HX 313: THE VIC POPPA STORY “TRAPPED IN THE TAIL BUBBLE” 1944





PAGE  4

LAST FLIGHT OF  HX 313:   VICTOR POPPA “TRAPPED  IN THE TAIL  BUBBLE”  MAY 27/28,1944

alan skeoch
Oct. 2019

This was  HX 313, The Blonde Bomber, 424 Tiger Squadron, RCAF
Bomber Command, Skipton on Swale, Yorkshire, England


Each of the survivors in HX 313  had his own  struggle  with death on the night of May  27,1944.
The most detailed account was sent to me  by  Victor   Poppa who was George Freeman’s
best friend and a fellow air gunner.

This  is  Victor Poppa, 22 year old  tail gunner in HX 313.
I was able to interview  him several times between 1984 and  1987.
He figured  he was a dead  man when HX 313 was heading
to the earth ablaze and  pilotless.  Survived. Eventually Victor sent
me  his diary of his  war experience.  Long and detailed with
many humourous sexual experiences.  It will take  some  time
to convert to digital but I will do it.  Victor was George  Freeman’s
best friend through  1943 snd 1944.  Victor cried when he was
told of George’s death in 1945.  Five of the  eight man crew of
HX 313 bailed out and  survived.   Three did not.  George was
one of the three who died.

VICTOR POPPA

“Dear Alan,

Your letter came  to me approximately three weeks ago, and upon opening  and reading the first paragraph, I could not talk.
My throat constricted  and  I  had to cry.   It was 40 years ago this day (letter written May27, 1944), that we  were preparing for a
raid on a town in  Belgium…Borg Leopold.  This camp contained 13,000 German troops who had  been fully trained
and were to be moved  out the following  day.  To keep these  troops out of their air raid shelters and  above ground our
air force  planners arranged for the RAF to overfly Borg Leopold and  to continue on to  bomb Achen.  This force 
consisted  of  some 200 Lancasters. The Germans at this time went into their air raid shelters.  Then another force of some
45 Halifax bombers were routed  over our target.  They then made turn and continued on to bomb  Dusseldorf.  Again the
Germans went under to their shelters.  Then we came along…Number Six Bomber Group, RCAF with 333 aircraft which  included
424 Squadron Halifax’s ardour aircraft Q.B. – B – Hx313.  QB were the letters of our Squadron.  B was our  airport letter in the 
Squadron.  HX 313 was the serial number of our aircraft.”

“We were to bomb  from three levels.  The first level was  9,000 feet; second level was 10,900 feet; third level or wave was
11,900 feet.  We  were the third level.  Each wave consisted of 111 and each aircraft carried 18 x  500 pound bombs.
The  raid was to last for ten minutes.  As I  found  out later this raid was a classic for night bombing accuracy.  We  killed
8,500 German  soldiers in ten minutes with hardly any casualties the Belgian civilian  population.”

Note Made 1984: At this point Victor Poppa explained the routine events  of a  bomber operations day  from briefing to
a special meal of bacon and eggs.  As the day wears on the crew begin  to get nervous.  Some write  letters.  George  Freeman
wrote to a girlfriend  (platonic by sound of it) and  sounded  cheerful.  Faking perhaps.  (see Georges’ letters later). 
Some even preferred to write their last wills and  testaments.  Not George  or Victor that I could tell. As evening approaches
the crew put on their flying suits.  Victor loaned  his fur lined  suit to Bob Irwin as his feet got freezing cold…moreso
than the rest of the crew. Victor prefers the electric  flying suit as it take less space in the tiny tail gunners bubble. One 
of the most moving snapshots sent was taken surreptitiously from the crew truck.  It shows a corner of the truck
windshield and  off in the distance silhouette  against the skylines HX 313, the Blonde Bomber.

“Into HX 313 we go, each to his position.   Eric and our passenger  Bob Elliott, co pilot;  Moe, our engineer; Ken to his bomb
aimer’s position;  Bob, our navigator; and Wilf ,our wireless  operator;…all accounted for. Then George  and  myself  to our 
gunners bubbles…George as  upper middle gunner and me as tail gunner.  Eric  goes through the check  list and soon we
are taxiing around the perimeter track to the main runway.  In  position. Eric advances the throttle and we are on our way.”

Note:  Liftoff is  extremely dangerous  as HX 313 is loaded with bombs  and  high  octane fuel.  An error can detonate the load.
There would  be little chance of survival.  The crew knows this…they have seen  it happen.

“We are soon at altitude. Bob, our  navigator, has given Eric  a course and suggested so that we can arrive as scheduled.
All of the previous aircraft have stirred things up.”  (Perhaps German soldiers in Bourg Leopold will be  out watching
the bombers overflying their camp.) “Ken  (bomb aimer) is now in  his position for  bombing as we start our run.  He 
gives Eric  course directions…left, left, right, etc.  We  are  now but a few miles from the  target when Ken says, “Vic, there  is
a JU 88 below us.  I stand  up and try to see under our aircraft but cannot.   Eric  is asked  to  drop a wing so  George can
see.   He can’t see it either.  Ken is asked to give Eric evasive  action  instructions if necessary.  Just then there is  a
horrible explosion in our left inside motor.  HX 313 lurches  up as if struck  by a gigantic hammer.  Flames  run down  our
left side.  Then a few seconds later there is the clatter of machine gun bullets and  cannon shells slamming  through our
aircraft.  The plexiglass nose is shot out but the bombs are secure.”

“Our bombe did not explode.  There were  fires in from front to rear.  The inside  of much  of the plane was cherry red.
My first thoughts were: ‘You have been waiting for this and now  it has finally happened.’ I called on the Intercom
but received  no answer, only static.  HX 313, however, was still flying in a straight line.”

“I pulled off my flying helmet, opened my turret doors, reached for my parachute and snapped it to my chest. I stayed in my
position because  I saw  no parachute go by the tail.   Then,  a few seconds later, I saw  one.  It was open and  on its side
parallel to the ground  just missing the  port rudder and fin. Then I decided to go.  I swung my turrets 90 degrees in the
fuselage and tried to go  out but couldn’t because of the fire and wind.  I tried twice to no avail.   By this time the ground
was appearing quite close.  I could tell from  the fires that to bail out from the aft fuselage exit would have entailed too much 
time and  by then it would be too late anyway.  So I sat there waiting for my end.  The aircraft then went into a  flat spin.
My turret twisted  free and I was flung out by the brute force.  My leg, however, was stuck momentarily under my leg guard.
I could feel my knee pull right out of its socket.   Then my leg came free.  I was falling flat on my back.  I looked on my
chest for my parachute  and it was not there.  The parachute had been pulled away for my chest by the wind force and was
 nowhere feet from my face and above.  Pulled on the
harness  and brought the parachute down close enough so I could  grab  the D ring and pulled. It opened with sharp snap.  A pain
knifed through my groin, I put my arms above my head, grabbed the harness and  pulled thereby  relieving the pain.  A few
seconds later I saw  the ground coming up real fast. I felt as though  I was an arrow.  I hit the ground hard  and collapsed
with my parachute falling on top of me.  I am  sure the chute had  opened  at less that 1,000 feet and our aircraft had been
at 11,900when we were first hit by the flak and  then shot up  by the JU 88.”

“I managed to get onto my feet but I could not feel  anything  from the waist down…felt like metal bands were clamped around
my ankles and knees.   I was standing balanced as though on stilts.  Just t hen I could hear motors screaming…an aircraft
in its death sieve.  I Dropped flat to the ground.  It is amazing how close you think you are to the ground, as  if you are being
pulled down tight, pressed into the grass.  This aircraft hit a few fields away and  exploded.”

“All of this happened at approximately 2 a.m. on the 28th of May, 1944.  After the explosion I found I couldn’t walk but moved with
a painful shuffle.  I moved away from the area slowly.   At wire fences I would put my body through and  then with my hands pull my legs  through.
I moved along in this manner until the dawn started to glow.  Then I made my way  into the centre  of a wheat field where  I  lay down
and fell into a deep  sleep. I awoke at noon hour with the sun shining down at me.   I made my way out of the field and crawled  under
a tree.  I took off my electric suit and found I  had suffered some  spinal chord damage and had torn open my left leg and buttocks.
The  leg was swollen twice its normal  size and black  and blue.  I also had torn muscles and  ligaments.  I crawled  to  a farm house
where the farmer  was kind but reluctant  to hide  me.   He gave  me water and milk to drink.  We were advised in England never
to impose upon these people.   I they showed willingness, fine.   If not, leave.  If we were caught with them they would suffer
Grievously.”

“My legs were starting to stiffen up and  the pain was increasing.  I made  my way to another field where I lay down and rolled and rolled
in agony.   I was this way well into the afternoon.   Finally I felt that I must get  some assistance.  On my knees I made my way  
back to the  farm house and indicated I  would like police assistance.  While waiting, a Belgian doctor gsve
me an injection of some sort but it had no effect.  I gave the farm woman all of my escape  money and shortly two Luftwaffe
NCO’s came  in an automobile.  I was placed in the  back seat with one  NCO and because I  could not bend my  legs I had
to lay across his body.”

