大象传媒

Continued from Part One...

Protecting myself against the outside weather conditions as best as I was able, I put on my sunglasses and proceeded to venture outside to establish the condition of our S and R beacon. A casual glance through the astrodome orifice (the plastic astrodome was no longer in position) showed me that the tailframe unit and tailwheel had separated from the aircraft, and lay at a crazy angle some feet away from the aeroplane. Somehow I had to get to the tailframe unit, for that was where the S and R beacon was housed. The snow had eased off a little, but the biting wind tore at my lacerated face as I peered out through the astrodome and eased my body through the vacant orifice. As I climbed through, the light wooden structure disintegrated under my weight, I lost my balance and fell headlong into deep snow and broken pine trees. Fortunately no damage to myself ensued, although I could see in the snow that my facial injuries were bleeding and my sunglasses had fallen somewhere among the debris (the significance of losing my sunglasses will become apparent later).

With extreme difficulty I managed to find my footing, but I was freezing cold, feeling very sick and terribly alone in the world. I tried my utmost to reach the tail plane unit but everything seemed against me. The trees lashed at my face, the cold was intense, the wind penetrating and under the circumstances movement was almost impossible. I extricated myself from the deep snow as best as I was able, but walking was out of the question without snow shoes or something similar. A glance at my wristwatch told me daylight was coming to a close and the prospects of a night under those conditions did not exactly fill me with confidence.

The tail unit was so near and yet so far, I thought of the energy required to reach the objective and wondered was it all worth the effort? I realised I was sinking into a bad frame of mind and that my morale was at a low ebb, bit I wanted to be able to tell the pilot I had found the beacon. I struggled relentlessly and got precisely nowhere, I was infuriated and completely demoralised. It was no longer snowing but it was becoming dark. As I rested for a moment to regain my breathing momentum I thought I heard a sound. Yes there was a sound, a strange little squeak, it was impossible to ascertain its whereabouts. I listened, I felt a little warmer now (fear plays strange tricks with one鈥檚 metabolism). Yes there was definitely some small creature near me somewhere, 鈥淪queak, Squeak, Squeak鈥�, so regular it was uncanny, so rhythmic, so constant. Then things fell into place, the darkness was almost upon us and looking at the tail section I could now plainly see an intermittent light flashing. The S and R beacon was functioning, the little squeak bleeped regularly with the amber light as it flashed.

鈥淭hank God,鈥� I thought, 鈥淪omeone now knows of our plight and will be taking all necessary steps to find us.鈥� I do not know to this day how I managed to get back inside the fuselage, my fingers were numb with cold, I could barely lift one foot in front of the other and with the darkness and bitter cold to contend with I became completely exhausted. I awoke to find myself near the pilot. We had obviously fallen asleep with exhaustion and I had awakened to total darkness and a screaming bitterly cold wind. I looked at the pilot, he was very pale, but from the appearance of his head-dressing the bleeding had stopped. I unzipped his flying jacket a few inches and inserted my hand inside, thank heavens his body was warm, so I hurriedly closed his jacket and covered him with a canvas sheet that had appeared from somewhere in the aircraft during the crash, all very neatly folded and tied. Visions of hot drinks and heaped plated of food passed through my mind. We were both cold, hungry and exhausted, but the most wonderful of all was that we were both alive.

The next 36 hours were cold, miserable and uneventful. The pilot was conscious, his wound had stopped bleeding and we were unbelievably cold and hungry, and although we saw nothing distinctly, we heard visits from some form of wildlife, but we did the most obvious thing and stayed quiet. As I had stated earlier, I had lost my sunglasses during the early stages of our accident and the past day had seen a passing of the snow storm and a return to clear blue skies. Unfortunately the strong sunlight against the deep virgin snow gave intense brilliant light, not much warmth, but the most penetrating brightness. One can imagine as a result of this, I suffered acute snow blindness for a long period after this incident and the long term effects remain with me to this very day.

It must seem obvious now to most readers, our S and R beacon was our life saver; a rescue party eventually found us after some 48 hours. From comments later passed we were, when found, a couple of dirty, scruffy and deplorable individuals unfit to be seen in an RAF uniform! However we were taken down and returned to our unit by the rescue party, to whom our gratitude will be never ending. I still recall the wonderful station hospital, the beautiful hot baths, the warm food and drinks and the constant care provided for me.

As for the rescue party, the trip down the mountainside, the ambulance, the doctors, the care and attention, the warmth and comfort of being back at our home unit, I can tell you very little of this except the personal comfort I felt. I was blind for almost two months 鈥� but alive.

The pilot that endured this unfortunate experience with me was later posted home to join Bomber Command, and despite arranged plans we never made contact again. I myself was later to become a member of Bomber Command on my return home.

Extracted from Dennis Wiltshire's autobiographical book Per Ardua - Pro Patria, Woodfield Publishing ISBN: 1-673203-50-0

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