I lost all track of time. Dudley was throwing the aircraft around like a Spitfire. My ammunition bins hadn’t been designed for such treatment. They broke away from their mountings and the tops burst open with the force of the ammunition being thrown up. As a result, the belts twisted and stopped the guns. I kept clearing the guns and turning the turret as best I could, hoping the 88’s wouldn’t realise the turret was U/S. Once they did they would begin stern attacks and that would be it.
The poor old kite started to show signs of wear. Practically every attack we collected a few shells and bullets. (Each 88 had one 37mm and 2 x 20mm cannon and 2 machine guns.) We lost the port inner engine and poor Pierre in the nose collected a 37mm shell that blew him and his gun back into the wardroom. It also put the nose turret out of action, and Dick Criddle lifted Pierre on to a bunk and attempted to dress his wounds.
However, it wasn’t all one-sided. Fortunately, Bubbles was able to keep his gun going and used it to telling effect. I saw one 88 smoking badly and losing height rapidly. I’m sure he never made home.
I never thought it possible that a Sunderland could survive the evasive action Dudley put it through. My ammunition belts were twisting and squirming around the turret like snakes. It had got to the stage where I could not clear a gun. Then our port outer was hit.
The klaxon went for ditching. I centralised my turret, swung out into the body of the aircraft and in accordance with correct procedure - (tail is always first to report). I reported: “Tail to control. Vacating turret,” and was about to unplug my intercom when Dudley’s voice came on: “Stay there. I can hold height.”
What a quandary! It is impossible to get yourself into the FN4 turret. Someone has to push the door shut behind you. Anyway, all my guns were stopped and the turret U/S, and what’s more, I was a long, long way from my crash position, so I disobeyed the order and set off on the long walk.
What a shambles! The hull was like a colander – full of holes – and there was oil everywhere from busted hydraulic lines. Everything movable was being tossed hither and yon, and a lot of fixtures and stowed equipment had broken loose and was being tossed around as well.
I made my way down the catwalk being thrown from side to side, then up in the air, then down with a bump. I climbed up the steps at the mid upper, where Bubbles was still hammering away with his one gun. I remember being surprised that he still had ammunition left, but he was conserving his ammunition and making every shot count. The 88’s were armoured like a Sherman tank, but he was still beating off their attacks. By this time his was the only gun left operating out of the eleven we started with.
I remember crawling past the turret on my way to the bulkhead which led to the bridge when I began to fly up towards the roof. I grabbed at something, anything, which happened to be an engine inspection ladder, which was lying loose. The ladder and I floated around for about three seconds, then were dashed to the floor.
I finally made it to the bridge. Bob Webster had lost half his nose – he had blood all over his face. He yelled at me that he had screwed the key down. I looked at the gauges on the transmitter - it was dead. I gave him a thumbs up and sat down in my crash position. I wondered why it was so draughty and noisy and looked up. Apparently when the klaxon had gone to ditch, George had jettisoned the astrodome, as it was also the escape hatch, and he was now head and shoulders out in the slipstream calling instructions to Dudley. I don’t know how he wasn’t thrown out.
(The following photographs were taken by the crew of the command Ju88 of the Luftwaffe squadron that shot down E/461.)
E/461 on very short finals, about to ditch. Cannon shells, apparently (very accurately) aimed at the one remaining operating engine, can be seen impacting the water immediately in front of the starboard wing.
Finally, even the skipper had to admit defeat. We lost the starboard outer engine, and no way could even our wonderful 'E' hold height on one engine. The klaxon went again, Bubbles vacated his turret, Pierre was passed up to the top deck, we all jammed into our crash positions and held our heads and braced for a shock that didn't come. Dudley put it down as lightly as a moth on a petal. Unfortunately, our port float was only hanging on by one strut, and it was wiped off. The wing tip dug in and the kite heeled over with the nose dug in and the port wing under water to the inner engine.
We went through the ditching procedures that we had practiced so often. Nose gunner out first, then Pierre gently passed up through the hatch, a couple more, then all our gear, dinghies, radio, pigeons, cans of water, pyrotechnics, rations, first aid kit, etc. etc. Then one by one, we took our turn up and out on to the wing, all under the critical eye of Dudley, who was watching as if it was just another exercise.
Every now and then the kite would give a lurch as if it was about to turn turtle. We called on Dudley to come up, but no, he made a last inspection of his aircraft, checking that we had everything, looking for anything else that could be done. He appeared once at the astro hatch and passed up half a loaf of bread he had found in the galley. "You missed some food," he said sternly. Then he was gone again.
"Come up skip," we called. "She’s going under."
But still he continued his inspection. Then, when he had convinced himself that everything that could be done had been done, he finally and reluctantly abandoned his ship.