I arrived at 102 Squadron, Topcliffe, one evening in August 1940, feeling very new and shy, and rather wondering what sort of people I should meet and how they would treat a new boy like myself. The only operational crews I had seen was when an odd crew had landed at Abingdon on their way home after a raid. These people had always been dressed in flying boots and were wearing no collars or ties, but had silk scarves knotted round their necks, and they were usually unshaven and with unbrushed hair. I had looked on them as some sort of gods and wondered whether one day I, too, should be privileged to walk about and look as they did. These were the people I should be meeting now and with whom I should have to live. Somehow they did not seem to me to be ordinary normal people, but people either with charmed lives or else lives that would soon not be theirs... and I thought this would surely be visible in either their appearance or behaviour.

I was quite surprised to find that the Officers' Mess was very similar to the one I had just left. I arrived after supper, and found my way to the ante-room, where the wireless was on, apparently unnoticed by anyone in the room. There were some people lolling in deep black leather arm-chairs, reading; one or two were asleep. There was a group standing round the empty fireplace with pint beer-tankards in their hands. Some were writing letters, and four were playing cards at a table in the middle of the room. Everyone there looked perfectly normal; in fact, the whole scene, as I surveyed it, was just the same as could be seen in the ante-room of the bless I had just left, or, indeed, in any other Mess. One or two people I noticed were wearing the ribbon of the D.F.C. These people I stared at, probably too long, as one stares at celebrities or personalities of importance, hoping to read the signs of some of their experiences written in their faces. But they, too, looked perfectly ordinary and completely unconscious and oblivious of their distinction. Those talking to them did not seem to be treating them with any particular respect or showing them any deference, but were conversing with them as they might with any ordinary being.

I wandered out of the Mess feeling that perhaps life would not be so different, after all.

I went in search of the duty batman, and was told that the Mess was very full at the moment and that I would have to share a room. I was taken to my room - or, rather, part share of the room - and found the other occupant already in bed and asleep. This other occupant, whom I was later to know as Leonard, was lying absolutely still and silent and fast asleep. I have very rarely known Leonard to go to bed at the average person's time, but either very early or excessively late. At whichever time he went he would sleep until he was awakened, and then get up perfectly fresh.

He had scattered his clothes all over the place: some were on my bed, some were on his bed, and some were on the floor. Also on my bed there was an open suit-case, two tennis racquets, a squash racquet, and his towel. I removed the articles from my bed to the floor, making as little noise as I could, although I need not have been so cautious as nothing other than a vigorous shaking will awaken Leonard once he is asleep. I looked at his tunic, thrown carelessly over the back of a chair, to see if I could gain some clue as to the identity of this unknown person. I saw he was a pilot-officer, like myself; also that he was a pilot. I also-noticed that he had no gong up, and thought therefore that he, too, might be a new-comer. I could not see much of the sleeper, as only the top of his head, showing brown untidy hair, was visible above the bedclothes.

I went to bed wondering what my new companion and this new life would be like.

God, what a mess! The fuselage door had gone, and most of one side of the fuselage as well. Desmond was there, working like a maniac, with his blond hair shining in the light of the flames, and his eyes sparkling like brilliants: sweat was pouring from his face, and he was hurling flares, incendiaries and spare ammunition out of the gaping fuselage. I started to do the same... and he shouted at me to go back and get my parachute, as the aeroplane would probably break in two at any moment....

The wind and slipstream was whistling through the fuselage and tore at my clothing ... Leonard was sitting at the controls, and turned round and smiled as I entered the cabin. Davy was sitting by his set fumbling with his morse key: his face was charred and black, and his clothing all burned...

Desmond had fetched the first-aid kit and covered Davy's face with the jelly used for burns. It was bitterly cold in the cabin, and for the next five hours we did all we could for Davy's comfort: I kept putting his fingers in my mouth and breathing hard on them to try and get them warm...

With the five of us crammed in the cabin of the Whitley, hardly ever speaking, and wondering how far we should get. Leonard was sitting at the controls; he had taken his helmet off, but was still wearing his yellow skull cap, which looked grotesque in the half-light. Taffy was sitting at the navigation table grinning to himself most of the time... Desmond, looking like a wild blond giant, was part of the time sitting beside Leonard and part of the time looking at Davy.

