Ditching - How I got to do it Twice
Title
Ditching - How I got to do it Twice
Description
Brian Walley's detailed account of his two ditchings.
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Spatial Coverage
Language
Format
Two printed sheets
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Contributor
Identifier
BWalleyBSWalleyBSv10001, BWalleyBSWalleyBSv10002
Transcription
[black and white photograph of a young airman in uniform]
[colour photograph of an older man with a beard wearing civilian clothing]
‘DITCHING’
“How I got to do it twice”
I joined the RAF on 1st July 1940 aged 17. With the enlisting minimum age of 18 for aircrew I went all through the entire war one year older than my birth certificate showed. Exactly 12 months after enlisting I got my wings with a posting to 19 OTU at Kinloss in the north of Scotland flying Whitleys.
Towards the end of the conversion course we were doing night circuits and bumps when after take off the port engine cut out. We immediately called base asking permission for a right hand circuit and come straight in. The reply from the tower was negative with instructions to head out to sea and rejoin the circuit at 1000’ in the normal manner. As instructed we went out over the sea, but as we turned back toward the shore losing height, we had to ditch about a quarter of a mile from land. Fortunately it was a lovely still night with barely a ripple on the water. We made a perfect wheels up belly landing. A flying boat pilot couldn’t have done a better job. All we had to do was jettison the hatch on the port side, throw out the dinghy manually, it inflated automatically, we then stepped into it. We didn’t even get our feet wet. Of course by this time we had radio’d [sic] our predicament back to base so that a fishing boat from Lossiemouth could be sent to search for us. An hour or so later we were back on land. We knocked up the local publican, a dour Scotsman who phoned through our news to RAF Kinloss. But no way was he going to give us a drink. Out of hours, he said and to hell with our nerves!
[black and white photograph of an aircraft on the ground]
A couple of days later I was flying over that area and spotted my Whitley lying like a beached whale on the shore. I don’t think it ever flew again!
My next posting was to 51 Sqn at Dishforth in Yorkshire. Still flying Whitleys I completed only 5 ops, one of them to Hamburg where we were coned in searchlights and struggling back to make a single engine landing at Driffield. The last the 5th was to Berlin or bust as we used to say. We took off at dusk with an expected 11 hour flight ahead. At briefing the met man had indicated 40 mph winds possibly rising to 60 over the North Sea, but dropping for our return journey, instead of which the winds switched round to the north, increasing to an 80 mph with a howling arctic gale with severe icing withing the 15000’ of cloud we had to battle through. Our planned track had been to cross Denmark then to fly along the Baltic with a short last leg down to Berlin. The wind must have pushed us slap bang over Kiel because ack-ack opened up on target and knocked out one engine. Consequently the bombs were jettisoned over Kiel instead of being dropped on Berlin.
We could, and as it turned out should, have made for neutral Sweden, but with a war to win we decided to head for home even though there were 200 odd miles of gale lashed sea to cross. A long slow glide from 17,000’ helped along by the remaining engine might have got us home if it were not for the severe icing now encountered. It was imperative to get down below the cloud as soon as possible. Eventually we broke through at about 15000’. Now a Whitley on one engine could be expected to make about 90 mph ground speed, but with an 80 mph head wind, things were not looking all that rosy. When that engine began to heat up over the middle of the North
4
[page break]
Sea, the writing was on the wall and another ditching was inevitable. Whereas we had had ditching drills in the local swimming pool dressed in bathers, it was quite a different matter suited up in full flying gear as we were soon to find out.
The sea now whipped up into 30-40’ waves was terrifying when lit up in our landing lights. My skipper was at the controls and did the best job possible, pancaking on top of one wave but with still enough forward speed to drop us down into the trough and to hit the next wave like a battering ram. The whole front of the fuselage seemed to be wrapped round my legs, trapping me as the water rose up to my chest. Prior to the ditching the Rear Gunner and Wireless Op had jettisoned the hatch and threw out the dinghy as soon as practical and then jumped on board. The Skipper and Navigator went out through the top hatch, leaving me to struggle free from the wreckage as best I might. With my left knee broken it wasn’t easy but I succeeded getting out but leaving one flying boot behind in the process. I half climbed and half swam up through the top hatch and crawled along the top of the submerged fuselage and somehow fell towards the dinghy to be grabbed by the 4 crew already in the dinghy and hauled aboard.
