Operation: Duisburg

Date: 21/22nd July 1942 (Tuesday/Wednesday)

Unit: No. 301 (P) Squadron

Type: Wellington IV

Serial: Z1406

Code: GR-G

Base: RAF Hemswell, Lincolnshire

Location: Herne, Germany

Pilot: F/O. Cezary Lewicki P-0968 PAF Age 23. Killed

Pilot 2: F/O. Bolesław Eugeniusz Peszkowski P-1097 PAF Age 30. Killed

Obs: F/O. Kazimierz Kucza P-1467 PAF Age 28. Killed

W/Op/Air/Gnr: Sgt. Robert Bronisław Maliszewski 780393 PAF Age 20. Killed

W/Op/Air/Gnr: P/O. Piotr Kuderski P-1724 / 794258 PAF Age 28. Killed

Air/Gnr: Sgt. Józef Fuśniak BEM. 780945 PAF Age 20. PoW No: 25108 Camp: Stalag Lamsdorf 344

REASON FOR LOSS:

Taking off at 23:36 hrs from RAF Hemswell in Lincolnshire - joining 290 other aircraft to bomb the city of Duisburg.

Duisburg being the main industry area for German steel, Iron and chemicals. Reported to have been the most heavily bombed city during WW2 by the allies. This raid was reported as causing 94 buildings destroyed with 256 seriously damaged. 49 people were killed on the ground.

The raid took part on a moonless night to prevent the huge losses suffered by Bomber Command to Luftwaffe fighters. Despite this twelve aircraft were lost together with 45 aircrew killed with a further 17 taken pow.

Sgt. Józef Fuśniak BEM baled out, with injuries to his face, ear and a leg.

Mr Alan Mann submitted the story on Jo Fuśniak and sent it into Aircrew Remembered. His story as told by Joe talking to Steve Darlow, author, historian and publisher:

On the 30th January 1942, a crew of six Polish airmen from 18 Operational Training Unit took off from RAF Bramcote, Warwickshire on a training mission. Without warning, they hit a bad snowstorm. Frantically searching for landmarks they caught a faint glimpse of a town below and turned once round it. Unknowingly travelling over Skipton, Yorkshire they continued, blindly heading towards the Dales into unforeseen danger! The pilot was tense - he could see nothing but a screen of white light in front of him.

12 year old Norman Parrington was in the school playground at Kettlewell, suddenly the dark shape of the plane became visible, looming through the falling snow. He knew the plane was too low. One minute later, Tommy Metcalfe, a Home Guard living in the next village, Starbotton, not far from Buckden Pike was greeted by the blast of a blizzard as he opened his front door. Spotting a fox making across the road to the farmhouse, where his wife was working, he shouted to alert her, but by the time he had grabbed his gun it had raced up the hill. It was ten minutes past noon, and despite the roaring wind he was startled by the drone of a plane passing overhead - only for it to shortly fade away, drowned by the howling elements. Puzzled, he too thought, "That plane is too low"!

Joe Fuśniak, the rear air gunner was beginning to tire with the stress of looking for enemy aircraft in such adverse conditions and despite his heated air jacket, he was freezing cold. Suddenly Joe lurched, buffeted around violently in his turret. Bits of twisted flying metal suddenly thudded around him. He cracked his head on a bolt stud above him and a ringing sound buzzed in his ears. Semi-conscious, shocked, and dazed he became aware, after what seemed to be eternity, that he was no longer protected inside his aircraft but surrounded by deep snow. The body of the plane was no where to be seen - the rear gunner's turret had snapped clean away from the fuselage.

"Later I learned that the plane (top speed of 235 mph) had clipped a 6 foot high stone wall on the 2,302 feet high mountain and had careered several hundred feet along the ridge before stopping. Had it been just a few feet higher it would have cleared it".

Stilled dazed, he released himself from the turret and thought he heard the sound of a cow. Starting to crawl towards it he collapsed to the ground; an agonising pain seared through his left leg - he had badly broken his ankle! He had to find the main frame of the plane to get shelter. Eventually the skeleton shape of the battered fuselage emerged, smashed open at both ends, the wings and engines missing. Checking each member of the crew scattered outside the wreckage, he found that four had been killed instantly, including the pilot. Hearing the groaning sound again he found the wireless operator, Sergeant Sadowski, still alive but seriously injured! Panic, fear and fright set in as he tried to customise himself to the unbelievable situation he and Jan, his wireless operator, were in. The radio was not working and they were stranded - snowbound - maybe very high up and miles from help.