The explosion kicked my mind back a quarter of a century. Down. Down. We're going down. I can feel the rush of air. We are going so very fast - 200, 300, 400 miles an hour. I don't know, but who on earth would? Alice in Wonderland didn't, did she? She only knew she was going down. Why do my eyes hurt so much? God, I can't see! Everything is black, black as a rook. No, raven, of course. Yes, raven, not rook. I must be blind. I've always wanted to know what it's like to be blind, and now I know. The funny thing is that it doesn't really seem any different, except merely that I can't see: there must be more to it than that. I suppose it's just that I've not got used to it yet. No! Good lord, how stupid I am! I'm not blind at all! It's that terrible flash. Yes, I'm beginning to remember now. Just in front of me. A terrible bright yellow flash. It seemed to split my eyes right open, right round to the back of my head. Yes, a bright flash like that blinds you for a bit, but after a few minutes you can see again. Minutes? Or should it be seconds? I don't know. I can't seem to be able to work anything out properly: probably I'm getting tired. No, it must be minutes, because it's so long ago since it all happened. Like coming out of a lighted room into the dark.

And the noise. Yes, what a noise! It felt as though it broke every bone in my body. But I don't think it can have; I feel more or less all right. A bit peculiar, that's all. What is it? I know, I feel sick. More at heart than anything, but it's in my stomach. We've got to jump. Jump? Yes, jump. I've never jumped in my life. I've often wanted to, but I never have. Now I've got to. It's not quite the same, though. If I was going to jump, I wanted to do it in my own good time, not in Jerry's time. I've often thought about this moment, and wondered whether it would be possible to do everything in time. Unplug yourself, wind the trimmer-tab back, climb out of the seat, down into the well, and get your parachute.

God knows where my parachute is now. I hurled it somewhere in the nose when I got in, but I haven't seen it since. There were one or two there some time ago, but goodness only knows if any of them were mine. Yes, I've thought about all that from time to time, but I've always said, "Oh, well, you won't think anything to it, because if the situation arises where you've got to jump, you'll be so bloody glad to get out you won't give a damn about anything else," but now I know how foolish I was. The thought of jumping is worse than anything. I'd rather stay here and hope for the best....

It's getting worse, though - much worse. My eyes are smarting too. What a foul smell! Bitter, like that day in the shelter when they bombed the aerodrome. If it goes on much longer I won't be able to breathe. I need a towel soaked in water. "Desmond get me a towel." No, of course, Desmond isn't there. I wonder what's happened to him. Oxygen mask! That's the thing: oxygen mask. Where is it? Hanging from my neck somewhere, but where? Good, I've got it. Quick, man, quick, before it's too late. No, not too quick. Something about cooks and spoiling the broth. No, it's not that. More haste, less speed. Hold your breath: that's the way. Now find the press stud. Take your gloves off: you can't clip it on while you're wearing gloves. That's got it. Oh, God, what a blessed relief! What a blessed relief! I shall never go without my gas mask again!

"Have you dropped the bombs yet?"

Nobody seems to answer. Funny, that; surely there must be someone there. Desmond wouldn't have gone off without saying cheerio. No, I'm wrong; somebody's speaking. What's he saying? I can't quite make it out. Yes, I can.

"I've been hit. I've been hit." I wonder who it is. I can't recognize the voice and he doesn't say his name. It must be coming from the front, not the back. Something awful has happened at the back. I don't quite know what, but most of the explosion seemed to come from behind. First of all it was in front, that terrible bright flash. And then almost immediately afterwards a much bigger explosion from behind my back. There can't possibly be anyone left alive there: so it must be coming from the nose. What shall I say? I can't think of anything. It doesn't really matter much: not at the moment. We've got to stop going down first. What an awful thing to think - that it doesn't matter much. But I can't help it. There's nothing I can do anyway, and, whether I like it or not, I did think it. I suppose the answer is that when you're in a spot you think of yourself first.

The smoke cleared, and like a ray of sunshine my eyesight came back. I blinked once or twice, perhaps; I don't know. Anyway, I could see quite well. I looked at the altimeter: 5,000 feet. Plenty of height, much more than I would have thought possible. Somehow we seemed to have been diving for ages and ages, and we were still diving now. The instruments were all haywire; they did not make sense however you looked at them. They must have been shot away behind the panel. Awkward. But when we levelled out and ceased diving they began slowly to come back to normal, so probably they were intact after all. I rubbed my forehead between my eyes, and started to take stock of the damage. First of all, the engines and the wings. Perhaps a few pieces of twisted burned metal: not more. They must have borne the brunt of the explosion. I looked out, and, like the man who saw the table slide slowly of its own accord across the floor, sat frozen to my seat. They were running; both of them. Running as they've always run before. Two long protruding noses, almost Jewish, and a defiant roar. My ears became suddenly unblocked, and into them poured the music of this defiant roar. Why was it I hadn't heard it before? And how, oh how could I doubt their trust? Perhaps for a while I had lost possession of my senses.