All this took less than a minute. With a gaping hole up front the plane was sinking fast. The umbilical cord tethering us to it had not broken so the skipper grabbed a knife and went back into the wreck to cut it. The tension snapped and we were free. The last I saw of the old kite was the landing lights some 20’ below, still shining. Another wave rolled by and it was gone.
During the night seasickness took its toll. We all retched violently until there was nothing left to throw up. What a miserable night that was, but worse was to follow. I guess it would have been about 10 am the following morning, the gale was still raging, the wind simply picked up the dinghy from the crest of a wave capsizing the dinghy, tossing us into the sea. We managed to get the dinghy righted but we were so weak from the all night sea-sickness and so weighted down with saturated flying gear that not one of us could muster enough strength to climb back on board. This is when we lost the Rear Gunner and the Wireless Operator. They were simply washed away. They are now remembered on the Runnymede Memorial.
The Navigator was the one who eventually made it back into the dinghy, once there he was able to help the Skipper and me to climb back on board. How different to the practice drill in the swimming pool back home. By now we had lost all the dinghy emergency rations plus the air pump only to discover with all the manhandling that the dinghy had sprung a leak. Our survival relied absolutely on keeping it inflated. This could only be achieved by lung power alone now. We agreed I was to make the first blow only to realise the other two simply could hardly muster a puff so it was left to me alone to keep us afloat. By pressing a finger on the leaking seam at the same time as I blew we were able to keep afloat. Whenever I could muster enough strength I had a blow but the time lag between blows lengthened as my strength dwindled.
[black and white photograph of a seaplane landing on the water]
The Navigator died that night, just frozen to death and the Skipper succumbed the next afternoon sadly just before I was rescued by a Heinkle 59 seaplane. He was on dusk patrol from their base on the island of Nordeney. We must have drifted 100 miles south whilst at sea as we were now close to the Friesian Islands. The storm had blown itself out making a sea landing for the Heinkle possible.
6 weeks in hospital and three and a half years as a POW prisoner of war were to follow. The full story of my ditching and my POW life together with the stories of another 20 other individuals equally frightening experiences are written up in the book “SILK & BARBED WIRE”, which I had the honour to edit.
BRIAN WALLEY
5
[colour photograph of an older man with a beard wearing civilian clothing]
‘DITCHING’
“How I got to do it twice”
I joined the RAF on 1st July 1940 aged 17. With the enlisting minimum age of 18 for aircrew I went all through the entire war one year older than my birth certificate showed. Exactly 12 months after enlisting I got my wings with a posting to 19 OTU at Kinloss in the north of Scotland flying Whitleys.
Towards the end of the conversion course we were doing night circuits and bumps when after take off the port engine cut out. We immediately called base asking permission for a right hand circuit and come straight in. The reply from the tower was negative with instructions to head out to sea and rejoin the circuit at 1000’ in the normal manner. As instructed we went out over the sea, but as we turned back toward the shore losing height, we had to ditch about a quarter of a mile from land. Fortunately it was a lovely still night with barely a ripple on the water. We made a perfect wheels up belly landing. A flying boat pilot couldn’t have done a better job. All we had to do was jettison the hatch on the port side, throw out the dinghy manually, it inflated automatically, we then stepped into it. We didn’t even get our feet wet. Of course by this time we had radio’d [sic] our predicament back to base so that a fishing boat from Lossiemouth could be sent to search for us. An hour or so later we were back on land. We knocked up the local publican, a dour Scotsman who phoned through our news to RAF Kinloss. But no way was he going to give us a drink. Out of hours, he said and to hell with our nerves!
[black and white photograph of an aircraft on the ground]
A couple of days later I was flying over that area and spotted my Whitley lying like a beached whale on the shore. I don’t think it ever flew again!
My next posting was to 51 Sqn at Dishforth in Yorkshire. Still flying Whitleys I completed only 5 ops, one of them to Hamburg where we were coned in searchlights and struggling back to make a single engine landing at Driffield. The last the 5th was to Berlin or bust as we used to say. We took off at dusk with an expected 11 hour flight ahead. At briefing the met man had indicated 40 mph winds possibly rising to 60 over the North Sea, but dropping for our return journey, instead of which the winds switched round to the north, increasing to an 80 mph with a howling arctic gale with severe icing withing the 15000’ of cloud we had to battle through. Our planned track had been to cross Denmark then to fly along the Baltic with a short last leg down to Berlin. The wind must have pushed us slap bang over Kiel because ack-ack opened up on target and knocked out one engine. Consequently the bombs were jettisoned over Kiel instead of being dropped on Berlin.
