William Fisher Martin DFC

William Fisher Martin DFC

A biography written by his grandson. It mainly covers the ditching.

Three printed sheets

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My Grandfather, William Fisher Martin DFC served with 57 Sqn from April 1943 to August 1944. He was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross in recognition of gallantry and devotion to duty in the execution of air operations. His citation reads as follows:

“This officer has participated in many operational sorties against a variety of targets. He has proved himself a most efficient navigator, and has always displayed outstanding courage and determination. Throughout his operational tour. His fine technical skill has largely contributed to the success of many missions. In April 1944 his aircraft was detailed to attack Schweinfurt. On the outward flight it was attacked and damaged by an enemy fighter. The read [sic] gunner was wounded and the inter-communication system and the elevator were damaged, both turrets also being rendered unserviceable. Flying Officer Martin calmy navigated the damaged aircraft to the target, which was bombed, and safely back to this country, where a successful landing was accomplished. Again, in June 1944, during an attack on a target in Western Germany, his aircraft was damaged by anti-aircraft fire and the petrol tank was holed. On the return flight, owing to lack of fuel, the bomber was forced down on to the sea. After 15 hours in the dinghy, the crew were rescued. Despite slight head injuries, Flying Officer Martin’s cool courage and cheerfulness were a source of inspiration to the rest of the crew”.

My Grandfather’s own account of the June 1944 mission which resulted in the ditching follows:

“We huddled together in the rocking dinghy; seven very scared, very wet, and very much at sea airmen. We watched, with a sense of loss, the large starboard wing of good old A for Able sinking lower in the water until it disappeared from sight. She had carried us safely through our last 15 ops, and now she was going down into the depths of the North Sea, leaving us on the surface, crouched miserably in our all too small dinghy, still only half realising our predicament.

It had all happened very quickly. One minute we were happily wending our way homewards, 5000 ft, 175 on the clock and the contented feeling of another ‘job’ successfully completed. It had been a tough one, with four separate attacks by a rocket firing night fighter, and we had been very very thankful when we had crossed, safely as we thought, the Dutch coast and headed out to sea. Suddenly, for no accountable reason, A for Able swung round in a semi-circle and headed East again. “What’s wrong skipper?” Why? Where? Suddenly, the Flight Engineer’s voice quieted the babble on the intercom. “Starboard outer and inner packed up Skipper”. “See what’s wrong Geoff”. “Fuel tanks empty skipper, we must have been holed after all”. A few minutes elapsed while the Engineer struggled with cross-feeding from the remaining tanks. Another engine cut and we were left facing the prospect of a wet night. The skipper’s voice came quietly to us over the intercom. “Prepare to ditch”. A few minutes while everyone collected their remaining wits about them and made their respective preparations. I hastily fixed our position and passed it in message form to the wireless operator, who had immediately commenced distress signals. I remember I had taken time to convert the G fix to lat and long coordinates and Fred returned it for alteration.

All too soon came the dreaded order ”Ditching stations!” We took off our harnesses, inflated our Mae Wests and scrambled back to our crash positions, and if we prayed mentally we did it unawares. “Escape hatches off” “1000 feet”, “500 feet”, “200 feet”, “Prepare for impact” – we braced ourselves for the smack! Crash – and then oblivion! When I scrambled to my feet the water was up to my knees and Snow, the Bomb Aimer, was thrusting the dinghy packs into my hands. Automatically in the pitch blackness I stumbled to the upper escape hatch and thrust them up to the awaiting hands – dinghy, radio followed, and then I scrambled up through the hatch, and breathed a sigh of relief as I saw the skipper crawling along the top of the cabin – good old Nick – were we all out then? A quick scramble onto the wing – already awash – and then into the dinghy – steadying it to help Nick aboard (she was already floating). “All present?” “Jock?” “Geoff?” “Johnny?” All correct! “OK, cut the line”. Momentary panic as A for Able keeled over on her nose and stood threateningly above us – a huge mass in the darkness. “Paddle! Paddle, for God’s sake!” It seemed hours until we worked our way clear by pushing on the wing and thrusting off from the wing tip, and then we were left watching her go down – our trusty old kite – damn Jerry anyway.

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Slowly we quieted ourselves and tried to take stock. Thank God we were all out anyway. “Hullo”, Nick’s face is a mess”. Dimly we saw he was bleeding freely and was a bit dazed. Someone searched for the dinghy pack and began to fumble for the first aid kit. Then we realised there was more water in the dinghy than we would like. Another search began for the baler. Too slow – “Bale with something” “Try your flying boot someone” “no, no use” “Here, use this”. Snow – good old dependable Snow – pulled off his boot and we started to bale. Surely we were making water. “Hell, there’s a leak here; where’s the stoppers?” Another search to locate them and them [sic] we had them and screwed one into the hole in the bottom. “Keep on baling” Gradually we got the bottom a little drier.