"If I stayed we might both die; there was only one hope and that was to leave him and search for help fast! I found a parachute and wrapped it round him to keep him warm. Joe rummaged around the crumpled fuselage, and found two tins of tomato soup, stuffed one in his bomber jacket and left the other with Jan. Then he set off into the unknown not knowing which way to go, but automatically turning his back against the biting horizontal blizzard wind, Grabbing hold of a broken wooden strut from the wreckage he clawed himself forward, dragging his injured limb. Several minutes later he collapsed again with exhaustion, resting in despair. Instinctively, he decided to retrace his steps.

"I could not see any further than 6 feet. The snowflakes were larger than my thumbnail - the size of a golf ball. Suddenly, I was amazed to see faint animal traces in the snow in front of me - the footprints of a fox pointing in the opposite direction to that I was originally heading. I know now that if I had continued, I would have gone deeper into the moors".

He knew from his Boy Scout days that the fox would make downhill to a farmyard in search of food, and shelter. Following the impressions, he turned sharp right at one point avoiding a sheer drop which the fox had sensed. Trying to keep the marks in sight as the snow threatened to obliterate them; Joe slid and crawled his way down. Then his worst nightmare happened - his strut broke and the prints disappeared

Despite the biting cold with temperatures well below zero, Joe was sweating profusely with pain. And with his eyes stinging with the wind and snow he propped himself up against an un-surmountable stone wall to rest, his past life started appearing before him. He knew that if he fell asleep, he would not wake again and all chance of getting help both for himself and his comrade would be in vain. Soon, night-time would descend for it was now a late winter’s afternoon. He cried bitterly with hopelessness.

"I struggled for several hours trying to make my way down treacherous slopes and over stone walls partially submerged in deep snow drifts. I remember a vertical cliff and nearly slid over the edge. I prayed for help and then something compelled me to look up. The clouds briefly broke and a dazzling shaft of light appeared out of the sky outlining the valley and habitation. It was as if it was a sign from heaven; a mystical experience. It uplifted and gave me the tremendous strength and courage that I needed to continue over the wall in my quest for help".

With all his might he pulled his body over the wall and began to shout, "Help, help"! Figures unexpectedly appeared in the distant gloom. He had reached a road near a stream at the village of Cray near the White Lion Inn. The landlord's daughter, Nannie Parker, had spotted him and thought he was a shepherd. She rushed to tell her father, William. Joe's ordeal was nearly over as he was dragged to the warmth and safety of the public house.

Inside, Joe stuttered in broken English but the Parker family could not understand him. They thought he was a German pilot. Eventually, he managed to convince them that he was an RAF airman and his injured companion lay in the shattered Wellington urgently awaiting help. The snowdrifts were so severe that a search party could not be launched until the next day. Sadly, when the aircraft was found, it was too late - his last crew mate had died too.

In May 1942, in recognition for his bravery, Sergeant Joseph Fuśniak was awarded the British Empire Medal by King George VI and decorated by Chief Air Marshall 'Bomber' Harris.

Haunted by the trauma of the crash, which nearly cost him his life, Joe has re-visited the scene several times since, quietly reflecting on his greatly missed flight companions. In 1973, not far from the White Lion Inn, he looked at the Pike and decided to build the memorial cross that stands there today, however the carving of the Fox’s head has since been vandalised.

Joseph Fuśniak - his first name, actually Jozef, was born in Warsaw on the 10th of May 1922. He is now 92 years old, as of February 2015 and lives in Bexleyheath, Kent, near London, where foxes visit his garden for titbits. He has also released an account of the appalling Lamsdorf Death March that he endured when the Russians closed in on Stalag VIII-B PoW camp where he was held captive for 4 years during WW2.

The Memorial commemorates the Polish rear gunner Joseph Fuśniak, and the lives of five of his crew who died there in the winter of 1942 and the fox that helped him survive against all the odds.

But the Buckten Pike crash was not the only wartime ordeal Joseph Fuśniak had to endure. He spent many months in Stalag VIII-B prisoner of war camp at Lamsdorf in Germany. On the 2nd of February 1945, with Russian troops drawing near, he was one of 4000 PoW’s forced by the Nazis onto an evacuation march, later known as death marches due to the appalling conditions and the toll they exacted. The allied prisoners were marched up to 25 miles a day with little food and water and in temperatures reaching minus 10C. “A slice of bread or sausage would have to last three days,” he wrote afterwards. The march continued for three months.

