(According to the Polish Air Force Association, Stanislaw is NOT listed as having

participated in WW2 because he was too young to have done so.

He was only 18 when the war ended. Consequently, he was only able to

fly missions AFTER THE WAR, once he graduated Cadet school)

 

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I was born in 1926 in Grodzisko near Rzeszów. In 1938 my family moved to Podole as part of a campaign to resettle those territories. Thus, a year later, we found ourselves in the social group most hated by the Soviets. On 19 September 1939, they arrested my father. They did not let us have any contact with him, but on 9 February 1940, at 8:00 p.m., he came home. Yet, our joy was short-lived: that same night at midnight, the Soviets came to arrest him again, and with him the entire family.

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They loaded us onto cattle cars and drove us eastwards by rail. The journey, in terrible conditions, dragged on for sixteen days. They gave us no food whatsoever, so we had to rely on what we had managed to bring with us from home. They threw us out of the cars at the station in Murashi in the republic of Komi, and marched us to a tiny village of Gerkashovo, some 100 kilometres away from the railway station. It was the middle of the Siberian winter, with temperatures reaching 50°C below zero. To this day I do not know how we survived that march.

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Gerkashovo was little more than a lumber camp. My father, my mother, and I had to work cutting trees in the forest; my younger brothers stayed in the barrack. The daily quotas were very high and difficult to meet. With whatever little money we made from so much toil in the forest, we could buy rations of bread and, very rarely, a ration of sugar as well.

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We worked in that camp until we learned that the Polish government had signed an agreement with the Soviets, which provided for the formation of a Polish army in the Soviet Union. My father and I decided to join that army; my mother and brothers were not allowed to leave the camp until six months later, when they made their way to Kazakhstan.

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Our journey to the Polish army began with the 100-kilometre trek to the station in Murashi. Along the way, other Poles joined us from nearby settlements. By train we went to Uzbekistan, about twenty kilometers from the Chinese border. There we were detained to work on cotton plantations. We worked hard, but the food was decent because we were already considered military personnel. We arrived at the Polish army camp in Kermine three months later. We came at a bad time, when diseases such as spotted fever, typhoid fever, and amoebic dysentery were raging throughout the camp. We had no doctors and no medicine. People were dropping like flies: every morning I carried out the corpses of my friends whom fate would not grant to see the day when we finally left Russia. Entire divisions, such as the 11th, wasted away, with hundreds of dead every day.

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Somehow, I survived that hell on earth, and in early August we were transported to Krasnowodsk and then by ship to Pahlavi, Persia. Our first steps in Persia led through a disinfection unit, staffed mostly by Hindus. They disinfected us with concentrated Lysol in the armpits and crotch; then, with large razors, they shaved us there to bare skin. We were afraid they might cut us in one of those sensitive places, but we heard of no such accidents. The uniforms in which we arrived were piled up and burned, and we were issued new British ones. In one respect we were disappointed: the English food rations were too small for Polish appetites, being only a can of sardines and some marmalade.

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From Pahlavi, we were transported to Iraq, where they assigned us to various services. The medical commission decided that I was fit for the air force. My group of prospective fliers was transferred to Egypt and located to the Heliopolis Cadet School, on the outskirts of Cairo. We were trained by British instructors, mostly as radio operators, telegraph operators, and navigators. A great deal of emphasis was also placed on collegiality and friendship, so important for the flying crews. Later, we moved to a temporary camp on the Suez Canal near Ismailia, and from there boarded a ship in Port Said bound for Liverpool.

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In England, we were taken to the headquarters of the Polish Air Force and billeted with private families on the coast. Finally, we were split into crews and assigned to Polish 300 Squadron, named after Mazovia. I was to be a radio operator and took some special training in that area. We did our first training flights on Wellingtons. A crew consisted of the pilot, mechanic, radio operator, bombardier, and three gunners. Training flights lasted up to ten hours in every twenty-four-hour period, with day and night flights alternating. My responsibility was to maintain contact with ground control, with the crew, and with other airplanes in the formation. Usually we relied on voice communication, but sometimes we had to resort to codes.