Sick – feeling sick – lean over the side and try to vomit, but it’s no use, just a squeamish rotten feeling that made us all helpless for a while. Eventually we got organised, found everything, bandaged Nick’s head, found the baler and used it on and off continually from then on. Fred, the Wireless Operator, organised us on rigging the aerial mast for the portable radio transmitter – unfortunately the top part of the mast got broken somehow and it was non-effective as we found out afterwards, but we kept the handle turning hopefully in spells from then on. Though the signals were never picked up, it gave us a ray of hope. There was a heavy swell on but the dinghy rode beautifully and that was one worry less. The occasional wave broke over us and soaked us all to the skin and soon we were cold and miserable and feeling very sorry for ourselves. It was an effort to do anything.

Towards dawn we heard the sound of aircraft engines. They approached from the West and faded away towards the lightening eastern sky, well to the South and we sank into our apathetic stupor again. Conversation was sporadic – from time to time one or other of us passed a remark, baled for a spell, or cranked the radio handle. Dawn came slowly, as the sky was overcast, but eventually it was light and we were all able to see around us. Not that there was much to see – several yards of swollen grey sea when we were down in the trough of the waves, and a wider view when we rode a crest.

Again we were roused by the sound of engines and saw, well to the South, low, below cloud, two Personnel Recovery Unit aircraft speeding eastward – ironic, we thought, they were probably going to photograph whatever damage we had done the previous night. It brought renewed hope that someone would spot us soon. Again we cranked and bailed, bailed and cranked. Time dragged by until yet again we heard engines and eagerly scanned the sky. This time we spotted a single heavier aircraft and watched it drone across the horizon below cloud, well to the South again. Miserably we watched it turn away South and disappear from view. Later we heard it again, approaching from the South, and I fumbled for the grey pistol which I had tucked inside my battle dress. We watched as it came nearer then saw it turn east again still some distance south of us and I raised the pistol and fired off a cartridge. The aircraft carried on and we sat back into our seats. They hadn’t seen it! Then, as we watched it turn yet again southwards, it dawned on us that it was an air sea rescue kite doing a square search, and immediately our hopes were raised. Perhaps our signals had been picked up and they were looking for us. I reloaded the pistol and waited expectantly.

Later it reappeared, headed North, and I waited until it appeared near enough before raising the pistol and fired off another cartridge. Again the aircraft swung off to the East and we sank back, hopes again dashed. This time it seemed only seconds before it reappeared heading, so it seemed, straight for us. Had they spotted the very flare? I reloaded hastily and fired again and this time there was no mistake; they had spotted us. Scrambling up we cheered and waved as the aircraft banked and flew over us. Then came the blink of an and [sic] Aldus [sic] Lamp and they signalled that they would drop a Lindholme Dinghy and supply packs to us. We watched as the aircraft dropped a smoke float to gauge wind speed and direction and waited while they got positioned, opened bomb doors for the drop, and flew steadily across, and we saw packs descend from the open bomb bay and land with a series of splashes some distance to one side. Hastily we drew in the sea anchor we had out, and paddled towards the larger dinghy which had inflated on impact, and climbed aboard. Unfortunately the line had snapped between the first and second packs and the packs drifted away beyond our reach, but that didn’t bother us much as we were sure we were

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safe now and would soon be picked up. It was wonderful, the lift in morale, once we felt safe. The aircraft kept station above us and signalled that help was on its way.

Some time later it headed away East, then swung round towards us again, and soon after we saw the bow waves of a naval launch approaching. When it arrived we were helped aboard, given dry clothing and a large mug of naval rum. Never had a drink been more appreciated, and I remember little else till we docked at Yarmouth later, having been in a deep sleep.

The skipper and I spent a couple of nights in naval hospital and then were driven to the nearest airfield and flown back to East Kirkby, where the rest of the crew had already arrived. We learned that the base had lost 11 aircraft that night and morale was low, and that our arrival had brought a great boost to the station as a whole, and I can appreciate the hopes raised by our return. Later we learned that the rescue aircraft had not been looking for us (our signals not having been received at all), but that they were looking for an airborne lifeboat which had been dropped the previous evening to the crew of an American daylight op kite which had ditched earlier. So we had been very very lucky to have been rescued so quickly after only some 12 hours afloat in “the drink’“.