Something was stirring. I looked up and saw there was a figure standing in the well, staring at me. The lights had fused. In the half darkness of the moon it was a grotesque figure, leaning drunkenly on an enormous pair of arms, and a pair of wide, gaping eyes, and face and shoulders streaming with blood. Who or what it was, God only knows. I didn't. I tried to work things out, but somehow had to give up. The only association I could make was with the voice that said: "I've been hit. I've been hit." And all the time we were staring into each other's eyes. Suddenly he looked away, down the fuselage, and uttered a strangled cry:

"Fire! The tank's on fire!"

"Well, put it out then."

At last, thank God, I regained my senses. I don't think the figure in the well heard what I said: before I had finished speaking he had disappeared on his hands and knees down the fuselage, where the petrol tank was. And then for a long while I was left in solitude.

We were flying straight and level, at least more or less so, but something, somewhere, was radically wrong. The aircraft was wallowing and flopping around like a small boat on a gentle swell, and the controls felt as though they had come unstuck. I looked at the engines with a song in my heart, and then back at the instruments. It was incredible, but nowhere on any of the gauges was there a sign of trouble. I could hardly believe my eyes. The compass, I noticed, was steady; so were the rest of the flying instruments. They couldn't have been damaged, then, after all. I set about synchronizing the gyro with the compass, for it was hopelessly out, and only then did I realize the truth. What a fool! What an incredible, bloody fool! We were flying due east, back into Germany, and down an eighty-mile-an-hour wind at that! Of all the times to forget an elementary principle! Without thinking what I was doing, I pulled the stick hard over, and again I cursed myself for being a fool. The port wing dropped, the nose reared up, and only just in time I stopped her spinning. From then on I treated the controls as though they were made of putty, and it was three minutes before we were back on a westerly course.

The thought of what I had done made me sweat, and that was comforting, because if I was capable of sweat there could not be overmuch wrong. But this comfort did not last long, and the smile came off my face. I began to notice the sweat was all on my back and not my front. What's more, my back was getting hotter and hotter all the time. By this time I was prepared to believe anything, but this was definitely not normal. I screwed my head round, and what I saw forced a quiet, unwanted curse from my lips. Thick, black, oily smoke, pouring out from beneath the petrol tank, and in the background red gashes of fire.

I did not stay looking long, for on the port and ahead of us a barrage of shells came up. They were bursting in bunches of twenty or thirty, like that Saturday over the Ruhr, only this time they seemed to make more noise, because the hatch above my head was missing and all around the perspex was torn. Instinctively I started to take evasive action, but remembered just in time. If only I knew what was wrong with the controls it would make it easier. It felt as though the cables were hanging on by a thread, but I could not be certain. Anyway, it was better to take the shells than settle everything by pulling the controls off. So I flew straight and level. A searchlight picked us up, then a lot more, and almost immediately a rattle of splinters came through the fuselage somewhere behind me. I switched on the microphone and started speaking, but no one answered. The heat seemed no worse, but I did not look round any more. Somehow, I could not take my eyes off the shells. On the floor beside me was a parachute. It was not mine. In the nose there were two others, and there was no one except me this side of the petrol tank. What if they could not put the fire out? They would never get past the tank again. I found I was clutching the control column like a drowning man at a straw, and cursed myself. Tried to fix my mind on things that mattered, but it was elusive. I could not hold it down. Curious visions again. Damn them: it's as bad as being drunk. A grotesque figure in the well. Who on earth was it? I'm sure it can't have been the voice that said "I've been hit," because the intercom in the front was U.S. Good lord, he's come back! I'll fix him this time. In fact I'll ask him straight who he is. I looked up at his face, but I did not have to ask him his name.

"Hello, Desmond. Where you been hiding?"

"Can you keep her in the air?"

"What do you think?"

"That's all I wanted to know."

"What about the fire?"

"If you can keep her going another five minutes, we'll have it under control."