Men were infested with lice and physically and mentally exhausted. Many had dysentery, pleurisy,

pneumonia or frostbite. Those who fell ill and couldn’t keep up were left to die and those who tried to escape, or steal food from the fields they passed, were beaten with rifle butts or killed. One morning,

Joe woke to find that the men lying on either side of him were dead! Eventually the survivors reached the Hartz Mountains in central Germany where they were liberated by American soldiers. Joe finally made it back to London and to his fiancée Jessica.

Visitor number 146 to my father’s website on the 22nd October 1999, Dad came to see me in Cambridge for the weekend and got his first view of his story on the web. He was astounded at the implications of web technology and signed the guest book. We discussed some minor alterations and additions to his story and then got a surprise telephone call from Norman Parrington, living at Starbotton who, when he was a boy of 12, saw the plane just minutes before it crashed. We did not know there were any ground witnesses still alive other than the local Home Guardsman.

My father has also released an account of the appalling Lamsdorf Death March that he endured when the Russians closed in on Stalag VIII-B PoW camp where he was held captive for 4 years during WW2.

I was alerted to this story by Sue Barnes. Sue was a friend of the Fuśniak family, especially his wife Jessica. When she died a few years ago Sue lost touch with Joseph and his family. However seeing this article on the Web brought back memories and she thought I would be interested as I had recently written an article about her farther, Flight Lieutenant Jack Barnes, a wartime Lancaster pilot.

Following Richard’s comment about his father’s involvement in the Lamsdorf Death March meant that I had to find out more, starting with “on the night of the 22nd July 1942, Joe was blasted out of his turret on a bombing mission over Germany, and held as a PoW in Stalag VIII-B.”

I learnt that he was a rear gunner in a Wellington bomber of 301 Squadron, code letters GR, but not the actual aircraft. However a visit to Aircrew Remembered Polish data base provided the answers.

1989 - Joe with Cadets Louise and Adam Mortimer (brother and sister) from ATC 264 (Skipton) Squadron.

Further visits to the Web gave me more insight to conditions at the time.

“After several weeks the weather improved and 301 Squadron joined in a bombing campaign over France and Germany. Among common targets were Bremen, Hamburg, Brest and Essen. 301 Squadron flew on many more missions in the following two years. On 18 July 1941 the squadron moved to RAF Hemswell base, along with 300 Squadron. On the night of 31st May 1942, the squadron took part in a large bombing raid on Cologne, and on 6th June it visited Essen, where it lost two crews. On the 27th June it bombed Bremen in the last thousand-aircraft raid, losing an additional air crew. On the 3rd July yet another crew was lost. Over the night of 22nd July, another four were lost to enemy AA fire and fighter planes. The squadron was suffering heavy losses. Navigation was a big challenge and bombers were forced to fly low, taking time to find their target and presenting plenty of opportunities to be intercepted. It was very rare when its crews didn’t encounter German night fighters. There wasn’t a single GR Wellington during that period that didn’t return damaged. The twin engine Wellington aircraft were beginning to feel their age and in the process of being replaced with the new four engined bombers.

In June 1942 the unit made 111 operational sorties. On the 22nd July the Squadron had only six complete crews, including two fresh rookies crews from the 18 (Polish) training unit.. The flow of volunteers to the bomber force had virtually run-out, causing a big concern for the staff of PAF Headquarters.”

Lamsdorf Death March - RAF Warrant Officer Joseph Fuśniak, BEM. Compiled by Richard Fuśniak 2003

