On August 16th 1942 we took off on a daylight cross-country flight. In the bomb-aimer’s position was a New Zealander called Dave Pullinger. Ron Easom was the pilot and the flight engineer was Jack Fletcher. This was his familiarisation flight in a Lancaster. I was wireless operator and in the mid-upper turret was a ground wireless operator who was with us just for the ride. Len Berrigan, a Canadian gunner, occupied the rear turret.

After a four hour flight, we were preparing to land when, as we began our approach to the airfield, we had an engine fire in the starboard inner. Easom told Fletcher to press the fire extinguisher button and feather the propellor, but in a panic he feathered the starboard outer prop. By this time we were in the funnel with the undercarriage down and some flap already applied; we stalled and went into a yaw.

I was looking out of the window and saw a church spire alongside us. I was sure that this was curtains for us all and yet it seemed an age before the final impact. We crashed onto pig sties in the village of Branston, about two miles to the east of Waddington. The aircraft broke in two, just after the main spar, and was instantly engulfed in flames. I had braced myself for the impact but the wireless transmitter broke from its mounting and hit me in the chest and upper abdomen. I remember being dragged from the plane by someone, at the time I didn’t know who, and being carried away from the wreckage, to be laid on the grass by some nearby cottages.

The rescuers were able to save all except Pullinger in the nose of the plane and Fletcher who had been catapulted against the instrument panel and then down into the nose. I was consciously aware of the two men who pulled the others free but could only look on helplessly. The fuel tanks had ruptured and blazing petrol was all around the wreckage. Some pigs were trapped under the wings; they were being roasted alive and their squeals were horrifying to hear. Ammunition was exploding all around. From one of the cottages emerged a little old lady bearing a tray full of refreshments. Her words on nearing me were “You’ll be ready for a cup of tea, luv.” Nothing that was happening in the inferno around us seemed to faze her and she continued to dispense tea to those who had been rescued. In those days, priority first aid treatment was a cup of sweet tea and a Woodbine!

The two men who had rescued us were a local farmer called Dick Taylor and a local butcher called Fred Kirk. With complete disregard for their own safety they had struggled to free us from a plane that was likely to have exploded at any moment.

Frank Walshaw