As I was being taken from the pub, the villagers gathered to say goodbye. The elderly men shook my hand, the women and girls gave me a kiss on each cheek and pressed upon me little parcels of candy and home-made cake and cookies. The German soldiers made no attempt to stop these kind and generous acts. In a motor-cycle side-car I was taken to a major building in a nearby town, obviously a military headquarters,. Here the treatment was first-rate, although I made the mistake on not getting to my feet when an officer of field rank entered the room, which resulted in loud shouting as only the Germans can.
My next move was to the Luftwaffe airfield at Abbeville. Here an oberleutenant took me to his room, provided a basin of water, soap and towel and gave me a shot of schnapps. We then went to the dining room where I joined the German pilots in their noon meal.

At least half the pilots spoke excellent English and asked many questions which I refused to answer, stating that I could only give my name, rank and number. There was much laughter as the English-speaking pilots chorused “ Ja! Ja! We have to say the same thing if we are captured.
I was surprised at the question “When will the war be over?” When you are flying every day and going to the pub every night, you don’t give much thought to the war ending. For some reason, I replied “Four or five years”. There was a burst of “Nein, nein” - or no, no. I then asked if Britain would win, to which they replied
“Nein.” When I asked if Germany would win, the answer was again negative; they were firmly convinced Britain would join with Germany against Russia
After a hearty lunch I was taken outside to see the FW 190 and even to climb up on the wing and look into the cockpit! Two English-speaking officeres  then took me in a fairly modern Ford convertible to my next destination. As we drove along, the driver asked if I would like to listen to the BBC. I was a little naive, replying that the Gestapo wouldn’t permit that. He turned to the other officer and laughingly asked, “You aren’t Gestapo, are you?” as he tuned in the British radio station.
I can’t recall the distance we drove, but we ended up at a sort of castle in the country. Here a young, English speaking Italian girl brought a large plate of bread and meat for me. I could only eat a little, and she asked if she could give the rest to my friend outside. Upon leaving I found that the friend outside was a warrant officer pilot from my squadron who was heavily bandaged around the shoulder. We were directed to the middle seat of a large touring car, with the driver in front and two officers behind us - each with a pistol jabbed into our backs. This was a rather uncomfortable ride into the city of Saint Omer.   (Continued at Memorable Op 3)

Most Memorable Op 2