by Alec Brew
The five crew members who were still in the aircraft sat immobile for a moment shocked by the sudden deceleration and the silence. Bill Carey was surprised to see Les Franks outside the aircraft waving to him, and wondered how he had got there so quickly. The four in the back were just disentangling themselves from their harnesses ready to exit the aircraft when Bill Carey informed them over the intercom that he had injured his knee and could not get out. They clambered forward to the cockpit to help him out, and as they were helping him over the spar, became concerned that Les Franks was not there. They called his name, and he yelled that he was outside in the marsh.
Between them they carried Carey out of the aircraft and then splashed away from the aircraft as quickly as they could. They were fairly certain that the aircraft would not catch fire, because of the low fuel state, but were anxious not to take chances. Their feet sank completely into the bog as they walked for the first thirty yards and they carried on for a further fifty until they could put their pilot down on a wooded slope. Gerry had carried a parachute pack from the aircraft, which had somehow not been jettisoned, and now wrapped Carey in the silk.
McKie and McLennan now tried to destroy the aircraft as per standing instructions, using the four incendiary charges provided, which they inserted two in each wing. They noticed that the wheel-tracks of the aircraft only ran for about twenty yards, as the mainwheels completely buried themselves. They retreated from the aircraft to wait for the charges to go off, but nothing happened. They returned to the aircraft and punctured the intact petrol tanks. Before setting fire to it, they pulled the dinghy release handle, but nothing happened. It had been a good decision not to attempt ditching in the sea.
McKie made a torch from one of his last surviving maps and tossed it into the petrol, and as they ran away as fast as they could in the sticky swamp the aircraft went up in flames. Soon Very cartridges and odd rounds of ammunition were going off, and then suddenly the dinghy shot from the wing, and began inflating. They sat together by the trees and watched Easy Elsie being consumed by the flames, though only the centre fuselage was actually burning.
Once the fire began to die down they had to decide what to do next. The weather was sunny and fairly warm for the time of the year, but they did not think they could remain where they were and hope the locals would have noticed the fire and come and looking for them. Besides, Bill Carey needed to be taken to hospital to have his knee fixed. It was decided that McKie and Young would go for help, but before they went the survival rations were fetched from the dinghy. They were shocked to discover that they only consisted of a few tins of water, as had Petrie-Andrews’ Halifax crew floating in the Mediterranean the year before. Speculating about what had happened to the rations that should have been there was not helpful, but going for help was now even more imperative.
McKie and Young walked the short distance to the lake and then began moving south along its edge. Before long they came to a boat-house, and inside were a number of boats. They chose a small one and rowed to the other side of the lake, where they beached the boat safely, and headed for a railway line McKie had seen from the air. When they found it they walked along the tracks southwards towards the town of Porjus.
On the outskirts of the town they knocked on the door of the first house they came to. McKie started to speak when an old lady opened the door, but then she slammed it in their faces. At the next house they received a warmer welcome from a younger lady who invited them inside, speaking good English. She gave them something to eat and drink while she went to contact the authorities.
Not long afterwards a Swedish Army lorry drew up and took them into the town, and put them in the local prison. They told the officer in charge about their colleagues and pointed out where they thought they had landed on a map. A party with a stretcher was sent to find them.
The others were a little wary when they heard approaching voices, not entirely sure what sort of reception they would receive, and even a little unsure if the Germans ever penetrated this far across the border. After all, they themselves had violated Swedish airspace only a few hours before on an operational mission.
They need not have worried of course, they were treated with great kindness and even enthusiasm. The Royal Air Force was definitely popular in Sweden at the time, and though they did not reveal any details of their mission, everyone knew what they were doing there. There were not all that many targets in northern Norway worthy of a major effort. Tirpitz had survived the attack, though there had been a number of near misses. No. 617 Squadron staged a repeat of the attack on 13 November, once more staging through Scotland and heading for Norway. This time several of the Tallboys struck home, and the great battleship turned over and sank.
