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When Don Winterford died last year I lost one of my closest friends.
We first met in July 1944 in the North Compound of Stalag Luft 3, Sagan, in German occupied Poland.
I remember him so well.
Physically Don did not change one bit in the years I knew him. He was always thin and this made
him look taller than he was. We had arrived at the Camp within a few days of one another and as
newcomers we had much in common. Some of our time was spent “bashing the circuit” as we
called it, walking round and round the perimeter of the campsite. During our walks I learned the
story of Don’s RAF career to date.
Trained as an engineer in civilian life, he joined the RAF as an aircraft mechanic in 1942. Soon
after he qualified he volunteered for training as a Flight Engineer and was accepted. After
training he eventually began operations as Flight Engineer on a Lancaster Squadron.
About halfway through his operational tour while on a bombing mission attacking railway marshalling yards
near Brussels, a night fighter shot them up. The Lancaster went out of control and the crew were
ordered to bale out. The pilot did not get out but Don and two others baled out successfully.
It was a pitch-black night with no moon. Don remembered how, after a struggle in an aircraft
corkscrewing down with a fire in the mid-section, he managed to find the exit hatch and throw himself free.
Having no idea of height above the ground, he pulled the ripcord on his parachute almost immediately on
leaving the aircraft. He recalled that he did not seem to be falling for more than a few minutes
when, without warning, he hit the ground hard. Tumbling over down a slope he clambered to his
feet and having released the parachute harness walked a few yards in the black night. He tripped
over something solid and groping down, his hands touched cold metal. He was standing in the middle
of a railway track. The slope he had fallen down was a railway embankment.
Dragging his ‘chute behind him – he did not know quite why he did so – he clambered back up and with his
bundled ‘chute under his arm he began to grope his way across the field at the top. Suddenly, a
blinding light shone into his eyes and a voice shouted a command; he had run into a German army patrol.
Dropping the parachute, he raised his arms. Instantly, as if he had made a threatening move, a
shot rang out and a bullet from a German soldier’s rifle struck him on the right side of his chest, just
clipping his collar-bone. Being at such a short range the bullet went straight through, leaving a
rather ugly wound on the way out. He lost consciousness and fell to the ground.
It seemed that the Germans believed him to be dead because some time later – Don had no idea for how long –
he regained consciousness and found himself to be alone. He struggled to his feet, staggered into
the darkness falling over obstacles before he found himself on a path. A few minutes later as he
made his way down the track once again a bright light shone onto his face; it was another Wehrmacht patrol.
He must have presented a very sorry sight and, thankfully, the members of this patrol far from
wanting to kill him made every effort to aid him. A ladder or hurdle was improvised as a stretcher
and they took him to their base. Once there an Ambulance was arranged to take him to a hospital
in Brussels.
From this point on, his luck seemed to change for a very caring Belgian doctor and a team of nurses, in time,
bought him back to health. His right lung, which had been damaged by the bullet, healed and was
finally able to function again. A combination of care, first-class nursing and good food restored
him to working order. Once he was declared fit again, he was handed over by the hospital to the
German Luftwaffe and following a very cursory interrogation was sent to Sagan where we first met.
Don was naturally interested to learn how I had become a POW and I was able to tell him of the kind of
photo/reconnaissance operations I had been doing as a member of II (AC) Sqn and related accounts of flying
the P.51 Mustang; he was most envious. He told me that just prior to being shot down he had
applied to retrain as a pilot.
“I promise you, Ivor”, I remember him saying, “when we get home and if I train as a pilot I am
going to get myself posted to II (AC) Sqn”. At that stage it didn’t seem very likely.
At Sagan we spent a lot of time together. We told one another much about our lives, our families
and many personal things including an exchange of home addresses and telephone numbers.
When the crunch came at the camp in January 1945, we were ordered by the Germans to evacuate at about two
hours notice. Don and I became separated and were not together during the ensuing march.
We both experience much before freedom and repatriation back to England came about but a few weeks after our
return I had a call from Don and as a result he came to my home. I remember how my Mother liked
him as soon as they met.
It must have been another three years before we next met. I was attending a Squadron Reunion in
London and when I walked in it was to be greeted by Flight Lieutenant Don Winterford wearing his Pilot’s
wings. He had made good his word to become a pilot on II (AC) Squadron. That was our
own very personal reunion.
We met several times after that momentous occasion but at long intervals and mostly at II (AC) Sqn reunions.
I was with him just a few days before he died in Chichester Hospital. He was unfailingly cheerful
up to the end. I miss him!
Dated - July 2008
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