An RAF Wellington aircraft, which was a firm favourite with crews: it could soak up heavy damage and continue flying. Stachiewicz's aircraft returned from one mission peppered with over 40 holes in it.

'I couldn't believe it, I mean
we were in the middle of a war
and they were offering me a month off'

German searchlight beams fix on an Allied bomber, directing the flak guns' fire. A blue beam, the master light, fixed on Stachiewicz's aircraft over Essen. Through good luck and good flying, their Wellington managed to limp out of the danger zone and get back home.

The Polish fighter pilots, especially those that took part in the Battle of Britain, are rightly remembered for their dash and bravery. Not so well known are the Polish bomber squadrons who, with the rest of the bomber units, faced frightful casualty rates.

At the Pilsudski Institute, London, one former Wellington bomber pilot, Mr Stachiewicz, sat down with me and, over a cup of tea and a couple of biscuits, told me his story and what it was like to fight for Britain and a Free Poland all those years ago. They were days filled with danger, tragedy and camaraderie.

My military ‘career’ began when I was 14 and went to cadet school – it was a secondary school plus military training. I spent five years there and then went on to do my national service in 1937/38. During this time I trained as a military pilot. It was voluntary move, although it was very difficult to get in to as so many young men wanted to be there.

I completed my training and soon became a qualified military pilot. After national service, I enrolled in an architecture course at Warsaw technical university. I completed the 38/39 academic year when life was interrupted by war, which broke out at the start of September.

Towards the end of August I was called up to join my unit in northwest Poland and was placed in the reserve pool of flying personnel. However, we were soon evacuated from the area on 4 September. We clambered on board a cattle train heading towards Warsaw, but unfortunately the German Panzer columns had cut us off and so we were ordered out and had to make the rest of the 40-mile journey on foot. It took a day and a night to reach the capital. We were then sent east to look for another unit – six cars picked us up. Of the six cars only my car made it.

A few days later, we were ordered to head towards Romania, which we managed to do. On arriving at the border we found out that the Russians had invaded Poland from the East. We were ordered to cross to Romania, where we were subsequently interned in a camp near the Danube River.

We were placed under guard because we were military personnel, which international law required the Romanians to do. There was great pressure put on the Romanians from the Germans not to allow any Polish servicemen out of their country. They knew well enough that the Poles would head straight to France and join up with the Free Polish units forming there.

A second shot at war
We were not stuck, however, because things could be done with the right amount of money: we were taken to Bucharest and met the Polish authorities there with the ‘help’ of the local chief of police. We were in Bucharest for two weeks where we received civilian papers and travel documents. Everything had to be paid for up front with cash.

There was quite a group of us and we left Romania at the beginning of January 1940. We travelled through Yugoslavia and to on to Greece, where we stopped at Athens and even managed to take in a couple sights like the Acropolis. From Greece a Polish boat called Warszawa took us to Marseilles, where we joined the Polish forces in France.

They sent us to a camp near Toulouse. The conditions were bad, the camp had no heating and the winter of 1940 was extremely cold. The camp wasn’t clean either and there was lots of mud, which in places was ankle deep.

After a few months, I went to the main Polish air force centre in Lyon, where we pilots spent a couple of months in a huge concrete exhibition hall doing absolutely nothing. There was no hope at all and we had no idea why our skills weren’t being used. Our commander couldn’t answer our questions on what was happening. Somewhat strangely, those in authority labelled my pals and I ‘rebels’– just because we were keen to do our jobs and fight the enemy!

In May 1940 the Germans attacked France. When they neared Lyon a train evacuated us to a port on the Mediterranean, where we had been told a British ship was meant to pick us up. There was nothing there. So we got back onto a train and went to an old fishing port in the Bay of Biscay, where we boarded a British liner that took us to Liverpool. From here we were stationed in two camps near Blackpool.

Latter on, I was transferred to Blackpool itself, which had become the main centre for the Polish Air Force. From there, in June 1941, I was sent on to a flying school, where we started our training from the very beginning on Tiger Moths and Oxfords. Soon enough we were sent on to an Operational Training Unit, where the crews were formed and we trained on Wellington bombers.


Over the Reich
The winter 1941/42 offered good training regarding weather conditions or, in fact, disregarding weather conditions! The Wellington was an excellent aircraft. The funny thing I first noticed about it was the way its wings moved, almost as if it was flapping: it really behaved like a kind of bird.

At the end of April 1942 my crew and I was ready to be transferred to a Polish bomber squadron. At that time there were four Polish bomber squadrons – 300, 301, 304 and 305. They assigned us to 301. We were stationed at RAF Hemswell, located about twelve miles north of Lincoln.

During our bombing missions, we were supposed to drop leaflets on the Germans. When over the target we’d have to cut the string on each pack before opening the chute to drop them down. After a while I got tired of this – it was so time consuming – so I cut all the packs open and left them by the entrance trap all ready to be thrown out in one go. Unfortunately, when the trap was opened the wind proved so strong that the loose leaflets were blown around the aircraft, creating a paper snow storm that covered everything!

After giving it some thought, we came to the conclusion that it might have been better to just throw the leaflets down as uncut packets: this way there may have at least been a chance they might kill one or two of the enemy!

Now apart from bombing and leafleting, we also dropped sea mines. In the summer when the nights were short we would fly to the German North Sea coast to drop them, particularly at the mouths of the submarine ports. These particular missions were called ‘gardening’.