Though the Swedes knew the Lancasters were probably trying to attack Tirpitz, they were a little concerned that they might have also been trying to bomb the dam on Stora Lulevatten. However, the crew reassured them that the splashes that had been witnessed were only equipment being jettisoned to lighten the aircraft for the final landing.
The formation had been seen gathering over the lake earlier in the morning, but Carey’s crew were able to explain it as a navigational error by the leader, which he had rectified as soon as he realised by firing a number of flares, and leading them out of Swedish airspace as soon as possible. Whether the Swedes believed this or not, is unrecorded.
Bill Carey had been taken to the small hospital that served Porjus, but after initial treatment he was taken to the much larger hospital at Yokkmukk. He and his crew were not to meet up again until they got back to Britain, where they could swap notes and memories about their short, and not entirely unagreeable, Swedish holiday.
Unlike aircrew who had been shot down over occupied Europe, and had evaded capture or had escaped, Carey’s crew were able to go back onto operations. By the end of the War Carey himself had flown another eleven operations, including one dropping of the 22,000 lb Grand Slam bomb, aimed by Doug McLennan on the U-Boat pens at Farge, part of the Hamburg port complex. Gerry Witherick achieved his ‘century’, a total of 104 bombing operations, not including five early returns and the eleven patrols with Coastal Command. All of them became keen post-War members of the 617 Squadron Association.
Easy Elsie lay where she was. Only the central section of the fuselage was burnt out, the outer wings, tail, and the rest of the fuselage lay where they had fallen. The Swedes took away the engines, and any other useful equipment, but the rest of Easy Elsie remained as a long-term reminder of Porjus’s unexpected visitors.
59. Carey’s Lancaster Easy Elsie, still lying on the tundra in northern Sweden in 1958.
CHAPTER 19
Down in the Peak District
Sometimes, the difference between a crash-landing and a crash is only in the intent of the pilot, the result turns out just the same. If the crew do not survive, as with James Craig’s Defiant crash in 1941 (see Chapter 12), there is no way of knowing if a forced landing was intended or not. In 1945 Ted Croker, later to become famous as the Secretary of the Football Association, was a pilot learning to fly Airspeed Oxfords at RAF Seighford near Stafford. On 28 December he was involved in a crash, rather than a crash-landing, on Brown Knoll in the Peak District, high above Edale, but survived to explain what had happened, and was later able to play football again.
Edgar Alfred Croker, known as Ted, was born in Kingston upon Thames. At the beginning of the War he was 15 years old and at Kingston Technical College. When he left he got a job as a draughtsman at the Andre Rubber Company at Tolworth. He moved to Hawker Aircraft at Kingston upon Thames, helping to design tools for the production of the Typhoon. Despite being in a reserved occupation he volunteered for the Royal Air Force, becoming part of Intake No. 52 at Lord’s Cricket Ground, of all places.
After a disillusioning period billeted in St. John’s Wood, he went for his initial training to Newquay, Cornwall. When this was completed he was shunted around the country to different establishments at Heaton Park and Brighton
, before boarding a troopship on the Clyde. His destination was Durban, South Africa.
He was to spend two and a half years in South Africa, firstly as a pupil pilot then as an instructor. His elementary flying training was on Tiger Moths at Randfontein near Johannesburg. His advanced training was on Harvards at Vereeniging, south of Johannesburg. He was presented with his wings, and promoted to pilot officer, in November 1943.
Like many newly qualified pupil pilots he then served as a flying instructor in South Africa, teaching new intakes the rudiments of their new profession. It was not until late in 1945 that he finally returned to England, and a posting to No. 21 (Pilots) Advanced Flying Unit at RAF Wheaton Aston, near Stafford.
60. Ted Croker just before the crash.
This unit specialised in acclimatising pilots trained in the sunny climes of Southern Africa and North America to European weather and flying conditions, and in many cases their conversion to twin-engined aircraft. By 1945 it was a huge operation, and Wheaton Aston was said to be, for a while, the busiest airfield in Britain. It was necessary for the unit to be assigned satellite airfields at Tatenhill, Perton and Seighford, and there were over 120 Airspeed Oxfords on strength. Ted Croker was one of the thousands of pilots who passed through its hands, having returned from South Africa, though the War had by now finished, and there were the first signs that its operations were being run down.