“I was driven to our target the previous night.  There was one room left standing where I was deposited on a  bed.   Despite all
of the  killing we had done I was not mistreated.  I was given a bowl of greasy stew which i could not down.  Later, I was visited
by a German medical officer   All he did was rant and rave  at me in German.   Although I Felt he was going to strike me, he did not.
Three days later I was taken outside and placed in the back of a truck with four caskets.  A German NCO pointed to one and
said “Komerad  Irwin. This was our navigator Bob Irwin.  I gave a negative response.  He then pointed  to the casket on my right
and said “Kamerad Wakely”.  This was the coffin of Wilf Wakely.  Again I gave a negative response .  I was not questioned about the 
third caskrt. This one must have been George. The fourth  was empty as I had moved it with my foot.  At that  time I did not know George
was dead.   It wasn’t until I returned to England after the war  was over that I got word from RCAF records that George had  been
killed.  This left me stunned as  Hank (George)  and I were real close friends.”

Note:  Victor  Poppa’s account closed the file on the  last flight of HX 313.   He was the last person to get out of the aircraft.  All had
been able to get out one way or  another, except for George Freeman.  Two who got out were killed when they  hit the ground.
The rest survived. George was  likely killed  when  the JU 88 strafed the plane.  One of the crew remembers George’s legs hanging down
as he worked his way past the upper turret to reach the escape hatch.   The nagging thought that George was remained  alive because
gunners were often trapped in their  turrets like  Victor Poppa.  HX 313 exploded on impact near an abandoned railway station.   Eric  Mallett
and Ken  Sweatman were escorted  past a pile of melted metal that had once been The Blonde  Bomber.  They could not stop to look
closely for their  escorts were members of the Belgian Underground and it was imperative that they hide Ken and Eric as 
quickly as possible.   Victor Poppa, George Elliott and Morris Muir became POW’s.

Victor’s adventures as a POW Had similarities to Steve MacQueen in the The Great Escape…only life was a hell of a lot less
fun.  Worse  for the Russian POW in he adjoining camp where abuse was more prevalent.   Victor had a  choice  when  the war
ended.  Either to walk out of the Stalag or  stay put until Russian troops took over.  The German guards  just disappeared one
night leaving the gate  open when the sun came up. Victor and a friend decided  to take their chances  and  start the long and potentially dangerous
trek through the  Russian sector in hope he could reach the American sector.  He had he good fortune of  hooking up with nine
French  girls hiking their  way  back  home from a German labour  camp.  

Victor had been  on a long march  from a  POW camp in Poland to another in Germany.  On that trek he became aware of the
hatred the German civilian population had toward  air force prisoners.   The bombing of  Bourg Leopold killed  many but the 
constant bombing of German cities killed  a whole lot more.  Mobs tried  to attack air force prisoners. “While in Kohn train station we   were
threatened by a large mob.  Our guards, however, kept order and we were not molested.”   So he knew the risks when  he walked
out of his Stalag and  headed south to American  lines.   In one instance, at dusk, Victor and  his French girls entered a German house
which they thought had been abandoned.   Instead they met a  German officer who was already in bed  but with a  Luger under his sheet
aimed right at them.  They left without incident.  Fear was spreading through the German civilian population in what was to become
East Germany. German  officers and soldiers feared for their lives.

REMEMBERING GEORGE (HANK) FREEMAN

This story began as an attempt to find out what happened to George Freeman  on that horrific May 27/28 evening.
“At times  Hank and  I went on leave together where we  had undisciplined fun.  Hank had a real way of charming the girls in the mess
as well as on our trips  away from he base.”  As Day approached the crew of  HX 313 were working together  like  a well
oiled machine.  A human machine.  “On one mission it was Hank’s birthday and we  arranged for Ken  to say  ‘Happy Birthday Hank’ instead
of ’Bombs away’.  QB B HX 313 was shot down on its  fourth mission.   The  crew had  flown more than double that number.  Eight missions
for some.  For others, many more missions.  The death rate was high.  They knew  that.
Both planes and men  had short lives in  #6 Bomber Group.   The results of the  steady bombing  was a devastated  Germany.
Ciies turned into rubble.  Factories flattened.  Many many thousands of people maimed and killed.  As allied land troops fanned
out across Germany this devastation became an  embarrassment to many.  As a result  the  Bomber  Groups were never  given
full recognition for their service and some  felt neglected.  Side  lined.  Overlooked.  

The  story was assembled back in1984 and now updated in 2019.  Much has happened and continues to happen.
Discoveries.  Take the war graves for instance.  One of my colleagues, John Maize, was working in Holland in 1984
and I asked him to see  if he could find the grave  of George Freeman.  He found George and Wilf and Bob all
buried side  by side in a military grave in Belgium.   What day do you think he visited the grave site? 
…John Maize arrived  there  on May 27, 1984…exactly 40 years to the day after the Bourg Leopold attack.
And on that same day, May 27, 1984, Victor Poppa, Eric Mallett and Ken Sweatman sent the letters that made this
story possible..

GEORGE FREEMAN’S LAST TWO LETTERS:  THEY WERE NEVER MAILED

When George Freeman’s personal things  were returned aunt Kitty and Uncle Chris, there were two letters
that George had written but never mailed.  They reveal much so have been included.  George was a young man…barely
past the teen age part of his  life as  will be apparent.  Thoughts  of death are not a big part of the letters but those
thoughts  can be found between the lines.

“Arrmed Forces Air Letter
Flight Sergeant Freeman, G.F.,
R190568
RCAF
Overseas

MAY – 1944 (/)

MRS. C.W. FREEMAN,
C/O Scanons Store,
1439 Kingston Road,
Toronto 13, Ont.
Canada

Dearest Mom and Dad,

Well dearest, here I  am again.  Have received a letter from you and another from Mickey (sister).  It sure is swell to hear from you.
We have been pretty busy of late and  I’m pretty tired and would like to see the end  of the war.  Maybe it’ll end soon.  I’m
flying as a  spare gunner and  also as  a  regular member of the crew, it’s a bit risky flying every time but at least it keeps  me from 
being browned off.  Auntie Jean and everybody down that way are fine and send  their love  to you and dad.  I’m sorry dad can’t get the help 
he needs the golf  course. (Chris was  head greenskeeper at the Hunt Club Golf Course in Scarborough where George spent
his teen age years  caddying.) I don’t think I told  you about the visit I paid  on my last leave to one  of the girls parents house.
The girl works in our mess  and is  a good girl.  In fact, mom, she is a Cockney so you have an idea that what she is  like.
Her parents made me very welcome and  I had two eggs there.  Eggs area blessing when you can get  them.  (This  ‘good girl’
and George were planning marriage but her name has been lost).  Frankly,  mom, I like Cockneys the best of anybody
in the south of England.   They don’t beat around  the bush if they are going to tell you something.  Gosh!  I almost forgot you
should receive a Victory Bond  pretty soon.  I’ve paid  for it so do what you want with it.  Seems  like there isn’t much more
to say Mom, outside of I’m fine and  hope you and  everybody are the same.  I’ll close for now with love to all  and  all my love
 to you and Dad and may God
be with you.

All my Love, 

Note: This letter had been ‘opened by the examiner’  on April 6, 1944.
All personal letters were censored in case crucial information would
compromise the war effort.

George   xxxxxxxxx

SECOND LETTER TO ‘DOT’, A GIRLFRIEND BACK HOME IN CANADA

R190568
Sgt. Freemand,
RCAF
OVERSEAS,
30/3/43


Dear Dot,

This is just a couple of paragraphs to let you know I’m still kicking and  that Jerry hasn’t had much  success in getting rid  of me.  How 
goes the battle with you and are you still working as hard as ever?  First, I want to thank you for the swell Valentine.  It was super.
How did  you ever dig it up?  I’m sorry I couldn’t return the favour and send  you  one.  Guess  you’ll have to settle for a  
Christmas card when Christmas rolls  around  again.  Will you thank Beryll for her card and tell her as  soon as I can find  the 
address I will write her too. Kind of me don’t you think?  Thank her for the pics  as well.

Things  are pretty much the same as ever over here.  Nothing good to eat and lots of beer.  I’m still as teetotaler.  The dances 
are corny…always  will be.  This mountain music they dish out here is worse than Columbus  Hall  stuff.  Guess  I sound pretty 
browned  off (fed  up) with things. Well I’m not too  badly put out.  It’s just the monotony of things.  One good thing is ‘leave’
which comes up pretty regularly.  We do get a  bit of a change in scenery, faces,  etc. I saw Sam Manhood on one leave.  
He looks  pretty fed up with everything not to mention that he has  aged  about 4 years.  Say, I wonder if I have aged  too?

The next thing on my list of jazz to talk about is flying.  That too is very monotonous.   I have put in a few trips  over Germany
and haven’t had too  much trouble with Jerry although he does try to give us a scare once in awhile.  The last trip over the 
skipper was in an excited mood at having seen his first real live fighter…F.W. 190.  So  he “dood it in his pants’ if you know
what I  mean.   If  I ever did that I’d ask  for my discharge  so  help me.  The agony of  it was that he had to sit that way for 
six hours.  On the whole it’s not to bad over  there if you keep your eyes open.  Maybe I’ll live through it.  Who knows?

Let’s skip that and talk about you.  That picture we had taken sure was terrific.  I had some time explaining to the boys
that it was  purely a platonic  friendship we had for each other.  How goes you and the Masonic Temple.  Still up there regular?
Are Beryll and  Freddie still on just friendly terms or has Freddie put on the old charm and  made her fall for him?

