´óÏó´«Ã½

Ted Power has written a book — waiting to be published at the moment — about his experiences during the war as an ARP driver, his time aboard the HMS Balta and HMS Rosevean. Here are some of the moving first hand tales he offered to Steve Murphy to be reproduced for this project

We were galloping madly across the Indian Ocean instead of going leisurely ashore in liberty boats because a Japanese carrier had been sighted due east heading our way; position given put it near our normal patrol area.
We reached that area toward dusk and patrolled it the specific number of hours and days. We had neither sight nor sound of any enemy throughout the patrol.
Nearing dawn after another very hot and unseasonably dark night at the end of the last leg of our patrol, daybreak found me again sat on the Asdic stool attending the last few minutes of my watch. With a completely negative result behind us we we’re beginning to feel the early sensations of unwinding after another session at high pitch of concentration, coupled with the confident expectation of making it into harbour in good time for shore leave. Tommo, who was just about to relieve me, was nattering with the port lookout whose binoculars were clearly centred on something above the skyline of the far horizon. All one could see there with the naked eye was a single black speck approaching as Lieutenant Long pressed the alarm signal for air attack action stations. It was a single Japanese reconnaissance aircraft looking not for a fight but allied shipping.
The pilot came in for a closer look at us and, probably seeing only one small ship of no significance, made a couple of strafing runs with cannon and machine gun fire. First run, ship damage but no casualty. On his second run the back end of the Asdic hut just behind me suddenly splat and shattered as projectiles slammed into it and I ducked uselessly after the event. Then the aircraft was gone swiftly astern and to port. It was all over in seconds but as the plane flashed by and zoomed skyward Cyril, on the after gun, promptly shot him out of the sky! Still rising and turning to port, the aircraft suddenly issued clouds of smoke, wriggled insanely in the air then headed seaward like a hungry skua spotting a favourite fish.
Sitting there on my stool, all the time alert for the slightest untoward underwater response to the A/S transmissions in my earphones, it was like watching a silent movie as a tiny speck appeared above the great splash and column of water. As the plane hit the sea the pilot was seen to be floating down, parachute mushrooming above his head. Tommo relieved me at the same time as the Skipper issued orders for recovery of the pilot.
Earphones at last unclamped, I lingered there on the bridge to unwind my brain, get some cooler air from the forward motion of the ship and earwig the C/O’s orders to his officers.
‘Sea boat’s crew, Number One, no need for side arms; saves time and I want that pilot back in good order. I expect they’ll be glad to have a chat with him back at Lanka.’
As the call went out for ‘away sea boat’s crew’ I was already descending the few steps of the bridge ladder to the boat deck to take my usual place in the boat. It wasn’t a long pull; by the time we’d got the boat free from its gripes and down to slipping height, the skipper had brought the ship fairly close to the bobbing head of the downed pilot. Then quite suddenly we were alongside and reaching for him but he didn’t want to be rescued!
He’d managed to get free from his parachute and was ludicrously trying to swim out of distance from us. Getting him aboard the boat was like trying to land a struggling tuna with your bare hands. Perhaps he struggled so vigorously thinking he would get the same treatment from us as the Japanese gave their prisoners of war, ie. starved, beaten with staves and rifle butts, the wounded deprived of proper medical attention, all generally relegated to the status of pieces of dirt.
The Japanese regarded capture or surrender as contemptible, extremely dishonourable, that death was to be preferred. This one must have changed his mind when he baled out of his airplane otherwise he should have stayed in it. It was too late now for him to change it back again; we’d got him on the bottom boards at last, head close to the bullet holes he’d made in the transom, his family jewels under my right boot and all the rest of him under the watchful eyes of First Lieutenant Sutherland RNVR!.
A short blast from the ship’s siren reminded Number One that the Captain would be obliged if we got a move on, as he was not happy with his ship being stopped on this particular piece of water in an unfriendly locality.
HMS Balta was a sitting target for submarine attack as well as by aircraft from the carrier from whence came this pilot must have come, or from a nasty Japanese destroyer escorting the carrier. The now quiescent pilot was brought aboard ship by shoving his arms and torso through a bowline on the bight of a heaving line and prodding him up the Jacobs ladder. Assisted by enthusiastic hoisting from above, he was immediately escorted aft to the tiller flat to be dried off and secured. Offered food and water (both refused), he was battened down and guarded as we headed once more for harbour.

© Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.