Ted Croker had been promoted again to flying officer, and was flying from Wheaton Aston’s satellite at RAF Seighford, an airfield 5 miles west of Stafford. It was originally built as a satellite to the Wellington bomber OTU at Hixon. Despite his posting in the Midlands he had been taken on the books of Charlton Athletic Football Club and when weekend passes permitted, he played a couple of reserve games for them. However, his flying career was shortly to put an end to his playing career for quite some time.
On the afternoon of Friday, 29 December 1945, Croker, strolled out to Airspeed Oxford HN594, along with Flying Officer John Dowthwaite, who had also been trained in South Africa. With them was Warrant Officer George ‘Robbie’ Robinson, pilot and navigator instructor, who was going to lead them on a low-level map-reading test, intending to fly over the area of Robinson’s home-town, Sheffield.
Even though it was very cold, they only wore their normal battledress clothing, for they would not be flying at any great altitude, and the Oxford cabin was heated. It was a dismal day, with total cloud cover and showers in the air as they walked along the perimeter track to the parked aircraft, carrying their parachutes.
The camouflaged Oxford was a war-weary aircraft, built by the parent company at Portsmouth, but should have been well able to complete the task they had planned. John Dowthwaite took the left hand, first pilot’s, seat, and Robinson sat alongside him. The right hand seat could be slid back to allow room to unfold a small map table, which he duly did, and laid out a map of the Pennine district. He marked on it a triangular course that he was going to ask them to follow. They had not filed a flight plan before climbing aboard the aircraft, so the Station did not know the route they would be taking.
Ted Croker sat behind the other two, on a seat that straddled the main spar. He would only be observing for the first part of the flight. Robinson flew the plane and for the first leg to the north-east Dowthwaite map-read his way across Staffordshire and Derbyshire, and into Yorkshire. Then he and Croker changed places for a short 15 – 20 mile leg going almost due west. Ted Croker did not bother to strap himself in once more when he changed places, which was to have significant consequences shortly afterwards.
The weather was much worse with the cloud base reaching down to the ground, forcing Robinson to climb. The climbing rate of the old Oxford was not good, it was beginning to show how war-weary it was. Then Croker noticed that ice was beginning to form on the wing, which only made matters worse. Looking at his map he noticed that Kinder Scout, which was in the immediate area, was 2088 ft and they were now flying level at only 2000 feet. He expressed his concern to Robinson, who told him not to worry because he knew the area like the back of his hand.
At that moment the cloud became distinctly solid, and at 120 mph the Oxford was crashing across the rough moorland of Brown Knoll, disintegrating around them in a crashing, splintering wreck of wood, metal and peat.
All three men were knocked unconscious immediately as the aircraft crashed and slid to a halt in about 50 yards, disintegrating completely. This was not a crash-landing of course. It was not a landing of any kind, it was a crash pure and simple; but they had struck the hillside very near the summit at a very low angle, and the effect was much as if they had intended a wheels-up crash landing.
61. The port wing of the Oxford lying on the moor.
Croker regained consciousness sometime later. He was lying on the ground about 50 feet from the wreck, where he had been flung because he had not been strapped in. He was freezing cold, and there was severe pain in his two ankles. He thought at first that he was dreaming and shut his eyes to return to sleep, but the pain and cold did not go away. Then he became aware of voices coming from the shattered wreckage.
He recovered his senses and crawled on his hands and knees to where the other two lay. It was clear that they were both in a far worse condition. Robinson had both legs broken and a splintered jaw, and Dowthwaite also had broken legs. Looking around the desolate, mist-shrouded, moorland, with patches of snow lying in all the hollows, it was clear that rescue would not be swift. No one knew the route they were taking and it would be sometime before they were reported overdue. Though it was only 2.30 pm, mid-winter darkness would be falling soon, precluding an air-search until the following day. Dressed as they were in their ordinary battledress, it was doubtful if they would survive the night. As the least severely injured, having luckily been thrown well clear of the wreck, because he was not strapped in, Ted Croker soon realised that it was he who would have to go for help.
