The recent death of Dr. Donald Sillers, a veteran of the Second World War will probably go unnoticed by the general public outside his immediate environment of family and friends and those who recall his early years in Estevan.
Sillers was extremely reluctant to talk about his Second World War experiences. Proud to serve his country, but not eager to discuss details. It was a chapter, albeit an important chapter in his life, he just didn’t want to rehash.
But, as time marches on, attitudes change and Dr. Sillers was no exception to this age-old rule of shifting priorities and making things right, or perhaps, telling it like it was.
So, in the mid-1990s Donald Ellwood Sillers decided his family should at least have an opportunity to learn a little about this important chapter in his life. It probably wasn’t easy to write, but the Toronto-based ophthalmologist sat in front of an old typewriter and tapped out thoughts, regarding one specific incident where fear and dread hammered home a message to a young airman.
Those who piloted or became crew members aboard Canadian air warships, and who are still alive, could, no doubt, share those thoughts and fears.
The bombing raids over Europe and other war ravaged zones in the 1940s took a tremendous toll in lives of the bomber crews. Even if they managed to survive the bombing runs, the scars of what transpired, lived on.
So that was what Donald Sillers was finally willing to share, with just a peek into one eventful bombing run in a Lancaster bomber.
Sillers’ sister, Shirley Andrist, said her brother was a true Estevanite, growing up in this community, wending his way through the elementary school and Estevan Collegiate Institute before immediately signing up.
“Donald was the oldest in our family of five. We lost one sister early,” said Andrist.
When he returned from service, he earned a degree in optometry from the University of Toronto.
“He thought about pursuing a career in medicine. He ended up going back to university to earn a degree in ophthalmology. It seemed like he was going to school forever,” she said with a laugh. He practiced optometry in Regina for a while before meeting his future wife Marian in Guelph, Ont., and eventually setting up a practice in Toronto.
Right out of high school, Sillers went straight to flight school in Manitoba and he also received additional training in Vancouver, his sister recounted.
“I know my son Robert, when he was quite young, was anxious to talk to Donald about his experiences when he knew he was going to meet him at a family wedding, but Don just wasn’t ready to share much at all then. But something happened a few years later and he agreed to put something down on paper and I just thought some Mercury readers might be interested in what he had to say because so many others went through similar ordeals,” said Shirley. “He said he would write it so we, as a family, would know about this one episode at least. The family is willing to share it,” she added.
The following is Captain Donald E. Sillers recollection of one bombing mission.
It begins:
After 50 years, I felt I could tell this tale of terror as I charge towards by biological destination.
I was the pilot on a Lancaster bomber in Feb, 1945, when we had a fighter attack over the target.
About 10 years ago, a very dear friend, who was also a pilot on the same squadron, and I, met at an RCAF aircrew reunion in Winnipeg. During our conversation he asked me if I was ever afraid? I said, “No Sandy, I was never afraid, I was terrified.” He replied, “so was I.” We agreed we could not discuss it or even mention it at that time. It seemed to be an unwritten rule we did not talk about crews who went missing. If anyone began to speak about the missing people, someone always yelled “shut up.” The end of talking.
Fifty years later I still grieve for friends and acquaintances who never grew old. Tears come easily and it is hard to keep one’s emotions in check when talking of events of the time, let alone think about them. I still dream of flak flying, searchlights and the hell below.
Our trip that was nearly our last took place on the night of Feb. 20-21, 1945. We always had a briefing in the afternoon and each crew assigned sat at tables. Each crew had seven members: pilot; navigator; bomb aimer; wireless operator; flight engineer plus two gunners, mid-upper and tail. One could not attend the briefing or enter the room (guards on the door) if he was not part of the operation for that night. Once in, we saw the target was Duisburg in the Ruhr Valley. I heard some say “piece of cake.” We would not be long over German territory.
Briefing was carried out by message from the Wing Commander giving start-up times, taxiing time, take-off time, height to fly, route to follow and time for each crew to bomb. Other details of the target, marking by pathfinders were given. The intelligence officer told of defences and warned us about keeping away from Calais and other French cities across the English Channel that were still held by the Germans. The meteorological officer gave a talk on the weather to be expected, cloud, wind speeds and direction.
After briefing, we had an hour to get to our aircraft. Usually two crews would pile into the back of each truck to be driven to the dispersal area since aircraft were spread around the perimeter. We carried parachutes, “Mae West” life jackets and other gear plus escape kits and maps.
The tension was always high during this period, but everyone acted as though we were all off to a picnic. Any show of emotion was taboo; although I had tachycardia, it was not obvious to others.
We took off at 17:30 hours, sitting on a 4,000 pound bomb and 1,200 four pound incendiaries, so it states in the record book. It was our 16th trip together as a crew. Our route took us down England, Doncaster, Reading, then across Beechy Head and into France. We had been en route two hours when the navigator informed me the forecasted winds were way out. We would have to cut corners and speed up to get to target at our given time. Time-on-target and height were important to avoid collisions and to get in and out before German night fighters attacked.
We were at 18,500 feet and were late on target. We bombed at 23:20 hours. The bomb doors were just closed when we were hit by 20 mm cannon fire from a German Ju 88. The aircraft shuddered and shook and so did I. The intercom went dead. I could see one engine was running wild. The directional gyro stopped. I felt my legs were numb and I had shortness of breath and was sweating profusely with a rapid heart rate. I let go of the controls and reached for my legs and both were present. I felt nothing sticky or wet, so realized I had not been hit, so I began to fly the aircraft again. We had descended in a spiral dive from 18,500 feet to 11,000 in short order. The only crewmember I could contact was our flight engineer who sat or stood to my right. The noise level made conversation difficult. Removing my oxygen mask I pointed to the dials and tried to tell him to feather the runaway engine. This would stop the prop and help avoid fire. The engineer feathered an engine, but the wrong one. We now had two port engines and no power on the starboard side. It was hard to keep the aircraft straight, it wanted to go in a tight circle and roll. Finally, he got the one starboard engine restarted and the damaged one shut down. The only directional instrument was the pot compass. I decided to fly straight west using this instrument.
I sent the engineer back to check on the crew. He returned and indicated no one had jumped out or was hurt. Radio equipment and astrodome were shot up and the master directional gyro was out. The aircraft was sloppy to fly and we didn’t know what damage had been done to ailerons, rudders, elevators etc. It was at this point I checked my pot compass and found the arrow nicely lined up with parallel lines, but I was flying a course of 90 degrees straight into Germany. The compass was difficult to see from my seat. A quick 180 degree turn was made. We did not see German fighters again and possibly my mistake in direction put them off. The gunners had both fired but 303’s are no match for 20 mm cannon shells. No hits were reported on the enemy. My navigator sent a note with a course to fly home.
We landed at base in Yorkshire at 02:15 on Feb. 21. The trip home was frightening because of the sloppy controls and lack of communication among the crew. We had to shut down another engine for awhile, but did restart it for landing.
The next day the aircraft was declared junk and we were advised some pieces were just hanging together.
We did 14 more trips before being screened and wrapped up just before the war officially ended.
Books I have read state the war was winding down and the insinuation was we were having an easy time. No one told that to the Germans who were still shooting down our crews at a good rate.
So ended the story of one bombing run by a pilot and his crew who faced fear and attacks by the enemy and lived to eventually relate the tale so that others might learn that war is hell, not a game or a mere adventure.