They were long, those five minutes, very long, but they got the fire out. Taffy was the first to come back: bleeding and glistening, but grinning all over his face.

"What's the verdict?"

But all he did was roar with laughter. Infectious. I roared with laughter too, and felt better: much better.

"What about the bombs? Have we still got them?"

"Certainly."

"Well, we'd better go find Cologne."

Taffy looked back over my shoulder, shouted out "Jesus!" and dashed off down the fuselage. What he went to do I don't know. I only know there was, for a while, a confusion of cries and noise and violent movement, and then Taffy came back and disappeared into the front turret. The shells were still as fierce as ever, but now that there had been diversion it was not quite so bad. Someone flopped down beside me. I looked up. He was squatting on the step, his head down below his knees and his arms covering his face. I leant across and pulled him gently back. Pray God I may never see such a sight again. Instead of a face, a black, crusted mask streaked with blood, and instead of eyes, two vivid, scarlet pools.

"I'm going blind, sir: I'm going blind!"

I didn't say anything: I could not have if I had wanted to. He was still speaking, but too softly for me to hear what it was. I leaned right across so as better to hear. The plane gave a lurch, and I fell almost on top of him. He cried out and once more buried his face below his knees. Because I could not stand it, I sat forward over the instruments and tried to think of something else, but it was not much good. Then suddenly he struggled to his knees and said:

"I haven't let you down, have I, sir? I haven't let you down, have I? I must get back to the wireless. I've got to get back. You want a fix, don't you, sir? Will you put the light on, please, so that I can see?"

So it was Davy. Davy: his very first trip. Someone came forward and very gently picked him up. Then came Desmond. He sat down beside me and held out his hand. I took it in both of mine and looked deep into his smiling blue eyes.

"Everything's under control."

"God bless you, Desmond." Never have I said anything with such feeling. "What about Davy? Is he going to die?"

`He's O.K. Revs is looking after him."

"Thank God. Tell me the worst. What's the damage?"

"Pretty bad."

"Will she hold?"

"I don't know. About evens I should say. The whole of the port fuselage is torn: there's only the starboard holding."

As we climbed, the ground appeared darker and the colours faded. The light up where we were was brighter, which, by contrast, made the ground appear darker than it really was; but my job was not to watch the ground: enemy fighters have been known to lurk over the aerodrome and wait for the unwary crew.

A few months previous to this we lost an aeroplane and crew this way. They had taken off and climbed to about five hundred feet, when a Jerry fighter attacked them from the beam. The first the crew knew was that tracer bullets were hitting them in the fuselage and wing. One engine was hit and caught fire, and the aeroplane crashed in flames about a mile from the aerodrome. The only man saved was the captain, a boy of twenty. I met him a year later at a dance, and his nerve was still gone; although he was flying as an instructor he told me he did not feel equal to flying on operations again for some time.

It is pitiful to see a boy's nerve broken. Anyone whose nerve has gone goes through hell at times, and the cause of their breaking comes before them more vividly than at the actual time. The shock at the time of an accident is usually felt afterwards, and is not necessarily noticed at the time, but at the recurring memory when the imagination has had free time to work, the mind goes through all the mental torture that the imagination can conjure. Physical pain is quickly forgotten; but mental anguish brews and returns until it is almost stifling. A boy's mind should be free and gay, and should not know these horrors, but the mind of a boy who has tasted war is no longer young, but has outgrown his body.

Up here we were five men working together and for each other, and we were all working for the same purpose: to reach Cologne, identify and bomb our target-doing as much damage as possible-and reach home safely. Our lives depended on each other, and each one of us was indispensable. The captain's job was to fly the aeroplane to Cologne and back and make a safe landing, avoiding flak and searchlights as best he could. The navigator's job was to tell him what course to fly, and to do this he had to calculate and check. Winds are his chief problem: he has to know the exact strength and direction of the wind at whatever direction he is flying. The wireless operator's job is to keep a listening watch at his set: he may be required to send out messages, or to help the navigator by getting loop bearings or fixes, but the majority of his time is spent listening. The second pilot sits next to the captain ... and usually just sits! If the visibility is good he will probably map-read. He may fly part of the way. He is there to learn, and will be watching and noting all that goes on. My job is to keep a continual look-out for enemy fighters; to report on the movements of searchlights and positions of flak bursts; and to act generally as the driving mirror for the pilot.