It was springtime. I was beside a fast flowing river, and the sun was shining warmly on the lush green bank. The daffodils were blooming, I could see a Church in the distance and hear bells ringing. People were rejoicing and cheering - the six-year war had ended… and then I woke up with a jolt! It was just before Christmas 1944 and I crawled out of my top bunk bed in Hut 16b, Stalag 344 PoW camp at Lamsdorf (formerly known as Stalag VIII-B). Yet another miserable day to get through, after being held captive for 3 dreadful weary years. For one of those years all RAF and senior NCOs were hand-shackled on Hitler's orders as a reprisal for the Dieppe raid, in which several Nazi troops had been shot during the fighting on the cliffs. I staggered bleary-eyed from my wood-slatted bunk bed, where I was accustomed to sleeping with no mattress and missing planks (taken for use as support struts in escape tunnels), puzzled by the vividness and intensity of my “prophetic“ dream. I had to share this with someone and sought out my best friends RSM. Dick Leggett and W/O. Frank Harlow, both from the British Expeditionary Force and Royal Norfolk Regiment. They scoffed at my story and bet me that this would never materialise. They lost, and both presented me with my winnings on my wedding day – 30th June 1945. Five quid in those days was equivalent to a week's wages -- but my circumstances would take a sinister turn for the worse before Liberation Day.

There was tension in Stalag 344. Rumours were circulating that the Russians were closing in; we were advised to tramp around the camp regularly and to get used to walking in case an evacuation was pending.

Right, Joe's son Richard.

A few days later we heard the distant rumble of artillery, causing us much anxiety and alarm. We had to wait for Red Cross parcels to be unloaded from a nearby railway station before they were distributed around the camp. I was issued with a complete Canadian Red Cross food parcel and collected anything I could wear or carry: two sets of everything; underwear and woollen socks. I still had my thick RAF overcoat intact, but discarded an old worn-out pair of RAF shoes, as I had managed to acquire a pair of American Army boots for 200 cigarettes at the POW camp stores. I also took a rubber 'Lilo' mattress my fiancée had sent me, which turned out to be a lifesaver. I grabbed a thin tatty blanket and stuffed a handful of cigarettes and a few other minor items into my coat pocket. Everything else was left behind, as it was impossible to carry more than a few essential items in a small haversack.

I was in the first evacuation column consisting of 4,000 PoWs and we set off shortly before dark on the 2nd February 1945. This was not my first time passing out through the camp gates. I reflected on two previous occasions when I had swapped identity with army colleagues in coal mine parties and managed to escape - but not for long. I was caught, beaten up at the local police station in Jaworzno and returned to the PoW camp "cooler" where I spent three weeks cut off from all contact with the outside world and companions in a dark, dingy wooden box type room equipped with only a bucket for toilet deposits; no bed or mattress. Only one slice of bread was given to me each day with a cup of water, barely sufficient to stop myself dehydrating. Hitler had ordered that further escape attempts would result in prisoners being shot, after there was a mass escape attempt at Stalag Luft III. A third escape attempt for me was therefore totally out of the question!

Once past the Stalag camp gates, marked by a defiantly displayed Nazi flag beside a lookout tower, I became aware of the ground crunching under my feet as a bitterly cold frost set in with temperatures dropping somewhere between -10 to -20 degrees Centigrade. After a few miles tiredness rapidly overcame me. One unfortunate prisoner had no option but to dump a sack-full of cigarettes, which he had unwisely taken along with him. Now and then we halted for minutes and after 9 hours or more - well after midnight - we eventually reached a village with barns where I collapsed and crashed out for the night, sleeping in hay among hundreds of others. No food, lights or fires were allowed and I was physically and mentally exhausted, having covered 18-25 miles sub-zero temperatures. Some prisoners were desperate to relieve themselves and a few unlucky individuals with no room to move were urinated on in the pitch darkness from those on the top stacks of hay.

At daybreak we assembled for our second day to retreat from the advancing line of Russian artillery. People were dreadfully thirsty and sucked snow. A German NCO was sent ahead on a bicycle to arrange with the village "Burgomeister" about our intended arrival that evening and to scrounge any food that might be available, e.g. some potatoes and hot water to make weak tea. Hot water alone was always welcome as an alternative to cold when we ran out of tea. However, there were seldom facilities to boil water or even cook food except on rare occasions. A slice of bread or sausage would have to last three days. Local villagers were very poor and often were short of food themselves.

A second column of PoWs apparently set off from Stalag 344 the following day. Only the disabled, those unable to walk, and some German staff and guards were left behind and later transferred by train to southern Germany. I later heard that 8,000 Russian PoWs from Stalag VIII-F (located a few miles away from Stalag 344) were marched shortly after I left, but were unfortunately strafed by Russian fighter planes resulting in many men killed.