Well, Dot, there doesn’t seem to be much  more to say outside of it’s closing time.   So give my love, etc.  to the gang
and write soon.  Love to Berryl.

xxxx love xxx
xxx George xxx

CONCLUSION:  SO  MUCH  HAS NOT BEEN EXPLAINED

There is so  much that needs saying about HX 313, especially the larger picture of the RCAF and 424 Squadron.  To
do so , however, needs a lot of space and a lot of time.  Even a discussion of the gunners and their guns needs 
to be explained.  Why were the guns of limited  use?  Why did many gunners see their role as  spotters more
than gunners?   Why, also, were  the guns useless when  the pilot of HX 313 took evasive action?  Who was
bomber Harris?  Why did the streets of  Hamburg start to burn after the bomber raids?  How many German
civilians were killed and maimed by Bomber Command?   Were phosphorus bombs inhumane?  How  many young
Canadian airmen died?  How  were the thousand bomber air raids organized? What did air crews  do on leave?

Fortunately I  have Victor Poppa’s diary.   If time allows I will transcribe it in the next few emails.  I should 
warn you however, that it includes sexual exploits.  Readers who find sex distasteful  have now been  forewarned.


alan skeoch
Oct. 10, 2019

LET’S GO TO THE ERIN FAIR…QUICKLY…opening day Saturday

“ALAN, it’s Thanksgiving  week end, we’ve got nothing special to do…Let’s go
to the  Erin Fair.”
“Best Giant Squash contest in Canada…so big a kid could make a home out of one.”
“Look at the kid in the  yellow coat…”
“And the sheep made out of  buttons.”
“And the hound with  the golden eyes.”
“And the winter hats…got to get one of those.”
“And the Merry go  Round with the frightening animals.”

“Look over here…look at how those girls are fascinated  by the apple peeler”



“See the little boy in the  yellow coat showing us the Giant Squash…”
“Somehow, Alan, you are not as cute.”



“Hope you are having a good time folks”
“Sure are…wonderful.”
“What did you like best?
‘The hound with the golden eyes.”


alan skeoch
Oct. 12, 2019

HERE IS AN IDEA FOR THANKSGIVING … REP

HOW TO SPEND MARJORIE’S BIRTHDAY:  A 12 HOUR TRIP TO PIRNCE EDWARD COUNTY


“Rush hour should be over, let’s head east to Picton for your  birthday Marjorie.”
“Get Woody and  start the motor…we have a beautiful day…can we do it in one day?”
“Think so…let’s roll…we  have our  favourite spots….”

FIRST STOP STAPLETON FARMS
(a farm  produce  booth north of  Port Hope on Highway 28)


“Marjorie…good choice of a sweater”
“Pumpking hunting time…”


“Alan, I think we overdid it this time…truck nearly full.”
“Just getting started…let’s roll.”



SECOND STOP:  PORT HOPE AND SALMON RUSH TO PROPOGATE

“How many salmon are  trying to get upriver.”
“Hundreds, perhaps thousands.”
“Do they all make it…those  are powerful waterfalls.”
“Some must…but I have been watching them at one waterfall and none…NONE…have been successful.”

“See that lone cormorant?
“Broken wing, cannot fly…doomed.”
“What happened?”
“Maybe a victim of Premier Ford’s cormorant cull”
“Cull?”
“Hunters allowed to shoot as many as they can…providing  they pick  up the dead bodies…tor so I read.





STOP THREE:  ANOTHER FARM MARKET ON HIGHWAY #2 EAST OF COBOURG



STOP FOUR: AMTIQUE MARKET IN HEART OF BRIGHTON (FOLLOW THE THREAD)

“Wow, this certainly is different…industrial cast offs turned into furniture treasures”
“And coffee among the artifacts.”
“How  much do they cost?”
“Well, the carpenters bench is $2,500  and milk shake maker is not cheap”
“Do not buy it, Alan…resist!?”
“Everyone wants a  good  milk shake,  Marjorie…can I get it as your birthday  present?”
“Mine…you mean your birthday, don’t you?”
“Be a sport….!!!”



STOP FIVE:  NORTH BEACH, PRINCE EDWARD  COUNTY

“North Beach is closed…we’ll have to walk in from the dirt road.”
“Happens every year…good  luck for Woody.”
“Why?”
“No one there…a vast beach all to himself…not allowed there in summer time.”
“How old is the beach?”
“See  this Fossil…a Bivalve…Devonian period about  400 million years old”
“My, this is a really old beach…why do so few people know  about it?”
“People do not like  to see themselves as Fossils.”

“Woody is trapped, Alan”
“Where?”
“He jumped from one slab of  ancient bedrock to that little island
and  now he’s afraid  he can’t get back without getting wet.”
“Throw a stick…he’ll for it and forget about the water.”



STOP SIX: ANOTHER FARMER’S PLACE JUST NOTH OF  PICTON:  TURKEYS THAT LIKE MY VOICE

“Here we are again…more pumpkins…even cheaper at $10 for the huge kind.”
“How about a turkey…they seem  to like us.”
“Stop gabbling…they think you speak their language.”
“Thankfully they have survived the Thanksigiving dinner plates.”
:”Hope so…only four more days to Thanksiving.”
“What are they saying?”
“Big guy came after us and we hid in the corn crib”



STOP SEVEN:  A LIGHT SUPPER … ALONE IN THE DINING ROOM OF THE WARING HOUSE

“Will we make it to Picton this year?”
“looks like we failed again…sun hitting the horizon soon “

“Look the birds are having a bath just outside our window.”
“How  romantic!”
“And you thought I could not be romantic.”
“See what I SEE?”
“The  flauwers  have gone to seed…I am going out
there to walk  Woody  and steal seeds.”
“How romantic?”
“While you are  stealing, I will have a glass of Barley Days Dark  beer.:’”
“How romantic?”



WOODY WANTS US TO HEAD HOME…NOW…BEFORE  ABSOLUTE DARK


HAPPY BIRTHDAY MARJORIE

Oct 6, 2019…SEASNONS CHANGE: FIND WOODY

SUNDAY OCTOBER 6, 2019

“FIND WOODY”

Woody decided to go for a walk today.  I joined him.
Amazing what happens when the leaves begin to turn
and  cool weather  decends.  As you search for Woody
there a few  other things to see.  And at the end there
is something unique and wonderful




This giant walnut tree was planted  by me according to my grandmother
It stands where once the outhouse stood.  And today  we have
more than a dozen walnut trees on the farm…loved and hated.


There are no apples  similar to these…NONE.  

The wild grape vines have spread across the trees…loaded  with tiny grapes.  Historic for sure.  It was Ontarion wild  grape vines
that saved  the French wine industry…vines like these.   Maybe Marjorie can make some wild  grape jelly.   All the fancy
wine growers have totally neglected these grapes…business opportunity for someone


A few weeks  ago we had lots of  chestnuts peeling back their thorny skin.  today there are none and the 
chestnut leaves are curling’




That little wood  barn was once on the farm where J.S. Wloodsworth was born in Etobicoke.  We had
it moved  up to our farm.  (J.S. Woodsworth the  founder of the C.C.F, which became the N.D.P.)
Not everyone knows that.

See those shaggy mane mushrooms.  Caught at the right time … before they turn to ink …and fried
up with butter and salt and  pepper…taste delicious…taste like pepper,  salt and butter.  Left to 
themselves these  beautiful mushrooms turn into a puddle of gross looking  black muck…only
eat the  new ones like the little fellow on the left.



We have a late crop of flax…best crop.  Planted by our son Andy.  A lot better than my flax  field…embarrassing.
Flax is the only crop on our farm that ever makes  money.  How it does this is  a  trade secret.

The big pond  is waiting for the ducks  flying south…a  flock  of them arrive  every fall and  gabble away to 
themselves.    Our farm was  rejected by real farmers.  Who wants a farm  dominated by a huge  7 acre pond
that takes 25% of the  farm?   Grandma and grandad  did.  They had  no choice really.  No money.  They
came to love  their patch of land as do we.


This forest trail was once the hill that led to the harvest floor of granddad’s barn.  



The green ball is a walnut.  Size of  baseball….loved by little red squirrels.  Pionneer farmers moving into Ontario looked for 
walnut trees for the indicated good land.    That couldn’t be  true.  Our land  is  worse than  poor…fit only for wild  things…plants  and
animals.  And Woody.   Best crop is stones.


This yellowish orange looking mushroom  seems to gather things on its sticky surface…bugs.  
Must be carnivorous.

Look  at those apples…think about them


The front pond is  now full of a  kind of green split weed…forgot the name.  Under here lives
one of our big snapping turtles.   I floated that old  bedstead  for him or her to get a little sun
before diving into the muddy bottom for the winter.  


Wild asters pick  a place to live. they have minds of their own…as does the milk weed.  Two weeks ago a lone Monarch caterpillar was 
feeding  here.  Now  gone … not enough time to go through the life cycle.  Thankfully there seem to be
more  Monarchs heading south this year but not our little fellow.   Our milk weed  patch was  once our best garden
but we surrendered it to the weed.   Real farmers hate milkweed…taints  the milk.



Yes,that is Woody.  He is always near even when I  can’t see  him.  And when I call and call and call I often  
turn around  to find him there.  Do dogs laugh?  You know, I think they do for every time I do this lost calling
routine he often  shoves his wet nose into my hand.


