My Lancaster bomber was shot down in flames... and I landed in the arms of Madame Mazonga

By Russell Margerison
Last updated at 11:40 AM on 17th May 2009

Young warrior: Russell Margerison during the war

The night was warm, dark and still. I lay on my back where I landed, afraid to make the slightest noise, not knowing whether the Germans were two yards or two miles away.

Dawn revealed that I was in the middle of a cornfield, but I didn't know if, after baling out of my Lancaster, I was in Holland or Belgium.

I set off walking, covering about seven miles, mainly along a narrow cobbled road, passing through a few small villages where everyone stared in amazement, then smiled or waved. But no one made an approach and I decided not to speak unless invited to.

Eventually, in one village, an elderly woman leaning on a gate called out: 'Boy, boy.' I went over.

'Have they landed?' she asked excitedly, in English. 'Are you part of the invasion force?'

'I've landed, love, but I'm by myself. I've been shot down.'

Her face fell but she beckoned to a man with a cart and spoke to him in Flemish. He shook my hand and motioned me to get into his cart and hide under the logs there.

After what seemed like an endless journey we arrived at his farm where his wife showed me into their hayloft and mimed going to sleep. I slept the sleep of the dead, with mice as companions.

The next day I was given some old clothes and taken under cover of darkness to another farm and led into a well-lit, smoke-filled room. Suddenly I was being hugged and kissed.

'Russ boy! I thought you'd had it.' It was Dick Reeves, our wireless operator.

Never in my life have I been so delighted to see anyone. We clung to each other and our rescuers smiled. Beer was produced and we all toasted 'Après la guerre'.

We were close to the Dutch-Belgian border on the Belgian side, I learned, near a place called Meir.

Then it was time to move on. We travelled on bicycles at night with our guides: three boys.

An air raid started and the shimmering fingers of searchlights sprang up at irregular intervals. Thundering crashes of anti-aircraft guns reverberated through the quiet.

I feared we would be spotted by the Germans at any moment, and I was tingling at the thought of a rifle shot, but our luck held.

Eventually we arrived at an orchard and an older man appeared and took us to a clearing in which stood a big house.

One of our guides breathed into my ear: 'Take precaution, Germans near.' We made a quick dash into the house and, in a heavily shuttered back room, the man, Marcel, lit a lamp.

Conversation flowed easily. The boys, who were no more than 15 or 16, wanted to know what Dick and I actually did in the aircraft, when the invasion was expected and who were the biggest names in English football.

It was obvious they considered Britain the finest country in the world. It was a great feeling to be held in such high esteem.

Marcel's daughter, Emilie, served us ham and eggs and he promised us we would be back in England in two or three days. He showed us to a small bedroom and we were asleep within seconds.

Mid-afternoon the same day we were woken by the deafening rat-tat-tatting of machine guns.

'What the hell ... ' gasped Dick. We rolled out of bed and underneath it in a second, listening to the rattling guns and whine of bullets, hearts racing. The firing ceased.

A Vogue image from the Forties showing the sort of style and glamour he encountered at the home of 'Madame Mazonga'

There was movement in the house below us. The Germans must have followed us. Clump, clump, clump. Someone was climbing the stairs. The footsteps halted outside the door, which slowly opened.

Emilie appeared. 'Come, eat,' she said. I looked at Dick and sheepishly we got to our feet. The firing started again and we went to the window and peeped through the shutters.

There was a German Me109 fighter plane parked no more than 200 yards away, around which stood a number of pilots awaiting their turn at firing practice.

'We're on the edge of a bloody Luftwaffe station,' said Dick. 'What a place to hide us. Frightened me to bleeding death.'

'Never bothered me,' I grinned.

Marcel owned the house, which had been put out of bounds to him because it was next to the training camp. Fortunately, it was reasonably easy to get in without being seen.

After breakfast Dick and I returned to the bedroom and had a chance to talk about our Lancaster's fate.

'What happened when we were hit?' I asked. 'Did they all get out?'

'I don't know, Russ,' Dick said. 'Dave [navigator Dave Weepers] had gone when I passed his table with my 'chute on, so he must have baled out.

'Brick [bomb aimer Arthur 'Brick' Brickenden] was sitting on the edge of the escape hatch as if deciding whether to jump. Seconds were ticking by so I yelled at him to jump, but he looked at me blankly. I hit him in the back and all but knocked him out of the aircraft and I followed.