On the march I kept my head bent towards the ground. All I could think of was a loaf of bread or a meal and a hot jug of milk. That kept me going, but the starvation to follow must have shrunk my stomach to the size of a golf ball over the three-month duration of the march. One man was so desperate that he took food from a parcel under a fellow POW. When the others found out, they threatened to kill him and he ran away in fear. I could hear his screams as he ran across a field, trying to dodge bullets from the merciless escort guards. Whether or not he was killed, I never knew.

Many PoWs had blisters on the soles and toes of their feet that froze. In fact I found it impossible to take the shoes off my crippled feet and don't actually remember removing them except just once in three months. Nor did I change my clothes so I must have stunk to high heaven like everyone else. Lice became an irritating nuisance and impossible to locate due to this restriction, but occasionally I found some of these 3mm long white bloodsuckers, which I crunched between my fingernails. I reckon I became infested while sleeping in a disused brick factory that we shared one night with some Russian PoWs.

Many of us were becoming ill and we were crammed into an empty schoolroom one night and slept on the bare floor. I woke up one morning and prodded my RAF friend. "Hey, John", I said. "We have to get going now". He didn't move; his eyes were wide open and transfixed - cold and dead. Turning to arouse my other companion on the other side of me, I was startled to find he too had died during the night. I got up only to find a third fellow, not too far away, had also passed away. I found a tiny scrap of bread in his rucksack but could not touch it, let alone eat the rancid lump of horsemeat sausage - the decaying smell was putrid. All of a sudden I felt very weak and vulnerable. Would I survive this seemingly pointless, starving existence with endless days of tramping? When and how would it end?

Those who couldn't keep up with the main column were either left behind at the risk of being shot, or alternatively they hitched a lift on a horse and cart hired from a local farmer and paid for with whatever could be offered, i.e. cigarettes, blankets, watches, food, spare clothing, etc.

A Catholic Jesuit priest named John Berry helped ailing POW's. He was like a guardian angel, and was allowed to invite POW’s to go along with him without harassment from the guards. We

once went to an RAF comrade's funeral at which a Polish family was present. They gave me a welcome meal and a few items of food, which I managed to eat during my gruelling journey. I kept contact with John after the war and I was dismayed to learn some years later that he had drowned trying to save someone in the sea.

Sometimes prisoners tried to grab crops from piles between the roadside and adjacent fields. Many were badly beaten with rifle butts by the guards but some were lucky enough to steal something, usually swedes, sugar beet, or mangolds. Little wonder that many fell ill with dysentery. I remember one chap badly suffering from dehydration, with diarrhoea and faeces dribbling down his legs, and with no means for him to clean himself. It was a heart-rending sight.

People rushed to a roadside ditch with hands cupped to catch water trickling down from a hillside. They were beaten on their backs by guards who feared that they might escape. An old German lady was kind enough to bring a bucket of fresh water from her house as we passed by, but as I was about to quench my thirst a revolting guard kicked the bucket, sending it flying in the air. Extremely disgusted at his repulsive behaviour I muttered quietly under my breath to myself, "Schweinehund" (Swine).

Another bad-tempered guard shot a yapping dog right in front of my eyes. Some villagers were less accommodating and came out when they spotted our blue RAF uniforms. They would throw volleys of bricks and stones while screaming at the tops of their voices, "Farfluhte terror fliegers". ("F****** terror airmen", or words to that effect). Dead pigs, horses and sacks of corn were spread all over the place. Apparently the RAF had carried out a successful bombing raid on the town the day before. I was terrified, but amazed that the line of guards actually protected us from harm on that occasion.

There was a doctor from our column - the only one - who looked after our welfare but he carried no anaesthetics; only a basic medical kit and instruments. An emergency operation was needed on a PoW’s eye and all that was available was a sharp sawing needle. I helped others to hold down the patient and apparently the operation was a success. More and more people became sick along the route - dysentery, pleurisy, pneumonia, frostbite, blisters and exhaustion were common. Eventually I dropped out of the main column with severe excruciating internal pains and joined the lagging sick parade of some 30 people. Little did I know at the time but I had gallstones that were only diagnosed several years later requiring an emergency operation.