OK.. here is the big surprise.  Startled me really.  I was moving fence  rails  from roadside to field when what should appear in front of
my nose but these two apple…red streaked.  Delightful.   I had no idea the scraggly old  wile apple tree was capable  of  such
beauty.  “Must be wormy.”  I thought but only every tenth had  worms.  Did you know that there is no apple tree in the whole wide
world like these.   Apple seeds never  produce  the same apples.   Each seed produces  a  new apple variety.  To get the same
apples grafting is necessary…cuttings are  rooted.  Orchards are built with cuttings.   Our wild apple  tree has  no kindred.
It is alone,,,will never be replicated unless we decide to do so  Most wild  apple trees are not much use compared to the domestic
varieties.  Hell, they do  not even   have a  name for tis apple.  THIS IS WHERE YOU COME IN.  Let’s name the apple…male
or female names accepted.  How  about Freeman for we found it on the Freeman  farm and  wild apples are ‘’free,  man!”
Tasteless joke. Names.  Could call it the Alan  apple tree … really vain to  do that.  Or the  Morgan…or the  Angus…or the
Woody.   Now there is an idea.  Not many apple varieties,  probably none, have been named after a dog.

alan skeoch
Oct. 6, 219

P>S>   See the pail of  apples in this story…all from that special tree.

PPS   We cannot call the apple ‘Red Streak’ because that apple variety if the founding  apple
of the British  Cider industry.  If you like english cider…then you owe it to that single
apple variety that was grafted  and grafted  and grafted.


Fwd: THE LAST FLIGHT OF HX313 by ALAN SKEOCH Page 3



Begin forwarded message:


From: SKEOCH <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>
Subject: Fwd: THE LAST FLIGHT OF HX313 by ALAN SKEOCH Page 2
Date: October 4, 2019 at 12:26:49 PM EDT
To: Alan Skeoch <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>, Marjorie Skeoch <marjorieskeoch@gmail.com>


Pages 1,  2, and 3


NOTE:   I have begun to transcribe this story which was originally
written in  an attempt to discover how RCAF sergeant George Freeman
died on May 27,1944…as time permits I will transcribe the story…and look for the pictures.
There will be typos.


THE LAST FLIGHT OF  HX 313  

(Original written in 1984, Current rewrite Oct. 2019)

alan skeoch




Death doesn’t impact on a six year old as much as it does on an adult.  When George Freeman was declared missing on May 28, 1944, I barely noticed.
My parents were a little different that day I imagine. Quieter. Distracted.  My brother Eric  and I may have slipped out to Dufferin  Park as usual.  We  didn’t
really know there was a war being fought in Western Europe, the Middle East, Burma, China  and  islands chains of the Pacific Ocean. Not real to us at all
To us the world war was fantasy as we spent a lot of time playing  ‘guns’ with wooden weapons made from cast offs from the local piano factory. We  spent
more time  playing cowboys and indians than replicating the confusing  combatants of World War II.

The only real war we knew about were the gang wars between the Beanery  and  Junction gangs which seemed to rage regularly when waves teen age hoodlums
attacked each other with lead pipes and baseball bats or fists and hand held broken  beer bottles.  Time has magnified these fights in my memory.  There are
only a few news clippings that even mention these battles.   Eric  and I did see  some battles that’s for sure.   As to how  often  I cannot be  sure.  But they did
happen.  I know  this  because we watched  them from the safety of our rented  flat at 18 Sylvan Avenue, a large Victorian house right inside Dufferin Park.
We saw the police  arrive in force to break up the combat and  when the field was  clear we tried to pick up what was left behind by the gangs. This included
what mother called “dirty things” left earlier under the forsythia bushes which bisected the park in those days. “Good balloons, Mum.”

So the  disappearance of George Freeman passed unnoticed. I never met him even though he  was a cousin.  I do remember, however, Mom taking  us by
street car to the Hunt Club Golf Course just before Christmas  in 1944.  Uncle Chris Freeman  was the head greenskeeper and  as such lived  in a nice
little house in the  centre of the place.  I remember aunt Kitty crying cause someone had  died.  Uncle  Chris who had a crooked eye was stoic but
serious.  Normally he liked to tease us.  Good humoured kind of man.  But not that year.  Mom  explained  that their son, George, has been declared
missing in acton.  He was likely dead they knew but they clung to the hope he  would turn up in a German POW camp when the war ended.

His bags were sent home from his 427 squadron headquarters at Skipton on Swale in Yorkshire.  Seems I remember mom saying that aunt Kitty took
the suitcase up to George’s room and left it there.  Unopened.  She clung to the  hope  he would be found and return to them at war’s end.  That hope
was held through 1945 and even into 1946 because newspaper  reports  of  long lost soldiers and airmen continued to crop up.  That room was waiting.
George Freeman became  a kind of  ghostly mystery figure to us.   His room…his bag…were a kind of mysterious presence that entered the long term
storage of  my brain.  Even  now, over 70 years later,  I can visualize that greenskeepers house with aunt Kitty misty eyed  and  uncle Chris stoic.

A strange thing happened to me forty years after George Freeman died in that Halifax Bomber labelled  HX 313.  Something made  me  want to try and
find out what happened to George Freeman.  I began  to try to put the fragments of his life together in 1984.   What really happened in the skies over
Belgium on May 27, 1944?  As a history teacher  at Parkdale Collegiate  Institute I wanted my students to understand what it was like to be  young, patriotic
and idealistic in the1940’s.   Wanted the students of 1984 to see  themselves wearing George’s fleece  lined RCAF boots rather than  just reading  aging
historical facts.   I had no idea just how  startling the story would become.

Where to begin?  Records existed, I knew  that but I wanted to put flesh and blood on those  records.  So asked George’s sister Lillian, we called her Mickey
for some reason, if she had any letters sent by George from  Yorkshire.   She had a few letters and small pictures but she had no idea what happened
on that last day when HX 323 fell flaming  from the skies over Bourg  Leopold.   Most moving was a picture of George  in this RCAF  uniform.  He  looked
so much like  our own sons.  Young.  But also serious and perhaps idealistic.

INSERT PHOTO

to be  continued
…the story is longer than  I ever expected


These first few fragments became parts of what became  a giant jig  saw puzzle with many pieces  missing and others in a jumble for me to sort.  One  piece  dated  January 4, 1944
was a starting point. 

 “Please  accept my sincere sympathies in this period  of  great anxiety. I trust that favourable word will be forthcoming of  your son.  The enclosed letter (and snapshots) 
addressed to you was found amongst your son’s personal effects. We  regret the necessity of having to censor the letter for security reasons, and  to ascertain  if  it contained  
anything of  a testamentary nature.”  signed  by Squadron leader  Pennington of #6 Bomber Group

The snapshots  turned  out to be wonderful clues. The letter, George’s  last letter, revealed  that he knew his chances of survival were slim.  He  was taking extra flights to try and get
his 20 flights  over with.  Air crews who survived 20  bomber raids were relieved of future  raids  unless they volunteered to continue these risky flights which many  did even with
the horrific death rates.  George was  planning to stop it seemed  although that was  not certain.  He was  committed to the war effort.  But would  he continue with HX 313?
Maybe  not for he had fallen in love with an English girl ands  preparing to surprise aunt Kitty with an engagement announcement.  “The girl works in our mess and is a  good girl.
In fact, mom, she is a  Cockney, so  you have an  idea  from  that what she is like. Her parents made me  very welcome and  I had two eggs there.”  Included with the letter was a
snapshot of George and his girlfriend in each others arms.  Smiling.  We would never know her name.  Tragic romances  were all too common among  members of #6 Bomber Group.

INSERT PHOTO

George also told  his  mom that he  had bought her a  Victory Bond.  But he said  nothing about the  war or HX 313.  One  tiny photograph wa dated February 10, 1944, taken in front
of a flimsy  looking  barrack on which was printed  “Moe, Pop, Bob, Wilf, Eric, Casey and Me”.  No last names but enough hints to  lead me deeper.  As things turned out “Pop” became
the linchpin I needed to get all the  pieces in place.  Sorry for the mixed  metaphor.

INSERT PHOTO


INSERT PHOTO

The final  snapshot, taken after the war, showed  wooden cross labelled ‘P.O. Freeman,  G.F., RCAF, KS 28,5, 44, #J 88397”.  George would not be returning To aunt Kitty and  Uncle Chris.

INSERT PHOTO

Then I  found a crumpled news clipping with the title “Nazi rockets Failed to stop Canadians” referring  to George Freeman’s first flight in HX 313.  A strong hint that the skies over
Germany were filled  with rockets and flak and  night fighters…and terror.

But I still knew nothing about the last flight of  HX 313.  George was the mid upper gunner in that lumbering Halifax bomber belonging to Tiger Squadron,  RCAF.  Efforts to get information from otters  
failed because  the Privacy Act forbade the release of  crew members that survived  the war.  Strange.  Must be some  reason for this but I failed  to know what reason.   Lillian   
Peers, George Freeman’s  sister, told me that the pilot of HX 33 visited  their golf club home after the war. “His name was Mallet and  the meeting was very emotional for all of them.”

