Tag Archives: Richard Pape

Excerpt from “Sequel to Boldness” by Richard Pape ~~Germans~~

picture-sequeltoboldness-papeThe screech of cart wheels broke my reverie and a middle-aged German farming type trundled forward with a load of mangels.
“Good day,” he called heartily.
I studied him sullenly, my mind moved automatically – “Ignorant, bloody savage,” I murmured. I observed him, sceptically, unsmilingly. He returned my look, staring with hard, grey eyes. He stopped the cart and, notwithstanding my unfriendly attitude, climbed to the ground.
“Nice day, ja?” He pointed to my rakish, shiny aluminium car. “Italian ?” he said.
“British,” I snapped.
Ach, so, schön, ja? You Englander?” he queried.
Ja.”
He asked me if I knew the district.
“Yes,” and my voice was tinged with sarcasm. “I was over there when it was one of your Gestapo, Nazi, Hitler, Luftwaffe bloody prisons.”
His face stiffened, he did not reply immediately; when he did he spoke gravely.
“It was Dulag Luft, I remember it all well.” He shook his head sadly. “You hate us Germans, don’t you?”
“I’ve come back to find out,” I acknowledged rudely.
I stood up; I didn’t want to be harassed. The man proffered his cigarette packet.
Nein!” I snapped.
He seemed nervous, but made no move to depart and, fumbling in his knapsack, withdrew a bottle of beer.
“Will you drink with me as a comrade now?” he said hesitantly.
Nein.”
The man was embarrassed and blew his nose. He stretched out his hand and withdrew it hastily. As I moved to my car he spoke huskily, quickly.
“I’m glad we lost the war.”
I turned and looked him full in the face. His bewilderment seemed honest.
“What makes you say that?” thinking to myself: “Ah, ah, usual unblemished line of innocency.”
He said slowly: “When Britain and America came into Germany, we also got our freedom as well as the men who went through the camp over there.”
“Don’t you hate the British and Americans?” I asked tersely.
“No, not now,” he said quietly. “My mother and aunt were killed in an air-raid. . . .”
“Bad luck,” I replied.
“Their worries are over,” he continued, then, he shook his head. “But my son was blinded on the Russian front; he’s also lost an arm.”
I eyed him doubtfully; was he trying to gain my confidence and sympathy?
“Where is he now?”
“At home from the Blind School. Come back with me and have some food with us?”
“All right.” I acquiesced, suddenly and involuntarily.
We chatted a little longer, and the weather-beaten German, with an intelligent, puckered face, remarked: “If you can forgive, but not forget, you’ve never forgiven.”
Turning to the German, I said with painful enthusiasm: “Let’s drink that beer.”
I met the unfortunate former enemy soldier, totally blind. It was an encounter I had not bargained for. He was very intelligent and from the questions I asked, seemed happy.
“The futility and stupidity of the last war, the régime of Hitler’s ruthlessness must be forgotten,” he said. “In the Blind School they tell us that if we do not look forward, we must look behind and fail.”

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Excerpt from “Boldness Be My Friend” by Richard Pape ~~Crash~~

picture-boldnessbemyfriend-papeAs the bomber began to fall, the skipper yelled over the whining, faltering intercom, ‘Jump, bale out!’ It was a ‘Now’ situation: individual action, no hesitation. No doubt the tail gunner swung his turret and was the first away. In the general flurry, I glimpsed the second-pilot, the wireless operator, the front-gunner rush past and descend to the bombing well to vanish into the night. Terry was struggling desperately to get the machine into some gliding angle. I was shocked then to see the kid, the mid-upper gunner, lurching beside my navigational table. He seemed concussed; clearly he could not look after himself. And Jock Moir was still there. He had been frantically working, shutting off all petrol flow, a vital task with crash-landing inevitable. It was too late now to jump. I rapped Terry on the shoulder. He turned, gazing almost unbelievably at three of us. It was then, as I flashed my torch, that I observed blood trickling from below his flying helmet; his face was ashen.
Adding my strength to Terry’s, heaving desperately on the control column, we brought the machine to a more horizontal position for a few minutes before the nose fell with a vicious lurch to a more acute angle. I recall a patch of water and hoping we might pancake . . . it went by. Then horrifyingly a church steeple. God! We’re going to die in church with our boots on! Uncannily, an updraught lifted us lazily over the roof and we carried on, the earth terrifyingly close. Dark blotches on the ground raced up to meet us. I braced myself for the big ‘dig-in’. Strangely I was no longer frightened. Thirty tons of bomber hit the ground at over 150mph, bounced back into the air, then down, up and down again, ploughed deeply across a small field: a blinding white flash, vicious lurch, hideous grinding of metal . . . then silence.
I long believed we ended up facing towards home. Not so. We had done three complete turns; first about a small village, then around a farmhouse, just missing it as we began our bucking crashes; at the last, a wing struck an oak tree standing splendidly alone in a small open field – a stout anchor, it spun us about and settled us alongside its splintered trunk with a final grinding thud. That blessed oak may have been our salvation. We were down.

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