'I'll never forget looking back up and seeing the faces of Max [pilot Max Dowden] and Frank [flight engineer Frank Moody], lit by the flames licking around them. They were both staring straight ahead, their arms wrapped around the control column, pulling as hard as they could.'

I replied: 'I never mentioned it at the time but a few weeks ago they both told me that if we ever got hit they'd ride it down. They meant it.

'Anyway, Gib [the other gunner, Gilbert 'Gib' McElroy] made it, he went before me.'

We fell silent. I pictured my father receiving the dreaded telegram saying I was missing. There was nothing I could do about it.

We spent five days at that house, never once setting foot outside. We came to the conclusion that the 'one night, then England' promises were made simply to keep up our morale.

However, on May 29, Marcel told us were being taken to Antwerp, where the Belgian underground movement would organise our transport home.

A Lancaster bomber like the one Russell was forced to jump from

We cycled with a guide to a nearby town to catch the Antwerp tram. The place was heaving with German uniforms and the tram was packed. Dick and I sat opposite two German sailors.

During a delay, one of the sailors touched Dick's arm to get his attention. Dick ignored him but was then awarded a stronger nudge.

The sailor was holding an unlit cigarette and I nodded to Dick. He took out a box of matches and offered a light. They were English Swan Vesta matches.

We looked at each other, expecting the worst, but the Germans were oblivious to Dick's mistake.

As we arrived in Antwerp a fat man stepped forward and led us to a side street where a car waited. We were driven to a residential district and the car pulled up outside 29 Boomgard Straat.

The front door opened and before I even had a chance to take stock of my surroundings a pair of female arms encircled my neck and pulled me close and I was kissed on both cheeks. Heady perfume made me think of anything but Germans. Dick received the same treatment.

She was about 5ft 3in, not conventionally beautiful but with a Marilyn Monroe figure and attractive sparkling eyes. She glided across the room and sank into a luxurious armchair, smiling broadly.

'Thank you for our reception,' I said, smiling back at her.

'Ah,' she sighed. 'Engleeshmen.' 'Madame was so anxious to meet you,' said the plump man. 'She asks me to tell you that you have the freedom of the house during your stay.'

My eyes travelled from the chandelier to the mahogany furniture and the richly carpeted floor. The room oozed wealth.

Our guide told us we would spend a few days here waiting for the necessary papers before departing for England. With that he left, and Madame saw him out before flouncing back in followed by a maid carrying a tray of sandwiches and cakes, coffee and no fewer than five brands of cigarettes. After the meal, she gave us a tour of the house.

The cellar had been converted into a games room, complete with bar billiards and table tennis. On the ground floor was the beautifully furnished lounge, a dining room and a kitchen. The first floor had a huge bathroom and two bedrooms, one of which was Madame's magnificently opulent boudoir. She indicated with a wave that this was to be our room. The second floor had three bedrooms.

After a shower, Dick and I returned to our bedroom to find Madame laying out all manner of clothes for us.

Enlarge

The telegram telling his father that Russell Margerison was missing in action

Unabashed, she sat there as we tried on trousers and jackets, frowning her disapproval or smiling her satisfaction accordingly. Dick finally plumped for a blue serge lounge suit. I went for a brown one. We were transformed into men-about-town.

Madame - Hermine Scheire - seemed anxious to tell us all about herself. She was 35 and had been married twice. There were two children from her first marriage which had lasted five years. Her second husband was now in a concentration camp.

She was an extremely wealthy woman with extensive business interests, now dormant due to Nazi occupation. She detested the Germans and her flashing eyes when she spoke about them convinced me she was a better friend than an enemy. A woman of passions, I concluded.

We whiled away the evening playing cards in the dining room, with beer, wine and cigarettes on hand. As we sank deep into the feather mattress at the end of the day, Dick commented: 'It's out of this world.'

'Fantastic,' I agreed. 'Who wants the war when we've got this?'

We stayed in Boomgard Straat for six weeks, getting to know Hermine - whom we nicknamed Madame Mazonga, after a sultry character in a 1941 film - extremely well.

Every few days a member of the Resistance would visit us. We were given false identity papers and promised we would be home soon. Finally we were given a date.

'You will be flying out in two days,' we were told by one of our regular underground visitors. 'I will contact you tomorrow to give you a definite time and place.' It was June 5.

The following morning our bedroom door was flung open and in burst Hermine. 'Boys, boys, they come. The English are come. We are free!'

We gathered around the wireless set she had hidden in a cupboard and, sure enough, it was confirmed.