Eventually our sick unit reached the Hartz Mountain range and we passed through it on a horse and cart loaded with three large drums of petrol. The SS troops were stubbornly refusing to surrender to the American Army, which by this time had surrounded them. One of the guards became unusually friendly with me, knowing that the war would soon end. I was glad not only to receive extra portions of his bread, but a promise of an egg! In fact it was a bribe with one condition attached - that I should supply a written note, saying that he was a good friendly guard who had treated my PoW colleagues and me well during the evacuation. I wrote his requested note in English and handed it to him. He glanced at it and shook my hand with a full beaming smile, delighted by my co-operation. I don't know how he felt when he was eventually captured by liberating troops for what I actually wrote was: "This man was a f****** bastard and treated me badly."

Soon afterwards I entered a village where three SS tanks were waiting and the fuel drums were unloaded from the wagon I was travelling on. I suddenly realised the alarming implications of my ride. The Upper Silesian guards knew there was a risk that fighter planes might attack fuel supplies destined for enemy tanks, so they were using prisoners as human shields. A few minutes later, having walked half a mile down the road there was a terrific explosion from a surprise attack by Typhoon fighter-bombers that had found their targets. I looked back to see a rising cloud of fire and smoke. We escaped being caught up in this raid by a matter of minutes. The next day we reached a tavern at Ditfurt village and stopped in a barn to rest at the rear of the premises. By now the weather was not so severe and spring had arrived. Shells were falling near the river at night. The guards had seemingly abandoned us but were spotted together along the riverbank through the veiled mist that lingered in the morning. A little later a firing Typhoon plane swooped down and we heard that a horse and a Yugoslavian civilian were shot in the village square. Suddenly an alarming burst of machine gun fire sounded outside the Inn and someone quickly shouted with exhilaration, “The Yanks are here!” We rushed to the barn door to greet a jeep load of GIs, except for one emotionally drained RAF colleague. Alas, he died of shock at the news never to enjoy the freedom of liberation.

I made off into the village and confiscated a few odds and ends from a German supply train a few

Kilometres away to help my survival. When I got back later in the day, my knapsack had disappeared; it had my diary in it with all my precious memories and records of the dreadful march. Not only that, I had the names and addresses of the relatives of dead RAF companions and I felt a responsibility to tell them of the unfortunate circumstances of loved ones who had died on the appalling march, or in the Stalag camp. After being deloused and well fed by the liberation forces, I was flown back to England within a few days where I made straight to see my fiancée, Jessica, in Wimbledon. She did not recognise me immediately as I had lost many pounds in weight and looked like a thin rake. The war was over and we married the same year, but the Government did not know what to do with the Poles for three years or so. I was kept at an RAF base in Lincolnshire, before finally settling down to normal civilian life.

Normal? What's normal? Those haunting memories are still with me today. (Now age 92 in 2015)

Joseph Fuśniak

Above: Alan Mann and Sue

In January 1945, as the Soviet armies resumed their offensive and advanced into Germany, many of the prisoners were marched westward in groups of 200 to 300 in the so-called Death March. Many of them died from the bitter cold and exhaustion. The lucky ones got far enough to the west to be liberated by the American army. The unlucky ones got "liberated" by the Soviets, who instead of turning them over quickly to the western allies, held them as virtual hostages for several more months. Many of them were finally repatriated towards the end of 1945 though the port of Odessa on the Black Sea.

Alan Mann. November 12th 2015

Burial details:

F/O. Cezary Lewicki. Reichswald Forest War Cemetery. Grave 27.F.1. Born on the 12th June 1919, from Ciechanów, Poland.

F/O. Bolesław Eugeniusz Peszkowski. Reichswald Forest War Cemetery. Grave 27.F.5. Born on the 08th October 1912 in Stryszów, Poland.

F/O. Kazimierz Kucza. Reichswald Forest War Cemetery. Grave 27.F.4. Born on the 30th March 1914 in Gawłuszowice, Poland.

Sgt. Robert Bronisław Maliszewski. Reichswald Forest War Cemetery. Grave 27.F.3. Born on the 31st May 1922 in Warszawa, Poland.

P/O. Piotr Kuderski. Reichswald Forest War Cemetery. Grave 27.F.2. Born on the 27th June 1914 in Augustów, Poland.

For further details our thanks to Alan Mann, Steve Darlow, Richard and of course Joe Fuśniak, Robert Gretzyngier, Wojtek Matusiak, Waldemar Wójcik and Józef Zieliński - 'Ku Czci Połeglyçh Lotnikow 1939-1945', and also the following sources.

At the going down of the sun, and in the morning we will remember them. - Laurence Binyon
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