Bill Baumer’s Top Secret account of his and Johnny Bevan’s risky flight to Moscow to co-ordinate their Normandy Deception activities with the Russians

Saturday January 29^th (1944)

... We were slow too and after a landing at a supply depot, Burtonwood, we went on to Pwk [Prestwick - CB], arriving there at 1715. I looked around for the plane going to Russia but no sight. Inside the officials were expecting me, thanks to John Bevan. He appeared, took me in tow and together we drew and fitted our electric heated clothing and were briefed in the use of oxygen (joke) and other necessary knowledge. We were in the hands of the British Overseas Airways, and handled with a great deal of secrecy. Then John took me to the sitting room of the Group Capt. in charge of the field and there I met Ambassador Kerr and together we had a drink or two. The Amb. Is a younger man than his 60-odd years and full of vigor and healthy color. Of medium height and build, he was full of life and stories, and a lot of the misuse of terms between the English and Americans. He seemed to have them all memorized: such old clichés as the expression in English of “knock me up at seven AM” fanny being equal to bum and others. We ate a healthy meal later and then reported far too early as is always the case for getting into our clothes.

There were several RAF men and a sturdy Russian Secretary of their Embassy and his wife. She was quite attractive and the poor souls were looking forward to returning to the USSR which they had not seen for three years. They should have waited another one or two. Eventually well after dark we went out to the plane—a C-87 tho not converted to a transport as yet. We climbed in the bottom hatch in our bulky clothes and draped ourselves around the posts in the bomb bay. The Amb. First, then John, and three RAF men, head to feet and lying down on some kind of pillows and with blankets around. We were shown where to plug in for the oxygen. That was the last instruction we got from our mixed crew who looked not at all English … in fact one of them was a former Dutch Line pilot.

With the lights on in the bomb bay, the take-off was easy enough and the climb all right. We talked and some read for a while. I plugged in, put my helmet on and prepared for the night, perhaps a little too alertly. John kept his hat off and also failed to plug his suit in. In fact the Amb and I were the only ones of the six in the bay who seemed to prepare for the night. The Russians were in the upper part of the bomber where the turret gunner stands in a bomber. So we soared and nowhere did I see any parachute. But then we couldn’t go down in Sweden for a landing because we would be interned, and if we went down in Norway, we had better move fast over the country to get out of Nazi hands.

Up and up we went and when I began to feel the altitude a little, as per my experience crossing the ocean a few weeks before, I put on my oxygen mask. Pretty soon John got sort of red faced and began acting as if he had had a few drinks. I tried to persuade him to put on his mask and prepare for the night, as I had read of the reaction of drunkenness or that heady reaction when the first lack of oxygen appeared. No success. Then he sort of passed out, the three RAF men progressively got sick and though they put on their oxygen masks kept throwing up in them so that they had no desire to put them on. I guess I dozed off for a while and then I noticed the Ambassador trying to help John get his mask on. He was fumbling around as all people do who are in oxygen, and the first thing I realized was, was the difficulty of getting a train of thought to pass through the brain. Eventually I got it through my head that the Amb. had sunk back exhausted and it was now my turn to do something for John since he had again let his mask fall off. So I calculated that I should get my glove off, and make the three crawling steps to him and then get the mask on and fall back into my place. The thought probably started through my brain and stopped several times before I finally got the idea and communicated it into action. Then I got over to him and he fought me a little so I put my knee on his chest, put something under his head as I couldn’t find his helmet and then forced his mask on even tho he fought it off and went through the motions of a person choking to death. I leaned back soon and the Amb. smiled and patted me on the knee. I suppose I was too American for I patted him on the back and said I’d like to have him along on any trip.

A little later the RAF men were leaving their masks off because they were sick in them, and they must have tasted awful. This time, I calculated my chances, went through the same confused chain of thought and eventually taking my glove off, go to John and two of them to clip their masks on again. I stayed awake most of the time and a little later remember some sharp stabs of air coming up at us, and knew it to be flak, and kept thinking what clay pigeons we were.

Time dragged on. John kept looking worse, and was definitely unconscious. Then more flak bumps and a little later we began losing altitude so I figured we were over Russian territory. All this time we had tried to get a crew member to do something about John but evidently the engineer was out too and nothing was done. We began to feel a little better as we came down to a lower altitude. Then we waited for another hour and heard the wind whistling outside and wished we had a peep hole so that we could see outside.

We came in for landing and came down neatly. Gradually one or two got out, and I could disengage myself to climb out of the bottom hatch. There was a tremendous flat snow covered field and many curious Russians in uniform. None of us could do anything but smile and we indicated our aching heads by the traditional gesture of putting the hands to the ears and shaking our heads violently. That was good for a universal smile. The crew also climbed out and we stood around seemingly waiting for something to happen. It was then 0800 our time, but presumably 1000 local time, and Sunday morning. Soon we got the other members out and in our huge suits lumbered about. It was cold and we were hungry and sick. With another member of the crew we helped walk John Bevan about a mile to an administration building. We all went to the General’s office and everyone stood around sort of aimlessly. We took off our huge flying suits and had a cigarette. Everyone was affable but soon a couple of minor officials appeared, one of them a woman. They took up our passports and there was a great amount of talking and telephoning.

They asked me for my visa and I showed the greatest possible disinterest. Then there were further whispers among the officials, the Russian Secretary who had come with us, the Commandant and everyone else. No one had come to meet me, mainly because we had landed at the wrong field. Our radio operator had passed out and perhaps since it was Sunday morning and also Russia, our crew could get no response so they came down at the first field they saw near Moscow. We later learned that the oxygen system had failed to give us full oxygen. Perhaps, as we later learned, the crew had failed to take off some rubber valve cap at the rear of the plane which gave the necessary pressure.

We waited around, and John looked awful. The British Embassy staff appeared, including the minister Jock Balfour, a great guy and a friend of John’s. Also the younger group of secretaries, Reed, Bolton and one other whose name escapes me.

Meanwhile we sat around and talked and the Russians tried to engage some of us in conversation, and of course we were trying to be friendly. I could say Americanski and that was as far as I could go. We tried to figure out rank using the German and French, and they told me I was a Pad pokovneek, but I didn’t know then that that was what they were saying.

We went out for air and Bolton gave me a piece of chocolate and some dog biscuit. We got into cars and went to a mess hall. There we sat down to a typical banquet table, with me at the left of the Amb. and the Russian General to the right. The Amb. whispered to go easy on the vodka...

Source: DW’s copy of a portion of Baumer’s Top Secret War Diaries