The story could have ended there were it not for the  offer of a CBC Classified appeal. “At the sound of the beep, give your message…be sharp and specific”

“Eric Mallet, are  you listening?  You were the pilot of a Halifax bomber that was shot down over Belgium on the  night of  May  27, 1944.  Your upper middle gunner was George Freeman,
my cousin, who was killed. I am trying to  put together the details of his death.”  Then  I innocently mentioned the little snapshot of the pet Scotch Terrier sitting in George’s Air Force hat.
“I  have a  few  fragments that belonged  to George.  One is  an RCAF hat sitting upside down with a  little black dog below which is written “Nooky, Squadron Leader”, perhaps that clue
might help.”   Does the word  have any meaning?”
Well the word certainly had meaning. Many listeners responded to let me know that Nooky referred to sexual activity of a  casual  nature. Mention  of  Skipton  on Swale and  #6 Bomber 
Group and  HX 313 along with Nooky resulted  in a  shower of puzzle pieces.  Many clarified he meaning of  Nooky.  “Refers to sexual activity, Alan.”   I should have  known  that and
had I known I would never have included  it in a CBC radio broadcast that went clear across Canada  from  seas to sea to sea.

Several phone calls came  immediately.  Most were irrelevant.  Veteran airmen just making contact…wanting  to help.  Mothers  who  had lost sons.  Sisters who had  lost brothers.  One
man living in a dirt encrusted  room on Toronto’s River Street was  insistent I visit him.  Doing so I realized  he  had   lost the battle with alcohol long ago.  He had  been a gunner  with
#6 Bomer Group but had never met George Freeman.  He just wanted someone to talk to.

There was no call or letter from any of the four surviving crew members of  HX313.  But there was one unusual call.  “Alan, my name is Joyce Inkster, a listener told me to call you and
offer my help.  For the  past few years my husband and I have been tracing and reassembling RCAF flight crews.  Perhaps we can help you.”

The  Inkster were part of the Allied Air Forces Reunion.  Joyce Inkster was a  female version of Sherlock Hollmes.  Within  a day  she  had  found the casualty report for the night
of May 27/28, 1944.  It listed when names of the crew and 1944 addresses.  Pilot Eric Mallet was from Vancouver.  Mrs. Inkster consulted  her collection of telephone books from
around  the world,  No Mallet listed in Vancouver.  “Let’s try Victoria”  There was an E.  Mallett.  Was it worth a call…budget  over run possible was in my mind.  I could not afford to
call every Mallett in Canada. “Don’t worry, I have  a system. I make the call when rates  are low, say the  message  fast…of wrong person end the call in less than a minute.  But first
I need a clue that will guarantee I’ve  reached the right person.”

The Scotch  Terrier picture…Nooky….almost barked at us.

“Are  you Eric  Mallett the pilot of HX 313 in 1944?”
“Yes,” My heart skipped a beat.
“Did you have  a  mascot?”
“Yes,  we had a scotch  terrier.”

The pilot of HX 313 had been found and the story began to unfold. I was asked  to return  the CBC  Joe Cote show snd tell the audience the  story as  it stood.

We found the  pilot of HX323 living in Victoria, British  Columbia, talked with him…he confirmed that they had a mascot… Scotch Terrier  Nooky.

“We had a seven man crew normally but on our last doomed flight we had an eight member. New pilots joining the squadron were assigned to a veteran pilot for
one live operations  flight so we  had co-pilot W.F. Elliott  aboard.  Of our eight man crew, 3 were killed but 5 managed to bail out.”

THE LAST FLIGHT OF HX 313 –  LETTER FROM PILOT OFFICER ERIC  MALLETT,  1984


Many Bombers featured ‘Blonde Bomber’ nose art.  This photo of a Handly Page  Halifax bomber
is likely not HX 313. 



Picture of personal standing  on wings of a Halifax Bomber at Skipton on Swale
Yorkshire, where  George Freeman was stationed as a mid upper gunner on
HX 313, Number 427 Tiger Squadron, Number Six Bomber Group, RCAF.




“Dear Alan:
In the first place I must you that George Freeman was never known to us  as George,  he was Hank.  Hank carried out his duties as  Mid Upper Gunner
with great courage and at no time was overcome  by fear. I am enclosing the only picture  of our aircraft that I have with a member  of the ground crew
sitting in my seat.  The ‘Blonde Bomber’ was one of the finest aircraft that I have ever flown (note: Eric was an experienced  pilot)  At that time the  Halifax 
was the fastest heavy bomber in the world.  We  carried 42 tons of  bombs and 21,000 gallons of100 octane  gasoline, total all up weight was 85,000 pounds 

Hank’sturret had four Browning machine guns capable of firing  1,250 rounds per minute.”


Note from 1984:  Eric Mallett’s enthusiasm for the Halifax contrasted with the opinions of military historians who regarded the Halifax heavy bomber inferior to the Lancaster.
Some historians even went so far as to note that the conversion of  bomber squadrons to Lancasters was done in a discriminatory manner which favoured
RAF  bomber squadrons.   Canadian Number Six Bomber Group continued to fly Halifax bombers to the end of the war.

“The member of  my crew were  Flight Lieutenant Bob Irwin (deceased); Wireless Operator Wilf Wakely (deceased); Vic Poppa, tail gunner; Ken Sweatman, bomb aimer;
Engineer Morris Muir (English); Mid-UpperGunner George Freeman (deceased); and flying  officer Elliot who was coming  along on his first trip…The target was Borg
Leopold in Belgium a base  which the Germans  were using as a  rest camp for their troops from the Russian front.   After leaving the briefing I  mentioned  to the 
crew that we were being sent on a mission for the sole purpose of killing people. We  carried  14,000 lbs. of anti-personnel bombs and the aiming point was to
be the officers quarters.  This mission did not sit well  with the crew. We had already  been through some tough missions against industrial targets but
this  mission made us feel uneasy.”

“Strangely enough we were not able to drop our load.  We were  right on our bomb run when we got hit.  Just a few seconds prior to being hit I had  an
urge to take evasive action but I did not because we had  our bomb doors  open and  had  started  our run.  I didn’t want to spoil the bomb aimers sighting
as there was  no indication of an attack other than my hunch.   Suddenly there  was  a tremendous burst of flame and I gave the order to ‘abandon aircraft ‘
immediately.  Knew from past experience that we only had seconds to do so because  100 octane gasoline  would blow  up once the  flames reached  the 
tanks. The Navigators position was right on top of the  forward escape hatch.  The whole crew was supposed  to go out this exit so  I would know when all
were out.  They did  not, however,  because Bob Irwin couldn’t get the hatch  open.  The second pilot (Elliott) and engineer (Muir) took off the rear seat and
went out of the entrance hatch.  I went forward to see how Bob was  doing and  by good fortune he was  beginning to have some luck so  I went back and
straightened out the aircraft.  In what seemed  like an eternity I returned to the hatch in time to see someone leaving.  I then, did not hesitate to  follow.
Upon hitting the air my flying  boots left me and I then tried  to find the rip chord  on my parachute.  I couldn’t find the  ring for what seemed like another
eternity. Eventually I hooked the ring, otherwise I would  not be here.”

Note:  Even today, Oct. 2, 2019, I can remember reading Eric Mallett’s letter.  Rivetting.  I could hardly believe I  had set an event like  this in
motion back 1984.   I had an idea that this  was  the end of the story so I read  slowly  and  re-read even slower.   But the story of the  Last Flight
of  HX 313 was really just beginning.  Read on!

“Drifting down through the nigh sky, I could see the target with the bombs landing, exploding and  setting fire to the buildings.  I thought for a moment or two
that I was going to land right on it.  The next thing I recall was seeing the ground  come up to me and then  ‘Boom!’…everything was silent.  When I came
to, I found myself right beside  a barbed wire fence.  Remembered my previous training and buried my parachute.  It required much effort.

“It is almost  impossible to describe the feeling that overcame me.  Since that day nothing has ever scored me as all I have do is recall in my
mind this dreadful night and the terrible feeling that I had.”

“I spent the rest  of the night sitting in a cornfield taking off my rings and rank markings as well as looking at my purse and pandora.  The escape kit
contained Horlicks tablets, benzedrine, German, Belgian And French currency.  When daylight came I discovered that I  was close  to a small village.
I knew that i  must get some help as I had a badly cut finger and no footwear.  I waited and  waited to  see what  sort of  traffic was entering or leaving the village.
There seemed  to be none other than that of  someone  tying up a  goat close to  where  I  was  hiding, for  quite  long time I wondered what the tinkling of
the goat’s bell  was.”

“Alan,  I  am going  to sign  off for now for this  is  only the beginning of a long, long story.  Enclosed you will find  your map with the location of the attack. Also 
you will find pictures of my crew, and one of  the Blonde Bomber.   We  were not allowed to take any pictures of our aircraft for security reasons, as  you can
well understand.    Also included is a  picture  of Hank  and Vic  Poppa engaged in a  little horseplay outside of our flight room.   Vic Poppa  and Ken  Sweatman
would be very pleased to hear from you if  would  care to write them.”

Kikndest  Regards
Eric  L. Mallett

Note from 2019:  Wow!  What a letter.  More to come. Eric  Mallett included the addresses of two other survivors.   The story was growing and growing.   It could  so  easily have  been  
lost.  What followed was almost a  year of contacts back  and forth and even  a visit with Victor Poppa in Cslifornia topped  off by him travelling to Toronto in a ramshackle truck
and trailer filled with spare used tires.  Victor’s  story eventually took  over.  Hank’s best friend.   Could  I put their life experiences  back together?   Pictures  are a bit of
a problem  for me  in 2019.  They are here among my books and records but it will take time to find them.   My  priority is  to get the written account transcribed to digital.