Andy said we were getting very low in petrol, and unless Bill was wrong about the wind we would probably have to Come down on the sea. We had enough petrol for another twenty minutes' flying... and about eighty more miles of sea to cross. There was nothing that he could do, except go on flying and fly as economically as he could: it was a question of getting as near to our own coast as we could before coming down.

I don't think we quite realized our predicament even then. We had been flying for about nine and a half hours and a lot had happened in that time - and we were still far from being out of the wood.

The fires would still be burning in Cologne, where there would be a lot of suffering and misery. That is what we had intended. Our target had been a large factory, and a lot of night-shift workers would have been working there: there would be people dead or dying, there would be people burned there. Some might be alive... living with broken bones, unable to move, and with crushed and mangled bodies pressed against them... with nothing but the stink of rubble and putrefying flesh for company. There would be people with arms and legs blown off... and people with their stomachs blown open... and people with half their faces blown away. They might have to wait hours or even days until they were found; unable to help themselves and wishing they could die... yet afraid to die. Some would be badly burnt and would die: others would not die, but would be crippled and scarred always. All these things I had seen when our own aerodrome was bombed.
While all this was going on we were flying away from the havoc we had caused, and would soon be near death ourselves. We were near death now, but how near we could not know. We might, or might not, make a safe landing ... and even if we did, we might, or might not, be rescued. We would do all we could, the rest was in the hands of God. Every second we were getting nearer home; and the nearer home we got, the greater were our chances of being saved. We had no wireless, so could not send out an S 0 S.

Had any of our Radio Direction Finding stations picked us up? And were we being plotted yet? Upon this depended largely our chances of being rescued. If we were being plotted we definitely had a chance: if not, we had practically no chance at all. Still, there was nothing more we could do except wait : we were still flying and we were still alive!
I had a definite and active job to perform now, as Andy had put me in charge of the dinghy party. My first job was to hack away the fuselage door.

The fuselage light was on, and I could see what I was doing quite easily. There was not much room to use the axe and, hampered as I was by the confined space and all my clothing, I soon began to sweat and labour. Yet all the time I felt a sort of satisfaction in chopping with the axe: I felt as a child might feel who had been told he could break his toys instead of being told he was not allowed to! The door came away quite suddenly and was whisked away by the slipstream... and I nearly went with it!

My next job was to see that the dinghy was ready for launching, and I wished I had taken more interest in dinghy drill! The dinghy was on the fuselage floor just aft of the door, and there was a long cord leading from it and i led to the fuselage. I made certain that this cord was firmly attached; as it not only acted as the rip-cord for inflating the dinghy, but was also the only means of securing the dinghy to the aircraft.

I called through to Andy to tell him that all was ready at our end and he replied that he could carry on for a bit yet. I leaned out of the doorway as far as I dared, and had a look below. The sea was rough, devilish rough : I could see the waves breaking over each other in the darkness. There must have been a hell of a wind blowing.

Suddenly I saw a light, and called through to Andy to tell him, but he had seen it too, and was turning round to investigate. It was quite bright, and was on the water, but what it was or where it came from I had no idea: whether it was on a ship, lightship, buoy, or what. Arthur suggested dropping a flare, and Andy agreed... but we were not high enough for the flare to be of much use, as it touched the sea almost as soon as it ignited, and went out. Arthur launched one after the other, but all with the same result : they lit up for a second and showed the sea in all its fury-but no sign of the light or from whence it came. As soon as the flare hit the sea it smouldered, and I could imagine the sizzling sound it would make... and then darkness. The light was still there, and Andy decided to come down as close to it as he could.

Bill gave me the Verey pistol and some cartridges, which I put inside my flying suit, and he, Arthur, and Martin did the same with the other cartridges. We now took up our positions ready for the crash-landing.

Martin and I were lying on the floor right by the open doorway, with our feet braced against what we call the step, which is a raised part of the fuselage about two feet high and just forward of the door. The other two were sitting on the step with their feet by our feet: they had their backs towards the front, and we had our feet towards the front ... and we were all hanging on to ropes slung from the roof.

We were coming down now, and hanging on for all we were worth. Andy throttled back and we braced ourselves even harder: he must have held off too soon, as he opened up again and then throttled back in a few seconds.

There was a terrific crash, and the lights went out. We were hurled forward and drenched with icy water, and completely blinded by the darkness, which was intensified by the sudden change from the light. We struggled to our feet with the water above our knees and the waves crashing against us through the doorway.

