Buck's Story

A Very Sticky Trip

Kearns had taken them through the heavy flak at 10,000 feet and they had let their ordnance go over the target — seventeen 250lb armour-piercing bombs for the reinforced-concrete submarine pens of Saint-Nazaire, on the Atlantic coast of Nazi-occupied France.

Now they raced through the night across Brittany towards the Cherbourg Peninsula and the safety of the Channel beyond. Losing altitude all the way, by the time they crossed the shoreline and flattened out over the water, they were at wave-top height.

Almost immediately, Moller, from his front turret, saw three white wakes ahead of them — German patrol boats.

He yelled to Kearns to pull up. They were too low to turn away.

Depressing his guns as the plane started to climb, Moller opened fire and shouted, “Boats to starboard!” over the intercom. In the rear turret, Buck Price opened up too, as tracer fire streaked around him.

There was a crash at the rear of the aircraft.

The intercom went dead.

Moller made his way aft and pulled Buck out of his turret.

“WHERE ARE YOU HIT, BUCK?”

“UP THE ARSE!”

The enemy shell had exploded beneath the Wellington's tail. Buck had taken shrapnel in his leg and backside. The turret was riddled with holes and out of action.

Then they were out of range and over open sea, headed home. Moller gave Buck a jab of morphine and put a marked ticket around his neck.

It was a close call, but the story would not end that night.

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75(NZ) Squadron

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Homeward Bound

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