We could, and as it turned out should, have made for neutral Sweden, but with a war to win we decided to head for home even though there were 200 odd miles of gale lashed sea to cross. A long slow glide from 17,000’ helped along by the remaining engine might have got us home if it were not for the severe icing now encountered. It was imperative to get down below the cloud as soon as possible. Eventually we broke through at about 15000’. Now a Whitley on one engine could be expected to make about 90 mph ground speed, but with an 80 mph head wind, things were not looking all that rosy. When that engine began to heat up over the middle of the North
4
[page break]
Sea, the writing was on the wall and another ditching was inevitable. Whereas we had had ditching drills in the local swimming pool dressed in bathers, it was quite a different matter suited up in full flying gear as we were soon to find out.
The sea now whipped up into 30-40’ waves was terrifying when lit up in our landing lights. My skipper was at the controls and did the best job possible, pancaking on top of one wave but with still enough forward speed to drop us down into the trough and to hit the next wave like a battering ram. The whole front of the fuselage seemed to be wrapped round my legs, trapping me as the water rose up to my chest. Prior to the ditching the Rear Gunner and Wireless Op had jettisoned the hatch and threw out the dinghy as soon as practical and then jumped on board. The Skipper and Navigator went out through the top hatch, leaving me to struggle free from the wreckage as best I might. With my left knee broken it wasn’t easy but I succeeded getting out but leaving one flying boot behind in the process. I half climbed and half swam up through the top hatch and crawled along the top of the submerged fuselage and somehow fell towards the dinghy to be grabbed by the 4 crew already in the dinghy and hauled aboard.
All this took less than a minute. With a gaping hole up front the plane was sinking fast. The umbilical cord tethering us to it had not broken so the skipper grabbed a knife and went back into the wreck to cut it. The tension snapped and we were free. The last I saw of the old kite was the landing lights some 20’ below, still shining. Another wave rolled by and it was gone.
During the night seasickness took its toll. We all retched violently until there was nothing left to throw up. What a miserable night that was, but worse was to follow. I guess it would have been about 10 am the following morning, the gale was still raging, the wind simply picked up the dinghy from the crest of a wave capsizing the dinghy, tossing us into the sea. We managed to get the dinghy righted but we were so weak from the all night sea-sickness and so weighted down with saturated flying gear that not one of us could muster enough strength to climb back on board. This is when we lost the Rear Gunner and the Wireless Operator. They were simply washed away. They are now remembered on the Runnymede Memorial.
The Navigator was the one who eventually made it back into the dinghy, once there he was able to help the Skipper and me to climb back on board. How different to the practice drill in the swimming pool back home. By now we had lost all the dinghy emergency rations plus the air pump only to discover with all the manhandling that the dinghy had sprung a leak. Our survival relied absolutely on keeping it inflated. This could only be achieved by lung power alone now. We agreed I was to make the first blow only to realise the other two simply could hardly muster a puff so it was left to me alone to keep us afloat. By pressing a finger on the leaking seam at the same time as I blew we were able to keep afloat. Whenever I could muster enough strength I had a blow but the time lag between blows lengthened as my strength dwindled.
[black and white photograph of a seaplane landing on the water]
The Navigator died that night, just frozen to death and the Skipper succumbed the next afternoon sadly just before I was rescued by a Heinkle 59 seaplane. He was on dusk patrol from their base on the island of Nordeney. We must have drifted 100 miles south whilst at sea as we were now close to the Friesian Islands. The storm had blown itself out making a sea landing for the Heinkle possible.
6 weeks in hospital and three and a half years as a POW prisoner of war were to follow. The full story of my ditching and my POW life together with the stories of another 20 other individuals equally frightening experiences are written up in the book “SILK & BARBED WIRE”, which I had the honour to edit.
BRIAN WALLEY
5
Collection
Citation
Brian Walley, “Ditching - How I got to do it Twice,” IBCC Digital Archive, accessed October 26, 2024, https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/collections/document/39025.
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