I felt hot flames around my ears and saw burning petrol

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Craig Scott, of Makeney, has created a website to preserve the wartime diary of his late father David Scott, a Lancaster bomber flight engineer, who became a PoW in Nazi Germany. This is the first extract from the diary.

One of David Scott’s fellow crew members, Lt Gordon Groucher, sits on the nose of a Lancaster, probably at RAF Linton–on–Ouse, in Lincolnshire

It was July 28, 1944, and I was out at the dispersal point where our Lancaster II was berthed, when the armourers suddenly turned up with a bomb train. The word was “ops tonight”.

Two gunners were also out there with me, cleaning the Perspex and so we all headed back to the mess and a 5pm briefing which revealed that Hamburg was the target.

The only new thing was that we were to have an extra gunner, with a free-mounted gun sticking out of a hatch.

We kitted up and returned to the plane to find the armourer had already got the gun in position. The new gunner was a French Canadian called Blais. He did not have much to say and we knew how he must be feeling. Doing a trip away from your regular crew was a bind but we all had to do it, occasionally.

As usual, I was the last man to board, doing my checks. It was a bright summer evening but somehow nothing seemed to be going right. Jack, the tail gunner, had a little Scottie pup; it was following me around until I managed to find one of the fitters to tie it up in the hut. Then I hauled myself on board ready to start the engines. The ground crew waved us clear and we taxied out to take our place on the line-up. Soon, it was our turn on the runway. The usual crowd of WAAFs, waving the planes off, was our last sight as we opened up the engines for take-off.

Dusk was just approaching as we set out from base. It was our 26th operational flight so we all felt extremely confident. The pilot was F/O Don Ryan, navigator Bob Whitson, bomb-aimer Al Durnin, R/O F/Lt Gordon Groucher, rear gunner Sgt Jack Imrie and mid-upper gunner Sgt Harold Truscott, plus the extra gunner, Sgt Blais.

Our aircraft, M Mike (EQ-M) Lane MKII, equipped with Hercules engines, had just been completely re-engined and overhauled so, as flight engineer, I needed to keep a good eye on the engines.

There had been no time to give it a test flight. However, they behaved perfectly and trouble, when it came, was from an unexpected quarter.

After crossing the Danish coast, I switched on the pumps to transfer fuel from the No 3 tanks and discovered the pumps had failed or were pumping extremely slowly. We were now over enemy territory so everyone was needed to keep a look-out for enemy activity and I decided to investigate further when we were over the North Sea. If the pumps didn’t work, our chances of getting home were very slight.

Suddenly, however, there was a terrific triple crash from somewhere behind me and someone yelled on the intercom, “We’ve been hit”.

As I glanced to the engine panel to see the condition of the engines, the Skipper gave the order to “Bale out.” I remember feeling annoyed at having to bale out at that point. However, quick movement was necessary in case I held up the rest of the crew, so I quickly clipped on my chute, noted the Skipper had already pushed his seat back, knelt on the floor and put the airscrews into course pitch so that Don could clamber out of his seat easily.

The bomb-aimer was kneeling also, just below me. As he took off the hatch cover and kicked it out, I felt hot flames coming round my ears and burning petrol seemed to be heading along the floor. Then heard someone screaming over the intercom.

Al was out by then. I took a header straight out and found myself falling head over heels through a thick cloud.

As I was turning over and over, I felt frantically for my parachute but could not find it at all. My first thought was that I had left it on the plane but then I remembered clicking it on so realised it must have been torn loose from my chest. Sure enough, the next time I turned over I saw it hanging above my head still attached to the harness. I quickly clawed it down and pulled the ripcord handle.

Almost immediately, it jerked open and I was at last hanging right way up, swinging like a giant pendulum from the wind currents. My feet felt cold. No wonder, for, in my headlong descent, my flying boots had been torn off together with my socks, leaving me absolutely barefoot.

I was still swinging but managed to correct it when n I felt a terrific crash jarring every bone in my body. The parachute sagged around me – I gathered my wits, looked around and found myself draped over a lot of wires. I didn’t know where I was in the dark, so I sat up and attempted to gather up the chute, immediately finding myself falling again. I crashed down, and blackness folded over me.

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