I groped for the dinghy and hurled it through the opening. I was holding on to the rip-cord and could feel the dinghy inflate... and I was surprised at the speed with which it did so. I heard someone shout - "Quickly, sir!".... and felt the drag of the dinghy against the rope in my hand as I hauled it towards the aircraft.

The rope suddenly became slack. It had broken! I hurled myself into the sea and felt the dinghy with my hands. I did not notice the cold. The dinghy was being hurled and tossed about like a cork... and I, too, with it, as I was washed across it.

Arthur and Martin were there, too; I think I pulled them on top, but Bill was still in the water, and I had hold of him by the arm. God! what a weight he was! I was kneeling and hauling on Bill as hard as I could, and shouting to the others to help: Arthur half gasped and half shouted back that he could not, as I was kneeling on top of him. So I was ! Poor old Arthur. He struggled from underneath me and got a hold on Bill, who was a dead weight and nearly drowned. Martin had hold of his other arm, and I had hold of his clothing round his shoulders. He was kicking with his legs and imploring us to pull him with us.

We had to get him aboard: that was all I could say or think. We must not lose him... we could not leave him. He was a living body: we were alive... and he must live, too! The waves were breaking over us furiously, and we were being hurled about unmercifully, but still we kept our grip on Bill, and still we hauled. I was using all my strength, and was hopelessly out of breath. Several times we had him nearly with us, and each time a wave hit us and we fell sprawling and almost into the sea, but still we kept our hold. Arthur, Martin and I on the dinghy, and Bill in the water... and Bill was drowning and we were getting weaker. O God ... give us strength!

The waves had washed us on board, so why should they not do the same for Bill? We began to wait for the waves, and when Bill was lifted so we pulled... and at last-and after how long I have no idea - we had him with us! Bill lay gasping and grinning on the dinghy with us!

There were four of us huddled together and hurled about... but there should have been five. I think Arthur was the first to voice our thoughts, but up to now all our energies had been on Bill: we had him in our hands, and by our efforts we saved him. But Andy... Andy was not with us.

We could now see better, and we saw him. He was fifty yards away, standing on the fuselage of the sinking aeroplane - the aeroplane in which he had saved us - and we could not save him. There he was alone and waiting. We saw him when we rose with the waves... and lost him when we went down with them. All the time we were getting farther away ... and all the time his aeroplane was sinking.

What could we do? The answer was, nothing... absolutely nothing! We could only watch and thank God for our own lives: we had no paddles, and no one could swim in a sea with waves higher than a house. We did not know if Andy had seen us. We shouted... but our shout was blown back at and behind us. I don't think he heard our shout, and I don't think lie had seen us.

We watched Andy. We watched him disappear with his aeroplane ... and were silent.

There were four of us, and we were alive. We were in a sorry plight, but we were alive! We were drenched and at the mercy of the fury of the waves, and the wind was howling against us... with the tops of the waves blown up into a spray and dashed against our faces. Our faces stung, our mouths were filled with water, and our eyes smarted from the salt. We were sitting round the edge of the dinghy with our feet in the middle. We realized by now that the dinghy was upside down... with all our comforts and provisions underneath and by this time washed away!

Again we saw an aeroplane approaching in the distance! There was no mistaking it this time, with that short fuselage
and twin rudders. It was a Hudson, flying about two hundred feet above the sea and about half a mile from us! I struggled frantically to fire the pistol... but my fingers were so cold and stiff and swollen as to be almost useless. Bill was helping, and at last we got it off... but too late, as the Hudson was well past us and went out of sight. I had even more difficulty in reloading the pistol . . . and while I was still trying the Hudson reappeared, this time on the other side of us. I tried my hardest to load the pistol while the others waved frantically - but in vain! The Hudson disappeared.

I remarked that if there was one there would probably be others. We felt better. The clouds were lifting, and the sun threw its rays horizontally across the sea and dazzled us: the lights sparkled and danced on the broken surface of the sea that shone as brightly as the sun. The wind was still tearing at us, and the waves were still soaking us . . . and we were shaking with the cold ... but we felt more cheerful with the light. I had never been so cold before. The others' faces were white and patched with blue, and I could see their teeth chattering: my own sounded like a roll of drums ! My legs were stiff and painful and my back ached: I would have given anything to have been able to lie down. I tried to change my position and move my legs, but found I could not. I picked up one and moved it a few inches: the joints hurt abominably when I moved them, but I could feel no sensation in my leg at all. The only one oblivious of our surroundings was Martin, who lay back and stared upwards at the sky... and I am sure without seeing the sky...