Enemy Flak and nightfighter cover saturated the areas we operated in. Approaching the target I avoided flying in a straight line. We were well aware the Germans had radar and radio locators and were busy trying to work out aiming points to send up their nightfighters to. By changing track every 30 seconds they would find it almost impossible to monitor my course properly.

Defensively we were hampered by the blind spot on our underside and we knew the nightfighters aimed attacks there; in fact there were times when our men only realised a nightfighter had got them when the enemy’s bullets hit their aircraft. We were never attacked, however.


'Happy Valley'
One of my early operations in the beginning of June ‘42 was a mission to Essen. At the briefing when we heard it was Essen everybody got nervous. Essen was in the centre of the Ruhr Valley – ‘Happy Valley’ – the heart of Germany’s heavy industry and therefore heavily defended. That night we were told we had to get to the target at a certain time and leave the target at a set time. Although we were in the lead, we were already five to ten minutes behind on leaving the British coast – our aircraft was not pulling very strongly.

When we got over Essen everything was switched off and quiet. Then the bomb aimer, having prepared for the bomb run, told us we had passed over the target, so I told the crew we would have to turn around and go in again. On approach it was still quiet.

We had just dropped our bombs when a blue searchlight beam shot up from the ground and locked on to us. Other beams followed its example. In two seconds we were coned by at least thirty searchlights and of course the anti aircraft fire began. I shouted to the second pilot: “Don’t get blinded! Concentrate on the instruments and direct me.” He issued instructions and, changing course all the time, we tried to shake off the searchlights and Flak. They stayed on us for 10 to 12 minutes until we left the defence zone and flew into the safety of darkness.

We had taken a lot of damage, but thankfully nothing important had been destroyed. After landing we counted at least 40 holes in the fuselage.

In the drink
Of the four crews who joined the squadron at the same time, including ours, only two had survived by the end of June. We lost one of these crews returning from an attack on Emden: they were in trouble after a fighter attack – they were flying low and looked like they wouldn’t make it to the English coast. Indeed, they soon went into the ‘drink’.

On landing back at base we rushed to the squadron commander and got permission to fly back out to search for the downed crew. We raced back to the spot they went down and flew in ‘squares’ – this is where we would fly to a set point then turn 90 degrees, fly and turn 90 degrees and so on, but always increasing the size of the area we were searching.

Anyway, from the corner of my eye I suddenly saw a small orange spot floating on the sea. We flew over to confirm it was a dingy and then flew up 2,000ft and sent a signal back to base that they had been found and for a rescue boat to be sent. Of course there was the possibility that the Germans had heard our signal (we were not that far from the coast of Occupied Europe) and may have acted upon it. But we continued flying over them for an hour and a half because I was afraid if we left there was a possibility the rescuers might not find them.

We guarded and watched over them until they were eventually rescued (click here for a rescue report by 279 Squadron). Happy with our success, we got back and organized a party. During the celebrations we were informed that the men they had picked up were not from our squadron. Our crew was lost. And do you know, the Squadron whose men we had helped save – they were Australians we later found out – never wrote to us in thanks, let alone send us a bottle wine.

In July, I had my first crash. Not far out from taking off, one of aircraft’s engines packed up and I had to turn back. To add to my misfortune, the radio then gave in and the lights also went out. With no communication with the ground and flying in the darkness we were all prepared for having to bale out. I then spotted a flare path. With our luck running out I knew I had to land on that aerodrome. When we were about 300ft, however, the lights on the ground went out. So there I was – one engine running with the undercarriage and flaps down, and I knew couldn’t fly any longer. I hazarded the landing and we arrived like a falling pancake. Fortunately nobody was injured, one of the crew was a little bruised, but that was all. Two weeks later I was officially informed that it was my fault for the crash and that I shouldn’t have landed. But really there was nothing else I could have done.

By the end of July 301 Squadron had lost 11 crews. The establishment for the squadron was 12. We lost two commanding officers in one week, one after the other. It was very difficult to build up our numbers with this kind of loss because the Polish Air Force was so short of manpower.

But we kept on, and in August there was lots of bombing and ‘gardening’ to be done. On one occasion, shortly after take off, both my engines started overheating. I was afraid they might catch fire so I turned back. From where we were it was too far to head out over the sea to drop our bomb load and then come back.

Approaching to land, I found I couldn’t get the aircraft on the ground. I was about halfway over the runway when I finally touched down and by now we were quickly running out of space. At the end of the runway was a store of bombs. And so there we were: a fully laden aircraft about to run in to load of munitions! I managed to turn rapidly with one engine running when the undercarriage collapsed, but thankfully the danger had passed and we ground to a halt. And that was my second crash.

This time no one said a thing and there was no internal investigation. The next morning they sent a doctor along and he gave us permission for a week’s leave. We turned him down. They insisted we take a break and ordered us to take a couple of days.

At this time, however, it was discovered that the crew had been flying with, technically, no right to. For one reason or another, the crew had never had a medical since we began flying in Britain. Officialdom promptly had us suspended and we had to wait to be called by the medical authorities for an inspection in London. While waiting we weren’t even allowed to go near our aircraft – we became non-flying personnel. 

After we were finally examined in London, the Medical Officer gave me the all clear and, for good measure, offered me four weeks holiday. I couldn’t believe it, I mean we were in the middle of a war and they were offering me a month off. Well I managed to get him down to two weeks. With this unexpected holiday I had to find somewhere to spend my spare time and was recommended a place in Perthshire, Scotland, where Polish airmen could rest up. It was a small castle set on rocks and it was like walking in to a completely different world.

After my holiday I went back to the squadron and was rejoined by my crew, who had also been given holiday time, and got back into the war again.