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This story was submitted to the People's War site by Ruth Hollins. She fully understands the site's terms and conditions.

Flying Officer Leslie Holmes Of Coastal Command

This is the story told by my father of his rescue from the Bay of Biscay in 1943 (Ruth Hollins, Countesthorpe Leicestershire)

Here is his story in his own words, with kind permission of The Cheadle and Tean Times:

Afloat in a rubber dinghy for 17hrs on a stormy sea was the thrilling but unpleasant experience of Flying Officer JL Holmes, of Cheadle Stoke on Trent.

We had been on patrol for just over 3hrs. The first indication of trouble came from the Captain. He commented that oil was flowing over the wing from the port outer engine. This may not have been serious but needed watching. As the leak increased rapidly a course was set for the nearest land, 200miles away. I prepared a message for base saying we were returning due to engine trouble.

Things happened quickly now. Without further warning the oil pressure suddenly collapsed and the engine raced madly for a few moments. The faulty engine was switched off to prevent fire. It soon became plain that we were rapidly losing height and all our efforts to prevent this such as jettisoning our bomb load proved futile. The captain gave the order 'Dinghy, dinghy, prepare for ditching!' The drill was carried out immediately.

An SOS

As the wireless operator sent an SOS I worked out the position of the aircraft so this could be added to the distress signal to give a good chance of being picked up. As the other members of the crew took up their ditching stations the SOS and our position were sent out again and again, and to our relief acknowledged by our base. As there was nothing else we could do the wireless operator and myself took up our emergency positions and braced ourselves for the crash.

The actual touch down on the sea was carried out remarkably well, particularly as there was a ratty heavy swell running at the time. We felt a slight warning impact as the tail hit first and just had time to brace ourselves for the final crash as the nose buried itself in the water. There was a violent shock accompanied by a splintering sound as the nose was torn away and a wave of seawater and petrol swept through the aircraft.

A moment later we were all on our feet and climbing through open roof hatches on to the wing of the aircraft, passing up the emergency equipment for the dinghy. The aircraft was floating on an even keel although heavy seas were breaking over her and we managed to salvage equipment we needed. It was disconcerting to find that the dinghy had not come out of the wing according to plan, but a few moments' work with an axe on the part of the Flight Engineer soon got over that and with great relief we all piled into the dinghy as it floated free.

Apart from a wetting, the whole crew of eight were safely aboard, the only casualty a sprained ankle sustained by one of the gunners who had been thrown from his place at the time of the crash.

Not a luxury liner

As we cut the line and floated away from our rather pathetic looking aircraft we were all in pretty high spirits, probably from relief at finding we were all safe. We soon realised however, that this adventure might not be so funny after all. A rubber dinghy is very far removed from a luxury liner and with eight men on board, and equipment, it soon proved shockingly cramped. The first hour was almost exclusively occupied in sorting out our legs and arriving at something like a comfortable position. Everyone was very polite at first but as the sea began to make its presence felt a greenish silence crept over the company, punctuated by sounds that reminded one of an Isle of Man steamer in happier days. It is very difficult to be seasick with dignity. Still as everyone was literally in the same boat it didn't really matter very much.

Several aircraft passed overhead but although we fired off distress signals they failed to see us and as daylight faded we realised that we would certainly have to spend at least one night under these conditions. By this time the wind had risen and the swell was reaching uncomfortably large proportions and heavy squalls of rain did not do anything to improve the situation. The dinghy shipped quite a lot of water and we were forced to take turns at baling out. As we lost several balers in the early stages we had to use cups from our thermos flasks. By constant use these did the trick and kept the water down reasonably.

During the night the wireless operator developed an attack of malaria, and this put him out of action for some hours.

Just before dawn, about twelve hours after we had taken to the dinghy, the engineer thought he could see a ship. We all sat up and began to take notice but eventually decided that he had mistaken one of the many large wave crests for a ship in the bad light. Just in case he had been right we fired off another red light and resigned ourselves to another spell of waiting and hoping. About a quarter hour later we suddenly heard the sound of an aircraft overhead and as we searched the sky for any sign of it a series of Verey lights were fired off from overhead and to our amazement, lit up by the glow, we sighted a large vessel about a mile away.

The Navy to the rescue

We wasted no time but fired off a succession of distress signals and to our relief saw that the vessel, which we could now see was a British cruiser, was heading straight towards us. As she slowed down and commenced to circle us our spirits rose with a bound and we all felt that in a few minutes a comfortable bed and a hot meal would be within our reach. After she had circled us steadily for an hour we began to realise that patience was still going to be required. It seemed that she was waiting for something smaller to arrive to pick us up. At last, 17 hours after we had boarded the dinghy, the Captain called us up on a megaphone and said that he would take us on board.

Even then our troubles were not quite over. The sea was far too rough for a boat to be lowered and as the cruiser manoeuvred carefully alongside a huge wave picked us up and swept us straight past the ship, right out of reach of the lines that had been thrown to us.

Once again the ship slowly circled and moved into position and once again an unwelcome interruption upset all our plans. Just as we were within about 200 yards of safety, 'action stations' was sounded on board the cruiser and to our horror we saw six low flying enemy fighters sweeping around us in a wide circle. The cruiser's turrets moved into position and with a tremendous roar her full armament, including six inch guns, blazed into action. The Focke pilot evidently didn't like this and soon disappeared into the distance.

The third attempt at rescue succeeded. As we drifted alongside the cruiser we paddled with everything that we could find. Ropes were thrown to us and we were dragged to the ship's side. A net was lowered over the side and as we climbed stiffly out of the dinghy, members of the ship's crew came down the side to meet us and helped us reach the deck.

Five minutes later we were all snugly in bed complete with hot water bottles and a very welcome cup of hot tea in the ship's sick bay. Once more the RAF had cause to say 'Thank God we've got a Navy…'

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