Probably they would. The sky was quite clear of clouds now, and the visibility was good. If only the wind would drop ! It did not give one a chance to get warm : it seemed to get right inside our clothing, and into our bodies.

Arthur had dropped forward with his head between his knees. I did not know if he were asleep or in some sort of coma, but I was glad. I hoped he would lose consciousness, and stay unconscious : if he had to go, I hoped he would not know the end.

Can you tell the moment of dying? If you are shot through the heart and die instantly, can you tell the instant of dying? Is dying like sleep?... oblivion? Do those who die in their sleep know any difference between their sleep and their moment of dying? Is there blackness for evermore?... or does your mind re-awake in a different body and different surroundings?... I began wondering these things. Should we know when we were dead? If we lost consciousness, would that be the end?... or should we know in our unconsciousness that we were dying?

Bill and I looked at each other, and each seemed to understand the other's thoughts: we seemed to gain strength from each other, too. We were still bailing water out, but very slowly, and we would continue to do so until our arms could no longer move...

The Blenheim did not see us. It was moving away now and had not seen us: it was still searching... but it was going away.... We watched it turning first one way and then another... but always away from us: we watched it going away, and we watched it until we could see it no longer. It had gone, and we were alone... and we felt more alone than before!

We continued to watch the sky when the Blenheim had gone... and we saw it reappear, still flying from side to side. It seemed to be making straight for us this time, and would surely pass overhead. It was getting very near now, and we waved our arms frantically. We shouted in our frenzy... as though the anguish of our shouts and minds must reach those men searching a few hundred feet away.

Ever nearer the Blenheim came, turning this way and that. Suddenly it turned and flew right around us, less than a hundred yards away. It had seen us!... and the crew were waving to us.

Can you imagine our joy? I don't think so... unless you have been facing death for nearly eight hours. We felt as a condemned man must feel who is reprieved on his way to the scaffold. I felt a surge of happiness such as I had never known before. Although our bodies were numb and stiff, our minds recovered instantly...

Every second brought them nearer... and all the while our joy was increasing. No longer were we four destitute airmen... but four lucky men whom God had decided to save, and who had lives to live.

The ships were not the destroyers we originally thought they might be, but they looked like some sort of trawler. We could just make out figures on the nearest one. They were closing towards us very rapidly, and our joy and excitement knew no bounds. We started waving to them, but could not see yet if they were waving back. As the leading ship came within hailing distance, one of the men in the bows called out:

"Is anyone hurt?"

Then almost immediately on our reply that we were all right:

"Have you been seasick?"

As they drifted slowly nearer, questions and replies were shouted across the water. If our joy had been great before now it was terrific. If only Andy had been with us, life would have been perfect....

Men were leaning over the side watching us, ready to help. One of them threw a rope across, which we managed to hold between us, and we were hauled alongside the trawler with our dinghy rubbing against its friendly hull. We were rising and falling with the swell... sometimes almost level with the deck, and at other times right down by the heel.

One of the sailors lowered himself down the rope ladder into the dinghy to help us in being hauled aboard : our legs were useless, and would not hold the weight of our bodies, so we could not climb the ladder, but by much pushing from below and pulling from above we were at last dragged aboard the ship and lay helpless on the deck.

We could only smile and thank our rescuers time and again. They put lighted cigarettes between our lips, gave us some neat whisky, and pulled off our flying clothing. They then helped us below into their cabin, where there was a roaring fire, and undressed us; we sat naked in front of the stove, absorbing the glorious heat, while the sailors raked out blankets, stockings, woollen pants and jerseys.

Then came news of Revs. At first it was more or less a rumour, but before long we heard the full story. A few nights ago he was flying with his Flight Commander: the weather was truly appalling, and over the target they were hit by an A.A. shell which put the compass out of action. The wind was very strong, about eighty miles an hour as it turned out, and the clouds were dense. Consequently they had little with which to navigate. After two and a half hours of worry and strain they saw the coast, more or less on E.T.A. Whereabouts it was they did not know, but before them was an aerodrome, lit up and in action. They circled it and decided to come in: the flarepath gave them a green, and they made their approach. The night was very dark, so they could see nothing but the flarepath lights, but Revs thought they looked somehow strange and unfamiliar. As they were holding off, only a few feet from the ground, the aerodrome control pilot gave them a red. They were already near the end of the flarepath, but by the skin of their teeth they cleared the boundary obstructions. At 700 feet, as they were coming round for the second approach, they looked down and saw that the aerodrome was on an island. There are no islands off the East Coast of England: it was Holland.