Note from 2019:  This is the  living quarters at airbase Skipton on Swale in 1944, a series of  Quonset buildings with rounded roofs.  The ruined  brick  building
was the  operations centre, picture taken about 1984 when the airbase had  been converted to a chicken farm after  the tarmac landing strip had  been
ripped up.


TO BE CONTINUED … TRANSCRIBING MY 1984 STORY NOW IN 2019…HOPE YOU ENJOY IT


Page 3

And so the  story  continues.   The excitement that coursed through my body as I read Eric Mallett’s letter is hard to describe.  Something akin to Eric’s feelings when he  hit solid ground
in Belgium.  No, that is an overstatement.  Not only had i received his letter but also had two other  survivors  actresses … Ken  Sweatman and  Victor Poppa.   Both of  whom were ready
to talk about their experiences.  Talking about the war was not easy for many.  Some air force survivors  just would  not talk about it.  One good friend, who  was also  a tail gunner like Victor
Poppa just did not want to talk.   Why? “Because  I survived and so many of my friends died.”  Talking hurt in her words. 

In a subsequent letter, Eric  Mallett explained he  had  joined  the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan and subsequently received  his wings in 1941 at Dauphin, Manitoba, “The BCTAP
was one  of Canada’s great contributions  to the war effort.”  For nearly  two  years Eric was a fight instructor and  had 1300 hours of flying time before he was  sent overseas as a  Flight
Commander.  Like  so many young Canadians he was attracted to the airforce by a desire to fly.  Many young men, 18 year olds just out of high school found the idea  of flight the most
attractive military arm.  Did they know the  death rate?  I am not sure of that. 

Eric  Mallett was older…age 24.     He was married and his wife was shocked.  “My wife’s reaction was one  of disbelief,” wrote  Eric.

By interviewing the  survivors was it possible  to find our what happened to George Freeman in those last few chaotic  moments before  HX 313 hit the ground followed by a totally disintegrating explosion?
As a mid-upper turret gunner George may have been the prime target for a diving German  night fighter like the JU  88.  He may have been killed  in the first burst of gunfire.  Gunners, like Victor Poppa
and George Freeman were  used more as  spotters than as gunners.  The  best defence against German night fighters was evasive action.  Remember Eric  Mallett’s hunch?   Unlike the American bomber 
groups who flew in high formations  in broad daylight, the Canadian  and British  bomber  groups flew at night and were on their own from the moment they  left the coast of England.  They flew in a stream
kind of formation most of the time. Evasive  action was easier since there was no tight formation to worry about.   American bombers that took evasive  action were as likely to collide with other bombers.

Information overload worried me.  So much that I did not know about Bomber Command in World War II.  So much to learn.  So  much to miss.  Would it be possible to get more information from the
rest of the crew?  First person accounts.  Like how was a bomber crew put together.   I think the  crew members were deliberately unknown to each other at the beginning.  Never brother  and brother.
Or even friend and friend.  Keep  emotional attachments to a minimum.  But I was not sure.  One thing seemed certain.  Once  a crew  was formed they bonded tight.  Now the close bonds may not have
been true for all air crews in World War II, but it was certainly true for the ill fated crew of HX313.  The  crew was headless when Eric  Mallett arrived  at Skipton on Swale.  “I chose  my crew from a
conversion unit.  They  were called a headless crew as their skipper had been shot down on his first flight with another crew.”   Eric Mallett did not know that on May27,1944, Flying Officer  Elliott would
suffer the same  fate leaving another headless crew.  Why risk sending  new pilots on dangerous bombing runs  The answer is simple.  The the experience  a new pilot got as a co pilot reduced his chances
of interception by German night fighters.  But not by much.  New  flight crews had a higher risk of being shot  down by veteran crews.   And every crew had to make  20 runs over Germany.  Statistically
few survived.   Thousands of bombers were lost.  The  story of  HX 313 was not unusual.  It went down during its eight raid as I remember.



THE LAST FLIGHT OF HX 313:  LETTER FROM KEN SWEATMAN (BOMB AIMER)  1984

“Dear Mr. Skeoch,

“Hank” and “Pop” were  an inseparable  pair.  They  did everything together…their gun inspection and harmonizing (test firing)… their courting when on leave.  The stories they told of their escapades on  
leave  were really something  else.  Hank saw the fun in every situation.  He was a good  looking boy with his deep blue eyes and  brown hair and always prided himself on looking sharp. I remember
asking  as he came into barracks after a night out:  

“How was she, Hank?”
“Both of her teeth were nice.”

Wilf Wakely was a slightly built but very agile chap.  He often sang in a delightful Irish tenor voice, songs like “Martins and the Coys”, “Queeney” and “Lillie Marlene”.  On our  way from our billets o the mess Wilf
would do a few cartwheels along with forward and  backward somersaults.  It was Wilf who got us all whistling ‘Pedro and  the Fisher Boy” wherever we went as a  crew.  Bob Irwin and I worked side by side
in the nose of the aircraft.  I operated the H2S passing on pinpoints as they came up on the screen.  We  were always reassured when the flak and searchlight positions were where they should be and then we
knew we were on track. I began passing on this over the intercom but on bad nights with fighters I used chits and left the intercom to Pop and  Hank.   

Bob was a more  serious type of person, very sure of himself. Having been in the cavalry in peacetime he had a very  military bearing and  manner.  He had his hands and feet frost bitten on a mountain climbing
episode so he and I used  to trade gloves quite often on ‘ops’ (operation flights) where the temperature could drop to minus 72 degrees centigrade.  In Canada,  he had  won a gold watch for navigation so we
were sure  of his ability. A lot of  noise would  bother him and he often called ‘less chattering’.  He  married a nurse, Kay, while on ‘ops’ which added  a heavy load of worry.

Morris Muir of Nottingham, a very British  Englishman, was our flight engineer who came  to us from South Africa.  Being on a lower R.A.F. pay scale and  receiving no overseas  parcels made it hard for him
to be one  of  us.  He tried  hard to fit in but he had a  habit of bragging.  When this happened  in our crew we formed a join hands right around  the  culprit and sang  ‘bull shit, bull shit, bull shit, it all sounds
like bull shit to me’, to the tune of ‘My Bonnie Lives over the Ocean’  It happened to us all, not just poor Morris.

Eric  Mallett (our fourth pilot) came to us as a Flight Lieutenant with a British  accent as he was English born.  He had a log showing 10,000 hours as a flying instructor.   In an easy  sort of way  he
became one of us.  One  of the first things did was make  an unintentional  belly landing and he became ‘Wheels up Mallett’ for a while. I remember on our ops he would call the  two  gunners to see  
if they were OK and awake.  It was  hell trying to stay  awake with the drone of the aircraft and  constantly staring off into space.

We thought the raid  on Bourg Leopold  would be a  piece of  cake.  It’s located in the NE corner of Belgium little more than a  two hour flight from Skipton on Swale  in Yorkshire.  Also Bourg Leopold was
a POW camp, our men in other words.   I remember the Wing Commanders caution, “the target it a  rectangle…imagine a line dividing it diagonally.   Our prisoners are on the close side and to your left.
Don’t undershoot the target.!”

The flight to Bourg Leopold was  quite  uneventful as the Blonde Bomber wove  its way around  flak  stations and avoided getting coned  by searchlights. A lone Mosquito bomber  had already dropped 
a yellow flare on the target and was backed  up by a Pathfinder force  dropping green  and red flares.  The target began to look like a bulls eye by the time the first wave of bombers were beginning 
their bomb run. I think it was the poor Sterlings (*rather obsolete English Bomber aircraft) flying  at 8 to 10 thousand feet that had the first run. How the Pathfinders kept from colliding amazed the  crew
of HX 323 but the trick was for each wave  of bombers to attack from different heights.  Pathfinder crews were the best that could be found.  Not only were  the bombers given height instructions but
they also had precise time periods over the target. After the bomb  run, the planes headed for home as fast as  they could.  HX 313 was part of 424 squadron and was part of the  third  wave coming
in at 23,000 feet…we dropped down for the bombing.  At the moment the bombs  were released a photograph was automatically taken. “

Note from 2019:  Ken Sweatman noted that the low  flying Sterlings were in one of the pictures taken.  Bombs  did occasionally
hit friendly aircraft flying at lower altitudes.   The  infantry term is ‘hit by friendly fire’

“I was about to put the fusing switches down when I reported an enemy aircraft passing below  us from port ahead. Pop saw him pass on through on a straight course.  Eric reported port inner engine 
on fire.  Nest I heard a sound like stones hitting  metal and Wilf yelled  ‘ouch!’.  Next came Eric’s voice, very faint, “abandon aircraft…Jump! Jump!”  Bob was struggling to open the  the  nose  escape
hatch which had melted where an incendiary bullet had passed through  the  door jam.  Between us we managed  to get it open.  Wilf went first, Bob next, then Eric.   I recall yanking the intercom wire
from my helmet and in my panic I twisted off my oxygen tube. Snapping on my parachute, I remember thinking how I hated to leave as the wind from the holes in the  nose kept the fire back.  The  cockpit
and backwash an inferno by now. The last thing I remember was  hooking my thumb through the rip chord ring while the  wind was tugging at my feet.  From this instant on, all was  black.


Parachutes were very awkward it seems and both Sweatman and Poppa were

not wearing their chutes when the cry came to  abandon … Jump…Jump.  the
picture above shows how encumbered they all were.

