Thread by @ajcdeane

#Deanehistory 163.

Philip Wareing was 25 years old when his Spitfire exploded.
Flying out of Kenley Aerodrome, at that time in August 1940 mostly a smoking ruin at which the pilots slept under the wings of their planes,

Sergeant Wareing was one of seven British airmen engaging thirty German ME109s in the air over the Channel and – as the combat drifted southwards – above Calais.

He’d shot one German fighter down when, in his words, his “lovely Spitfire was riddled like a sieve.” Hit by flak from the ground as well as by enemy planes, on fire, his propeller having failed, his radiator taken out of action,

the armoured metal plate at his back thudding with the enemy fire ricocheting from it, he was still fighting when the plane blew up, throwing him clear.

Afraid he’d be shot in the air, Wareing waited until the dogfight moved away before opening his parachute later than one would ideally like. But he landed safely in a French farmer’s field, & had the presence of mind to wipe the day's codes from his hand, using his own blood.

Picked up promptly thereafter by a German patrol, he was held at Luftwaffe base where his opponent pilots were delighted to meet him, and were only sorry that all the beer & whisky they’d captured from British bases on their way towards Dunkirk was all finished – would cognac do?

Wareing had been a member of the German Alpine Club between the wars, which helped things along and as he was waved off to become a prisoner of war the German pilots pressed cigarettes and chocolates into his hands, warmly wishing him a happy captivity. Which was not his plan.

(Side note. Wareing scribbled his name and address on a bit of paper and gave it to one of these friendly pilots, who was promptly shot down over England. In this way, when the British found the slip on the Luftwaffe officer, his family could be informed that he was still alive.)

Fast forward to winter 1942 – through two years of imprisonment endured whilst plotting and planning to return to the fight. Wareing and a group of fellow inmates were at a camp at Schubin, now Szubin, west of Warsaw – a long, long way behind enemy lines.

It was late evening and Wareing was ordered along with some other prisoners to go to collect some bread from a nearby railway facility. They had done this job many times and lulled the guards into a false sense of security,

the Germans using fewer men to guard those doing the errands and paying less attention whilst doing it. By design, another fellow dropped a load of bread on the tracks. As all attention was briefly focused there, Wareing legged it.

He had some food, as he had been planning this for some time. Also a compass and some make do maps. His army trousers (having swapped his RAF blues for them, realising the khaki was less of a giveaway) were so grubby they could pass for military or civilian,

and his RAF tunic had been roughed up and altered to look like a civilian jacket. He had a cloth cap made from another pair of old RAF trousers. He was all set.

After sleeping in a field, he reached Bromburg, now Bydogoszcz, on foot. Students of Polish geography will have grasped that our man was going “the wrong way” – he was heading east, not west. But he was so far behind enemy lines that he figured that this was the smart play.

He stole a rickety bicycle and cycled to Gradenz, now Grudziądz. He ditched his bike & nicked a nice new one from a German careless enough to leave it unlocked. He crossed over the Vistula at a heavily guarded bridge after waiting until the guards were arguing with someone else.

He slept in a deserted house – just missing escape by a caretaker – and arrived at the great port of Danzig, now Gdansk. He’d covered a hundred miles as the crow flies – rather more, travelling as he was.

In the harbour, he spied a ship flying the neutral Swedish flag, also sporting the Blue Peter – meaning, “we’re off soon.”

Marching with confidence up the gangplank, Wareing nipped into the ship’s coal hole. Russians were shovelling coal there and naturally looked rather askance at this odd looking fellow. He said “Angliski pilot” – to which they nodded, and shovelled some coal over him.

The ship sailed the next morning. He was not found by the crew for another two days – dusty, dull hours worrying about what would come next, no doubt – & his discovery came late enough in the voyage that the only thing to do was to hand him over to the Swedish police at Halmstad.

The British Legation at Stockholm facilitated his repatriation to the UK.

Commissioned an officer upon his return and awarded the Distinguished Conduct Medal for his efforts,

Wareing was the only British pilot shot down over France during the Battle of Britain to escape from a prison camp & make his way back home. He became a flying instructor – &, equally usefully, give talks about escaping from captivity & evading the enemy once one’s done it.

Along with over 80 others, this story will appear in More Lessons from History:

bitebackpublishing.com/books/more-les…