An hour and five minutes later, amid violent bumps and down-currents, they ran out of petrol. The wireless was out of action: they did not know where they were, nor did anyone else. They thought they were over sea; anyway, they gambled on that, and did not jump. Revs dashed out of his turret and collected the crew in the fuselage, ready to alight on the water. There was not much time; time enough to free the dinghy and brace themselves against the shock of hitting the sea: nothing else. The touch-down, as it happened, was as light as a feather, but almost immediately a mass of water swept through the door and the lights went out. In the sudden black-out they were hopelessly blinded and because of the waves they could hardly stand. Revs waded through to the dinghy and somehow managed to throw it out, but the cord snapped and the swell flung the dinghy out of sight. Revs wasted no time: dived out after it and scrambled on. The others followed him quickly, like rats out of a hole. Revs hauled Martin and Alf aboard in rapid succession and at the same time grabbed hold of Bill's hand. Bill could not swim a stroke: was drowning and asking for help. Martin passed out, face down in the dinghy and was useless from then on. Alf was face down too, but he was still conscious. The waves were gigantic, about ninety feet high, and the wind made a roar like the rending of linen. Bill's weight was too great to hold for long; each wave, as it came along, passed over the dinghy and drenched them all to the skin. Revs beat on Martin's head with all his strength to wake him up, and shrieked to Alf for help. Alf said: `I can't, you're kneeling on me,' and Revs realized suddenly that it was the truth. He moved, and Alf caught Bill's other hand. Between them, and after the very greatest difficulties, they dragged him on board. And that was not the end: he fell face down into the flooded dinghy and there was not room to pull him and Martin upright without falling out themselves. When at last everybody was righted, the aircraft was a long way behind them. They each knew what had been in the other's mind, and that was why not a word had been said; but it was better to save a man they already had hold of than to forsake him and go after a man they could not even see.

For a brief instant, as they were swept up on to the top of a wave, they had a fleeting vision of a Whitley silhouetted against the horizon, and, standing on its fuselage, their Flight Commander. And that was the end. Against the furied roar of the waves they drifted away towards the dawn. They did not know the Flight Commander's brother was not to return that night either.

The gale had been blowing for thirty-six hours and showed no signs of abating. The hope of being rescued was slight. It was midwinter; no one even knew they were in the sea, let alone their position: the dinghy was full of water, and in one place was torn. They plugged the hole with a handkerchief and used a cap to bale, but they needed all the energy they had to remain inside the dinghy, and baling was very difficult. Two hours later dawn broke. The navigator began beating his legs to bring them back to life and discovered the legs belonged to the rear gunner. One of the crew asked the time. When he heard it was only five past nine he pulled out a clasp-knife and tried to cut his throat.

But Revs stayed his hand and said:

"No, you're not. If you want to do yourself in, go ahead and throw yourself overboard, but you're not going to do anything inside this dinghy."

The man laughed, and for ever after remained sane. Two of them felt sea-sick, but forgot to do anything about it when they saw an aircraft flying towards them. They fired a Very cartridge, then another, and as the plane came overhead they saw it was a Heinkel III. Two more hours went by, and another aircraft approached. It was a Blenheim, and it too came right overhead, but, try as they might, none of them - was able to fire a cartridge. The pistol was loaded, Revs had his forefinger round the trigger, but that was as far as he could get, and the Blenheim disappeared from view.

As the hours went by and the fury of the waves continued unabated, a chilled silence slowly enveloped the dinghy. One by one each of the four men had bared his soul. One by one they had recounted the story of their lives; not the story that you or I recount to our sweethearts or in a sudden burst of confidence, but the story of their souls; the story of their petty hates and their jealousies and their prides: in other words, the one and only story in the world that they had thought would die with them, for ever untold. But now that this was over, now that each man had looked up to God and offered up, as it were, an apology for being human, there remained only memories, and silence. And with that apology went, as must be, the last vestige of hope. In its place the cold and the wet brought to each man something they had never known before, an overpowering, subconscious coma which left them careless of whether they were rescued or not.