“I assume that I had gone  out feet first facing forward.   When the chute cracked  open the chute casing hit me  under the jaw. I landed
unconscious and took quite  a beating.  The next recollections are fleeting  glimpses.  I remember my ankle  hurting as someone was  ripping the leggings off my escape boots.  I recall I was in a
very dark place like  a dirt cellar.  Next I remember Eric and someone with him saying, “Oh good,it’s Ken.”  I didn’t have  any idea who Ken was…and what’s more I didn’t give a damn.”

Note:  The Belgian underground found Eric Mallett and Ken Sweatman and hid  them in the Ardenne forest for 10 days.   After this began a series adventures that eventually lento them being 
liberated by American troops not long after D Day (June  6, 1944)

COMMENT BY ERIC MALLETT

“When we were struck there were white hot incendiary bullets that hit us through the crew compartment.  They  were hopping about somewhat like water droplets in a hot frying pan.  With  each hop
theist anew fire.   I handed Morris the fire extinguisher.   The paper from the maps were all on fire anti soon becomes infernally hot that I barely had time to trim the  aircraft and head it out to sea.   As I went
out I noticed Ken Sweatman sort of dazed and I  motioned him to come as I jumped.”
This is an artist’s take on what it must have been like  in HX 33 when the German incendiary shells set the plane on fire
which soon engulfed everything.  The  surviving crew had seconds to jump.

TO BE CONTINUED 

Fwd: THE LAST FLIGHT OF HX313 by ALAN SKEOCH Page 2

Page  2


NOTE:   I have begun to transcribe this story which was originally
written in  an attempt to discover how RCAF sergeant George Freeman
died on May 27,1944…as time permits I will transcribe the story…and look for the pictures.
There will be typos.


THE LAST FLIGHT OF  HX 313  

(Original written in 1984, Current rewrite Oct. 2019)

alan skeoch




Death doesn’t impact on a six year old as much as it does on an adult.  When George Freeman was declared missing on May 28, 1944, I barely noticed.
My parents were a little different that day I imagine. Quieter. Distracted.  My brother Eric  and I may have slipped out to Dufferin  Park as usual.  We  didn’t
really know there was a war being fought in Western Europe, the Middle East, Burma, China  and  islands chains of the Pacific Ocean. Not real to us at all
To us the world war was fantasy as we spent a lot of time playing  ‘guns’ with wooden weapons made from cast offs from the local piano factory. We  spent
more time  playing cowboys and indians than replicating the confusing  combatants of World War II.

The only real war we knew about were the gang wars between the Beanery  and  Junction gangs which seemed to rage regularly when waves teen age hoodlums
attacked each other with lead pipes and baseball bats or fists and hand held broken  beer bottles.  Time has magnified these fights in my memory.  There are
only a few news clippings that even mention these battles.   Eric  and I did see  some battles that’s for sure.   As to how  often  I cannot be  sure.  But they did
happen.  I know  this  because we watched  them from the safety of our rented  flat at 18 Sylvan Avenue, a large Victorian house right inside Dufferin Park.
We saw the police  arrive in force to break up the combat and  when the field was  clear we tried to pick up what was left behind by the gangs. This included
what mother called “dirty things” left earlier under the forsythia bushes which bisected the park in those days. “Good balloons, Mum.”

So the  disappearance of George Freeman passed unnoticed. I never met him even though he  was a cousin.  I do remember, however, Mom taking  us by
street car to the Hunt Club Golf Course just before Christmas  in 1944.  Uncle Chris Freeman  was the head greenskeeper and  as such lived  in a nice
little house in the  centre of the place.  I remember aunt Kitty crying cause someone had  died.  Uncle  Chris who had a crooked eye was stoic but
serious.  Normally he liked to tease us.  Good humoured kind of man.  But not that year.  Mom  explained  that their son, George, has been declared
missing in acton.  He was likely dead they knew but they clung to the hope he  would turn up in a German POW camp when the war ended.

His bags were sent home from his 427 squadron headquarters at Skipton on Swale in Yorkshire.  Seems I remember mom saying that aunt Kitty took
the suitcase up to George’s room and left it there.  Unopened.  She clung to the  hope  he would be found and return to them at war’s end.  That hope
was held through 1945 and even into 1946 because newspaper  reports  of  long lost soldiers and airmen continued to crop up.  That room was waiting.
George Freeman became  a kind of  ghostly mystery figure to us.   His room…his bag…were a kind of mysterious presence that entered the long term
storage of  my brain.  Even  now, over 70 years later,  I can visualize that greenskeepers house with aunt Kitty misty eyed  and  uncle Chris stoic.

A strange thing happened to me forty years after George Freeman died in that Halifax Bomber labelled  HX 313.  Something made  me  want to try and
find out what happened to George Freeman.  I began  to try to put the fragments of his life together in 1984.   What really happened in the skies over
Belgium on May 27, 1944?  As a history teacher  at Parkdale Collegiate  Institute I wanted my students to understand what it was like to be  young, patriotic
and idealistic in the1940’s.   Wanted the students of 1984 to see  themselves wearing George’s fleece  lined RCAF boots rather than  just reading  aging
historical facts.   I had no idea just how  startling the story would become.

Where to begin?  Records existed, I knew  that but I wanted to put flesh and blood on those  records.  So asked George’s sister Lillian, we called her Mickey
for some reason, if she had any letters sent by George from  Yorkshire.   She had a few letters and small pictures but she had no idea what happened
on that last day when HX 323 fell flaming  from the skies over Bourg  Leopold.   Most moving was a picture of George  in this RCAF  uniform.  He  looked
so much like  our own sons.  Young.  But also serious and perhaps idealistic.

INSERT PHOTO

to be  continued
…the story is longer than  I ever expected


These first few fragments became parts of what became  a giant jig  saw puzzle with many pieces  missing and others in a jumble for me to sort.  One  piece  dated  January 4, 1944
was a starting point. 

 “Please  accept my sincere sympathies in this period  of  great anxiety. I trust that favourable word will be forthcoming of  your son.  The enclosed letter (and snapshots) 
addressed to you was found amongst your son’s personal effects. We  regret the necessity of having to censor the letter for security reasons, and  to ascertain  if  it contained  
anything of  a testamentary nature.”  signed  by Squadron leader  Pennington of #6 Bomber Group

The snapshots  turned  out to be wonderful clues. The letter, George’s  last letter, revealed  that he knew his chances of survival were slim.  He  was taking extra flights to try and get
his 20 flights  over with.  Air crews who survived 20  bomber raids were relieved of future  raids  unless they volunteered to continue these risky flights which many  did even with
the horrific death rates.  George was  planning to stop it seemed  although that was  not certain.  He was  committed to the war effort.  But would  he continue with HX 313?
Maybe  not for he had fallen in love with an English girl ands  preparing to surprise aunt Kitty with an engagement announcement.  “The girl works in our mess and is a  good girl.
In fact, mom, she is a  Cockney, so  you have an  idea  from  that what she is like. Her parents made me  very welcome and  I had two eggs there.”  Included with the letter was a
snapshot of George and his girlfriend in each others arms.  Smiling.  We would never know her name.  Tragic romances  were all too common among  members of #6 Bomber Group.

INSERT PHOTO

George also told  his  mom that he  had bought her a  Victory Bond.  But he said  nothing about the  war or HX 313.  One  tiny photograph wa dated February 10, 1944, taken in front
of a flimsy  looking  barrack on which was printed  “Moe, Pop, Bob, Wilf, Eric, Casey and Me”.  No last names but enough hints to  lead me deeper.  As things turned out “Pop” became
the linchpin I needed to get all the  pieces in place.  Sorry for the mixed  metaphor.

INSERT PHOTO


INSERT PHOTO

The final  snapshot, taken after the war, showed  wooden cross labelled ‘P.O. Freeman,  G.F., RCAF, KS 28,5, 44, #J 88397”.  George would not be returning To aunt Kitty and  Uncle Chris.

INSERT PHOTO

Then I  found a crumpled news clipping with the title “Nazi rockets Failed to stop Canadians” referring  to George Freeman’s first flight in HX 313.  A strong hint that the skies over
Germany were filled  with rockets and flak and  night fighters…and terror.

But I still knew nothing about the last flight of  HX 313.  George was the mid upper gunner in that lumbering Halifax bomber belonging to Tiger Squadron,  RCAF.  Efforts to get information from otters  
failed because  the Privacy Act forbade the release of  crew members that survived  the war.  Strange.  Must be some  reason for this but I failed  to know what reason.   Lillian   
Peers, George Freeman’s  sister, told me that the pilot of HX 33 visited  their golf club home after the war. “His name was Mallet and  the meeting was very emotional for all of them.”

The story could have ended there were it not for the  offer of a CBC Classified appeal. “At the sound of the beep, give your message…be sharp and specific”

“Eric Mallet, are  you listening?  You were the pilot of a Halifax bomber that was shot down over Belgium on the  night of  May  27, 1944.  Your upper middle gunner was George Freeman,
my cousin, who was killed. I am trying to  put together the details of his death.”  Then  I innocently mentioned the little snapshot of the pet Scotch Terrier sitting in George’s Air Force hat.
“I  have a  few  fragments that belonged  to George.  One is  an RCAF hat sitting upside down with a  little black dog below which is written “Nooky, Squadron Leader”, perhaps that clue
might help.”   Does the word  have any meaning?”
Well the word certainly had meaning. Many listeners responded to let me know that Nooky referred to sexual activity of a  casual  nature. Mention  of  Skipton  on Swale and  #6 Bomber 
Group and  HX 313 along with Nooky resulted  in a  shower of puzzle pieces.  Many clarified he meaning of  Nooky.  “Refers to sexual activity, Alan.”   I should have  known  that and
had I known I would never have included  it in a CBC radio broadcast that went clear across Canada  from  seas to sea to sea.

