| Dale's Ditching Account, page 3 |
| I debated whether to take off the heavy flying boots that weighted down my feet, but since the Mae West was supporting me satisfactorily, decided against removing them. If the B24 should return and drop a raft, the boots might help retain some warmth in my feet even though they were wet. I kept watching the horizon for a rescue boat, but none appeared. I had never felt so completely alone. Since my watch had stopped when we ditched, I had no idea how long I had been in the water, but it seemed like hours. One thing I was sure of. I was very, very cold, and I knew my chances of surviving were not good. I didn't give up and I didn't panic, but I kept thinking that I didn't want to die out here where my body might not ever be found. Then, off in the distance, I saw the most beautiful object that I had ever laid eyes on in my 22+ years: a boat heading in my direction. I later learned that Royal Marine Launch 498 had been contacted by the P-47s and given our position. As it came closer, I waved and saw someone wave back. After watching the boat pick up two of our crew, I neither saw nor felt anything except for having, at one point, a vague sensation of someone trying to pour something down my throat. Regaining consciousness was a strange experience. I was lying in a large, black tunnel. Remembering the ditching experience, I began to wonder if I were alive or dead, for there was no recollection of having been picked up. If I am dead, I thought, I must not be in Hell because I do not feel either hot or tortured, but I was afraid to open my eyes. When I finally did, I found myself lying in a bunk with Lt. Locke looking at me from the bunk above. I was alive and I was safe! What a flood of relief I felt. He told me he was all right and that we were docked at Yarmouth and would soon be taken to a hospital. I had been unconscious for however long it had taken the boat to cover the thirty miles from our ditching site to Yarmouth. I had been in the water for from forty-five minutes to an hour and was the last of our crew to be picked up. My memory of someone trying to pour something down my throat was the result of their trying to get me to drink some scotch after picking me up. Since twenty minutes was about as long as a person was supposed to survive in the cold water, I was fortunate to be alive. Lt. Locke filled me in on what had happened to the others as we waited to be taken to the hospital. Capt. Bryant and Lt. Delclisur died of injuries and shock after being picked up. Lt. Reed was seen by Lt. Hortenstine with his head hanging into the water. John tried to hold onto him but became exhausted. Kenneth slipped away from him and was not seen again. Lt. Bloznelis and Sgt. Freeman were never sighted, hence probably were killed in the ditching. What made Harold Freeman's death especially tragic was that he had completed his missions and was awaiting orders to return to the States when he was assigned to fill in on our crew. He had almost certainly written his parents about completing his tour, so that the word of his death would come as an even greater shock than if they thought he was still under the required number. A few weeks later, Mother wrote me that Harold's parents, who lived about thirty miles away in Hannibal, Missouri, had contacted her to see if she had additional information. Lt. Self suffered a broken back and chipped shoulder bone. He later received the Soldier's Medal for freeing Pete, who had got caught on wreckage while trying to get through the waist window. It was probably Pete whom I had heard calling for help. Lt. Self had come up outside the waist window and, in spite of his injury, immediately pulled Pete loose after the one call for help. I have never figured out, however, why I did not see them when I exited through the opening in the fuselage, which was only a few feet behind the waist window. Perhaps I remained inside longer than I realized after hearing the call for help, thus giving them time to swim away. The other survivors had escaped uninjured or with relatively minor injuries. Lt. Hortenstine, who had been in the compartment behind the cockpit for the ditching, had covered himself with flak jackets, which had prevented his being injured when the top turret broke loose and fell on him. He was able to push the turret off and escape through the top hatch. Hank came up outside of the waist section on the opposite side from which I escaped. Lt. Locke was knocked out by the force of the impact. When he came to, he was under the water and still strapped to his seat. After releasing himself, he escaped through a hole in the side of the cockpit and pulled the cords to inflate his Mae West, only to find that the jacket was split and would not hold air. Fortunately, an oxygen bottle floated by, which he grabbed and held on to until being picked up. Like Harold Freeman, Dick Wallace had also completed his missions and was awaiting return to the States when summoned to fly with us as radio operator. Dick, however, escaped with no injuries. From RML 498 we were taken to a WREN hospital in Great Yarmouth.WRENs were British women serving in the navy. The one bright spot in the whole miserable experience was being taken care of by young, pretty nurses who gave us lots of attention. The thought occurred to me that Yarmouth might be a good place to spend a two-day pass, but I found out later that it was off limits to American military personnel. |
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