'Under the command of General Eisenhower the Allied armies have made successful landings on the northern coast of France,' the announcer said.

He then proceeded to give a long list of coded instructions to the members of the underground movement in occupied territories. Clearly the task of getting airmen home was going to be well down the list of priorities.

'Damn,' said Dick. 'That's b******* it up for us getting home for a bit.'

It was a week or so later that Hermine asked us to move some heavy boxes under which lay a large and heavily padlocked chest.

Dick and I stood back in amazement as she lifted the lid. Neatly stacked level to the top lay thousands of banknotes, secured in bundles by elastic bands.

'God almighty, there's a fortune there,' I blurted out.

'My man and I work well before the war,' said Hermine. 'We again after war when my man ... ' her voice trailed off and her usual smiling face clouded over.

Looking back: Russell Margerison today

'You shouldn't have shown us that,' said Dick, concerned. 'We could easily steal it.'

'You no steal money,' laughed Hermine. 'I smack bottom and sell you to Germans.'

On the morning of July 5 we had visitors: three men and a woman. We had never seen them before, but they claimed to represent the underground and to have reopened an escape route enabling us to get back to England on Friday.

After they left, Hermine said: 'I not trust them.' She donned her coat and disappeared out of the door, returning three hours later in a state of agitation.

'They have sold many men to Germans,' she said. 'Gestapo know you here. You must go. Tomorrow, 6am.'

Stunned, we packed our belongings and spent a miserable evening with a tremulous Hermine who was unable to sit still for five minutes. The next morning our guide arrived and Hermine sat outside the front door, her face buried in her lap, sobbing.

'Christ, this is no good, Russ,' Dick said. 'I'm b******* if I'm going to leave her in such a state.'

'Stupid Engleeshmen,' the everloyal Hermine managed to get out. 'One enough for Gestapo - not three. Go. Go.'

By foot and tram we were taken to a three-storey building sectioned into flats. We were given a first-floor bedroom and met by a reception party of four women, three in their 40s, the other an attractive 20-year-old.

After providing us with a meal, they became a little flirtatious. One leaned forward, pushing her finger into Dick's nipple, which showed through his tight-fitting shirt, exclaiming with a smile: 'What is that?'

Without further ado, Dick pushed his finger into her nipple, saying, 'Same as that.' They thought it was hilarious.

'They're all sex-starved,' I said to Dick later in the seclusion of our bedroom. 'There's probably one man to every 30 women in Belgium.'

We spent five days in the flat until finally our departure day arrived. Our guide took us along a street and we halted outside a confectioners' shop. The guide crossed the road and engaged a tall man in conversation.

We were waved across to join them and a car came to a halt beside us. Our guide bade us farewell and we climbed into the car, the tall man sitting between us on the back seat.

'How long have you been here?' asked the driver.

He was incredulous. 'Hellfire, if they'd only get in touch with us as soon as they pick you up we would have you home in no time. Where have you been staying? I'll see they get paid.'

'I'm sorry, I daren't tell you,' I said. 'Excellent. That's the answer I wanted,' he replied. 'We have to cross the River Scheldt soon and the entrance to the bridge is guarded. Once past them, we're OK.'

The car slid to a halt in front of some iron gates. The guard approached, only to withdraw at the sight of our driver's credentials, held out of the window. The gates opened and we drove into a large courtyard.

'We must alight here and walk over the bridge,' the driver said. 'Through the doorway and straight on.'

On going through the doorway we saw no bridge, but four neat rows of ladies sitting at typewriters. And on the far wall a huge painting of Adolf Hitler. The hard muzzle of a revolver dug into my back. 'German Military Intelligence. Empty your pockets.'

The driver, holding the gun, was no longer smiling. We had walked straight into Antwerp prison, with the Gestapo as companions. Mechanically, as if in a dream, we placed what few items we had on a nearby table.

'You know what will happen now?' sneered the tall man, who had sat with Dick and me in the back. 'You will be shot as spies at 8am.'

We were stripped, searched and shoved into a dirty cell. The heavy iron door clanged shut.

'Well,' I said, as we regained our feet. 'We've made a balls of that.'

'Do you think they'll shoot us?' asked Dick.

'Will they heck,' I said. 'We're PoWs now. They're just trying to scare us.'

'I damn well hope you're right,' Dick mumbled. 'Cause they're succeeding.'

Boys At War, by Russell Margerison, is published by Northway Publications. To order your copy at £7.99 with free p&p, call The Review Bookstore on 0845 155 0713.