Several phone calls came  immediately.  Most were irrelevant.  Veteran airmen just making contact…wanting  to help.  Mothers  who  had lost sons.  Sisters who had  lost brothers.  One
man living in a dirt encrusted  room on Toronto’s River Street was  insistent I visit him.  Doing so I realized  he  had   lost the battle with alcohol long ago.  He had  been a gunner  with
#6 Bomer Group but had never met George Freeman.  He just wanted someone to talk to.

There was no call or letter from any of the four surviving crew members of  HX313.  But there was one unusual call.  “Alan, my name is Joyce Inkster, a listener told me to call you and
offer my help.  For the  past few years my husband and I have been tracing and reassembling RCAF flight crews.  Perhaps we can help you.”

The  Inkster were part of the Allied Air Forces Reunion.  Joyce Inkster was a  female version of Sherlock Hollmes.  Within  a day  she  had  found the casualty report for the night
of May 27/28, 1944.  It listed when names of the crew and 1944 addresses.  Pilot Eric Mallet was from Vancouver.  Mrs. Inkster consulted  her collection of telephone books from
around  the world,  No Mallet listed in Vancouver.  “Let’s try Victoria”  There was an E.  Mallett.  Was it worth a call…budget  over run possible was in my mind.  I could not afford to
call every Mallett in Canada. “Don’t worry, I have  a system. I make the call when rates  are low, say the  message  fast…of wrong person end the call in less than a minute.  But first
I need a clue that will guarantee I’ve  reached the right person.”

The Scotch  Terrier picture…Nooky….almost barked at us.

“Are  you Eric  Mallett the pilot of HX 313 in 1944?”
“Yes,” My heart skipped a beat.
“Did you have  a  mascot?”
“Yes,  we had a scotch  terrier.”

The pilot of HX 313 had been found and the story began to unfold. I was asked  to return  the CBC  Joe Cote show snd tell the audience the  story as  it stood.

We found the  pilot of HX323 living in Victoria, British  Columbia, talked with him…he confirmed that they had a mascot… Scotch Terrier  Nooky.

“We had a seven man crew normally but on our last doomed flight we had an eight member. New pilots joining the squadron were assigned to a veteran pilot for
one live operations  flight so we  had co-pilot W.F. Elliott  aboard.  Of our eight man crew, 3 were killed but 5 managed to bail out.”

THE LAST FLIGHT OF HX 313 –  LETTER FROM PILOT OFFICER ERIC  MALLETT,  1984


Many Bombers featured ‘Blonde Bomber’ nose art.  This photo of a Handly Page  Halifax bomber
is likely not HX 313. 



Picture of personal standing  on wings of a Halifax Bomber at Skipton on Swale
Yorkshire, where  George Freeman was stationed as a mid upper gunner on
HX 313, Number 427 Tiger Squadron, Number Six Bomber Group, RCAF.




“Dear Alan:
In the first place I must you that George Freeman was never known to us  as George,  he was Hank.  Hank carried out his duties as  Mid Upper Gunner
with great courage and at no time was overcome  by fear. I am enclosing the only picture  of our aircraft that I have with a member  of the ground crew
sitting in my seat.  The ‘Blonde Bomber’ was one of the finest aircraft that I have ever flown (note: Eric was an experienced  pilot)  At that time the  Halifax 
was the fastest heavy bomber in the world.  We  carried 42 tons of  bombs and 21,000 gallons of100 octane  gasoline, total all up weight was 85,000 pounds 

Hank’sturret had four Browning machine guns capable of firing  1,250 rounds per minute.”


Note from 1984:  Eric Mallett’s enthusiasm for the Halifax contrasted with the opinions of military historians who regarded the Halifax heavy bomber inferior to the Lancaster.
Some historians even went so far as to note that the conversion of  bomber squadrons to Lancasters was done in a discriminatory manner which favoured
RAF  bomber squadrons.   Canadian Number Six Bomber Group continued to fly Halifax bombers to the end of the war.

“The member of  my crew were  Flight Lieutenant Bob Irwin (deceased); Wireless Operator Wilf Wakely (deceased); Vic Poppa, tail gunner; Ken Sweatman, bomb aimer;
Engineer Morris Muir (English); Mid-UpperGunner George Freeman (deceased); and flying  officer Elliot who was coming  along on his first trip…The target was Borg
Leopold in Belgium a base  which the Germans  were using as a  rest camp for their troops from the Russian front.   After leaving the briefing I  mentioned  to the 
crew that we were being sent on a mission for the sole purpose of killing people. We  carried  14,000 lbs. of anti-personnel bombs and the aiming point was to
be the officers quarters.  This mission did not sit well  with the crew. We had already  been through some tough missions against industrial targets but
this  mission made us feel uneasy.”

“Strangely enough we were not able to drop our load.  We were  right on our bomb run when we got hit.  Just a few seconds prior to being hit I had  an
urge to take evasive action but I did not because we had  our bomb doors  open and  had  started  our run.  I didn’t want to spoil the bomb aimers sighting
as there was  no indication of an attack other than my hunch.   Suddenly there  was  a tremendous burst of flame and I gave the order to ‘abandon aircraft ‘
immediately.  Knew from past experience that we only had seconds to do so because  100 octane gasoline  would blow  up once the  flames reached  the 
tanks. The Navigators position was right on top of the  forward escape hatch.  The whole crew was supposed  to go out this exit so  I would know when all
were out.  They did  not, however,  because Bob Irwin couldn’t get the hatch  open.  The second pilot (Elliott) and engineer (Muir) took off the rear seat and
went out of the entrance hatch.  I went forward to see how Bob was  doing and  by good fortune he was  beginning to have some luck so  I went back and
straightened out the aircraft.  In what seemed  like an eternity I returned to the hatch in time to see someone leaving.  I then, did not hesitate to  follow.
Upon hitting the air my flying  boots left me and I then tried  to find the rip chord  on my parachute.  I couldn’t find the  ring for what seemed like another
eternity. Eventually I hooked the ring, otherwise I would  not be here.”

Note:  Even today, Oct. 2, 2019, I can remember reading Eric Mallett’s letter.  Rivetting.  I could hardly believe I  had set an event like  this in
motion back 1984.   I had an idea that this  was  the end of the story so I read  slowly  and  re-read even slower.   But the story of the  Last Flight
of  HX 313 was really just beginning.  Read on!

“Drifting down through the nigh sky, I could see the target with the bombs landing, exploding and  setting fire to the buildings.  I thought for a moment or two
that I was going to land right on it.  The next thing I recall was seeing the ground  come up to me and then  ‘Boom!’…everything was silent.  When I came
to, I found myself right beside  a barbed wire fence.  Remembered my previous training and buried my parachute.  It required much effort.

“It is almost  impossible to describe the feeling that overcame me.  Since that day nothing has ever scored me as all I have do is recall in my
mind this dreadful night and the terrible feeling that I had.”

“I spent the rest  of the night sitting in a cornfield taking off my rings and rank markings as well as looking at my purse and pandora.  The escape kit
contained Horlicks tablets, benzedrine, German, Belgian And French currency.  When daylight came I discovered that I  was close  to a small village.
I knew that i  must get some help as I had a badly cut finger and no footwear.  I waited and  waited to  see what  sort of  traffic was entering or leaving the village.
There seemed  to be none other than that of  someone  tying up a  goat close to  where  I  was  hiding, for  quite  long time I wondered what the tinkling of
the goat’s bell  was.”

“Alan,  I  am going  to sign  off for now for this  is  only the beginning of a long, long story.  Enclosed you will find  your map with the location of the attack. Also 
you will find pictures of my crew, and one of  the Blonde Bomber.   We  were not allowed to take any pictures of our aircraft for security reasons, as  you can
well understand.    Also included is a  picture  of Hank  and Vic  Poppa engaged in a  little horseplay outside of our flight room.   Vic Poppa  and Ken  Sweatman
would be very pleased to hear from you if  would  care to write them.”

Kikndest  Regards
Eric  L. Mallett

Note from 2019:  Wow!  What a letter.  More to come. Eric  Mallett included the addresses of two other survivors.   The story was growing and growing.   It could  so  easily have  been  
lost.  What followed was almost a  year of contacts back  and forth and even  a visit with Victor Poppa in Cslifornia topped  off by him travelling to Toronto in a ramshackle truck
and trailer filled with spare used tires.  Victor’s  story eventually took  over.  Hank’s best friend.   Could  I put their life experiences  back together?   Pictures  are a bit of
a problem  for me  in 2019.  They are here among my books and records but it will take time to find them.   My  priority is  to get the written account transcribed to digital.



Note from 2019:  This is the  living quarters at airbase Skipton on Swale in 1944, a series of  Quonset buildings with rounded roofs.  The ruined  brick  building
was the  operations centre, picture taken about 1984 when the airbase had  been converted to a chicken farm after  the tarmac landing strip had  been
ripped up.


TO BE CONTINUED … TRANSCRIBING MY 1984 STORY NOW IN 2019…HOPE YOU ENJOY IT