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At last, it was time for our first operational flight. We took off on a Wellington at 7:00 a.m. Our target was an industrial complex in the Ruhr Basin. Close to our target, we flew into heavy anti-aircraft fire. I had a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach, but with time I got used to it. We usually flew at the elevation of 5000 meters, so essentially beyond the range of the artillery. The downside was that we had to use oxygen masks. To drop the bombs, we had to come down to about 3000 meters, which was within the range of guns on the ground. Our first mission turned out lucky as all eighteen planes safely returned to the base. But it was not always like that. There were days when two or three crews failed to return, and once only three out of eighteen made it safely back. We celebrated when all came back, grieved when we lost colleagues and friends. It was a custom that if a crew did not return, the contents of their lockers were divided among those who were still alive and could make use of them.

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Each flight was preceded by a briefing. We were told where we were flying, at what altitude, and what our targets were. When we returned, we had to go for another briefing to discuss the details of the aerial photographs taken during the bombing. There was little time left between the flights, for we flew daily. After flying three rounds—that is, thirty flights—we could get thirty days off. On those occasions we could go wherever we wanted as long as we stayed in Britain.

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Polish squadrons were always equipped with the newest machines, so we were among the first to fly the Lancasters. They were larger than Wellingtons, had four engines, and required nine-person crews. Regardless of rank, the pilot was always the commander. We usually spoke Polish over the intercom, which was always on during the flights. Our targets were typically the Ruhr Basin and Berlin, both of enormous strategic importance and both strongly defended. We could often see through the windows the many air-defense positions. When the fire barrage was too intense, and we could not make it all the way to our target areas, we had to drop the bombs anywhere on enemy territory. The crew, flying under those conditions of constant danger, developed strong ties of comradery and friendship, which they maintain to this day. Our base was not far from Nottingham, and we cultivated close and friendly relationships with the local civilian population. When off duty, we could go to pubs frequented by the locals. This greatly helped us in learning the language. We also kept in touch with the Polish women who served in the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force Service. Many of our colleagues married WAAFs, including Milejszo and Gandecki.

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During the stormy years of the war, we could not maintain regular contact with our families. I met my father in Iraq and in Palestine. Mother was left behind in Kuybyshev [Samara], and only later made it to a Polish refugee camp in India with my brothers. I met with them again in 1947, during the action of reuniting families in Britain, five years after our separation. My wife also came through the Polish camps in India. Those camps were full of youths, and to keep them occupied, schools and Scouting were organized, with teachers and instructors recruited from the Polish 2nd Corps. My wife met my mother while in India, but I only met her in January 1948, two years after her arrival in England. I was heartbroken when she and her family left for Canada later the same year.

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After the war, I tried to go to university, but the competition was too strong, and I did not make it. When I got my demobilization papers in 1949, I listened to the voice of my heart and went to where my future wife was calling me, to Canada. I arrived at Halifax aboard the liner Aquitania, and from there went by train to Winnipeg. I found my first, poorly paid, job at a post office on Portage Avenue, but I quit after six months. Finding a new job proved quite a challenge, because wherever I applied, Canadians were hired before immigrants. Finally, I was hired by Inland Steel, a company very friendly to Polish veterans. My friends joked that I was the best-dressed labourer in the company, always in a freshly pressed shirt, but I could not help the habits I got from the air force. We were always taught that those who fly must be well dressed, and dressing well became my second nature. I began at Inland Steel in 1950 and stayed with the same company until retirement, first as a labourer and later as a personnel relations assistant.

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My wife and I were married one month after my arrival in Canada, and soon we started a family: first a daughter was born, and then two boys. My daughter finished university and married a Greek man. She now lives in Greece, which means high telephone bills for us and occasional vacations in southern Europe. My younger son—now over thirty—is also married and has a daughter. My middle son is still a bachelor.

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I have been a member of the Polish Combatants Association, Chapter #13, since 1952. I served three terms as president of our local chapter, and afterwards as treasurer and secretary. Most recently, I was elected to the national board of the association as vice-president for central Canada.

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Note:  Janina (nee Czech) Kmiec passed away on 5 September 2018

Stanislaw Kmiec passed away on 26 December 2021

 

 

Source: "Providence Watching" with the kind permission of Dr. Patalas

 

 

Copyright: Kmiec family

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