The parachutes had opened on impact and he wrapped these round his two companions. He had lost his shoes in the crash, and the seat of his trousers had also been ripped off.
He asked Robinson which direction he should take, as he had claimed to know the area well. He set off on the way Robbie had vaguely pointed, attempting to walk at first, but the pain in his badly sprained ankles was too much, and he resorted to crawling on all fours. For no real reason, after a short way he changed direction by ninety degrees, and made slow progress on his hands and knees, or by sliding downhill on his bottom.
The shock of the crash and the bitterly cold weather took their toll and the dank mist soaked him through, the moisture beginning to freeze. He was desperately anxious to lie down and go to sleep. However, he knew that if he did, he might well die of exposure on the moor, and then so would his two companions. He saw some sheep and even began crawling towards them, hoping to grab one to share its woolly warmth, but this absurd idea soon withered as the sheep took fright, and ran away.
The ground began falling away steeply, which was a good sign, as long as he was not crawling into a valley from which he would later have to climb out. As he crawled and slid down below the cloud cover he found himself in a valley with a stream flowing through it, flooded by the winter rains. Beyond the stream were two cottages, one of which had the Youth Hostels Association symbol on the wall. As he watched, a man left this building and walked away. Croker yelled repeatedly but his voice was weak and the man did not hear. Desperately hoping that the man was not the only occupant of the cottages, Croker struggled across the stream, which was brown from the peat. He made his way to the first cottage. which was the Youth Hostel. He knocked as loudly as he could on the door. There was no answer, and he guessed that it was closed for the Winter.
He struggled to the other small cottage and knocked on that door. It was opened by an old lady, who he later discovered was named Mrs Shirt. He must have looked a shocking sight, a tattered figure on his knees in her doorway, in the remains of his RAF battledress, covered from bare head to bare feet in b
lood and mud. ‘Look, I am sorry to trouble you, but I need some help,’ he said with astonishing understatement, ‘There are two of my colleagues up on the hill.’
The RAF wings on the remains of his battledress were all the explanation that was needed by Mrs Shirt. The Dark Peak had claimed another aircraft, one of well over fifty which came down there. She invited him in and explained that she would have to go for the police as now that her son had left she was the only one left up there. At his request she fetched a bowl of hot water in which he could soak his feet. As he sank into a chair and placed them gratefully in it the blood swirled around in the water. After she had gone, walking the mile to the village of Edale, Croker’s tiredness and shock finally overcame him and he fell asleep.
He had somehow descended a mile and a half from near the summit of Brown Knoll. He had clambered across the snow-spotted moorland on all fours and sliding down a very steep hillside, descending almost 1000 feet, and across the stream known as Grain Clough, to Lee Farm.
Mrs Shirt telephoned the police at Chapel Milton, who in turn telephoned RAF Harpur Hill where the call was taken at 5.20 pm. Within twenty minutes their mountain rescue team was on its way.
When Croker awoke he was lying in an ambulance outside the cottage. A doctor and some volunteers had been up the hillside but had no success at finding the wreck, though it later transpired that they had been within 50 yards of it in the darkness. They decided that they had to wake him up so he could tell them where it was. He gave them what directions he could and when the mountain rescue team arrived they continued the search until 3 am. The team was led by Flight Lieutenant David ‘Doc’ Crichton, who as medical officer at 28 MU at Harpur Hill had been responsible, in 1942, for organising the RAF Mountain Rescue team there, which covered the area of the Peak District. His team attended over forty crashes during the remaining three years of the War, though it had never been recognised in Air Ministry Orders as a Mountain Rescue Unit; as had teams in other parts of the country, something for which Crichton was most bitter. Nevertheless, in January 1946 he was to be awarded the MBE in recognition of his efforts, and he later reached the rank of Air Commodore.