If for any reason, you're unable to access the link to George Duffee's epic WWII evasion story via the Comet Line, here it is in George's own words:
Chapter 1 - Arrival on Squadron - 22 June 1943
I remember well the day - one always does when it is the day of return from leave. I had travelled standing in the corridor of an overcrowded train puffing its way from Kings Cross, London, to York and arriving an hour late. How glorious a week's leave really is and how despondent a soul can be when it is ended. But, this was going to be different, for instead of returning to a Training Unit, I was joining an Operational Bomber Squadron - 78 Squadron based at Breighton in Yorkshire.
After doing the many things one does on arrival at a new station, I approached the Flight Commanders office. To me, the new arrival, the Flight Commander was all I imagined an operational pilot to be - merry, wide-awake looking, brown eyes that spoke of friendliness - a rather roguish-looking moustache above a pair of half-smiling lips. He wore a greasy looking battledress decorated with the ribbons of the D.S.O. and the D.F.C. His dilapidated hat, which I espied thrown in the corner of the office, would have disgraced any parade.
''Well young man!'' he said, ''You will get the opportunity of seeing your first German target tonight!'' I stammered my thanks and retreated to my untidy Nissen hut, there to subdue my excitement and write a letter to my mother, assuring her that I had survived the journey north. Tonight I would see my first enemy target! Visions of bomb scarred London crowded into my mind - visions of my own damaged home, and in my boyish heart, a vehement savagery was born. ''They'' would come to know the suffering that ''They'' had inflicted upon London, Coventry, Rotterdam and Warsaw.
Many things were happening about the aerodrome - huge petrol bowsers were racing out to the aircraft dispersal points, followed by the slow moving tractors pulling miniature train loads of bombs. Air gunners were busily engaged cleaning their beloved guns and wiping the specks of oil from the perspex of their turrets. Armourers stood by supervising the loading of the bombs, while ground crews checked the engines, fuselage and undercarriage of their aircraft, their Halifax bomber. As I hurried to the Briefing Room, the sun was already setting in a cloudless sky.
The Briefing Room was a large Nissen hut in which there were many map covered tables and a huge map of Europe showing the enemy defences, his fighter zones and his searchlight belts occupied half of one of the walls. Soon the air-crews began to drift in - some happy - some gloomy, some visibly nervous and others outwardly calm. They separated themselves into crews and awaited the arrival of the Briefing Officers. Quickly they settled down and the room became full of cigarette smoke and snatches of conversation drifted to my ears - ''The one last night - she was a real popsy'' – etc.
I was to fly as second pilot to a Flight Lieutenant Knight who had completed I think sixteen operational trips. The dreary matter-of-fact voice of the Meteorological Officer came to me '' - very little cloud, slight industrial haze over the target area, moon rises soon after midnight''. The Tactics Officer ''You can expect fighter interception here, heavy flak here, and balloon barrage here'', and the Navigation Officer calling out the speeds and heights at which we were to fly followed by the Wing Commander's final ''Good luck chaps''. I stood by the table occupied by the crew with whom I was to fly and listened to their final preparations. All I was conscious of was the thin red line on the Navigators chart leading to Mulheim in the heart of the strongly defended Ruhr Valley.
In the locker room it was the same - I kept wondering what it was really going to be like - trying to anticipate everything. ''Dash it!'' I had forgotten to unpack my flying helmet. There was very little time to spare so I borrowed the first bicycle I could lay my hands on and peddled furiously back to my Nissen hut, returning just in tine to board the crew bus. In the locker room there had been much teasing, a little bickering and I confess a little swearing, but now everyone sat fairly quietly on the bus, swathed in their heavy flying suits and bedecked with many-coloured scarves. On our way out to the aircraft we waved a solemn mocking farewell to the Waafs on their way to their mess for supper.
Thirty tons of Halifax and bomb load raced along the runway and was carried gently upwards into the clear sky of a June night.