One shell burst right in front of the CO and it shot
away his lower port wing. His Swordfish shuddered and dipped but Esmonde kept
it flying. With blood pouring from wounds in his head and back Lt Cdr Esmonde
hung onto the controls, holding his course steady for the Prinz Eugen. In the
rear cockpit lay PO Clinton and the Observer Lt Williams, both killed in the
last attack by a Focke-Wulf Fw 190.

In a last desperate effort he pulled the Swordfish’s nose up and released his torpedo just before a direct hit blew the Swordfish to pieces in a red flash. As pieces crashed into the sea lookouts on the Prinz Eugen reported the torpedo track, Captain Brinkmann ordered “Port 15”, and the ship turned easily to avoid the torpedo. Aboard the German Battleships all this heroism by the Swordfish crews produced no sense of danger whatever, but certainly a feeling of compassion for the fliers sacrificing themselves against impossible odds. Admiral Ciliax, watching from the Scharnhorst Bridge, the Swordfish lumbering towards her, remarked to Captain Hoffmann: “The British are now throwing their mothball Navy at us. Those Swordfish are doing well to get their torpedoes away”. While all 3 ships steamed full speed ahead, firing everything they had, the torpedo planes continued flying straight towards them, just skimming the waves.

The Channel Dash Association

Lt Cdr Eugene Kingsmill Esmonde VC, DSO, the
commanding of­ficer of 825 Squadron from May 13, 1940 to November 13, 1941 and
again from January 1, 1942 to his demise on February 12, 1942.

Glad to be alive, Don Bunce’s pilot (left), Sub Lt
Charles Major ‘Pat’ Kingsmill and his observer, Sub Lt Reginald McCartney
Samples recovering from their injuries in March 1942.

An account by TAG Don Bunce, one of the five survivors of
the ill-fated attack.

Taking part in a `fiasco’

Making our way to the dispersal, on that February day, the
weather was no different to the previous days, bitterly cold, with snow
covering the grass airfield. Blissfully unaware that we were taking part in a
`fiasco’, what dominated our minds was that a planned night attack was now to
take place at midday. As usual, TAGs were excluded from the briefing sessions
and had to rely on the Observer for any `Gen’. Four TAGs (including myself),
one former pilot of mine, one Observer, and, of course, Esmonde himself, had
taken part in the torpedo attack on the Bismarck, from HMS Victorious, and we
were only too aware of the implications of a daylight action. This time it was
not the middle of the North Atlantic, but the Straits of Dover, and a warning
was ringing in our ears from the RAF types in the mess: a new German fighter,
the Fw190, was now operational.

We took off and formed up over the coast, and I well
remember exchanging a `thumbs up’ sign with fellow TAG `Ginger’ Johnson, just
before seeing Spitfires overhead, and assumed all our escort had arrived; we
were already at sea level. Soon after, we were headed out to sea, in line ahead
formation. I was in the first flight of three, with Esmonde leading, our
aircraft bringing up the rear. The second flight was some distance from us,
still in `V’ formation, and I cannot recall seeing them again. I began to
prepare the VGO machine gun, loading a magazine and then sitting down and
waiting. The weather was overcast, with low cloud and poor visibility, and the
Spitfires were just below the cloud base. Perhaps at this point, I should
remind the reader, and indeed myself, just how short actions of this sort are;
everything happens so quickly. Trying to recall it now gives a type of `time
lapse’ element to the story.

Fw190 target practice

At this stage, with the Spitfires weaving overhead in an
attempt to stay with us, I ventured a look forward and, through the mist, saw a
destroyer. Then it all happened:

tracer from the destroyer `floated’ our way, that is, until
it came close, when it took on the characteristics of an express train, and in
came the Fw190s. I have no recollection of how many there were, but only
concentrated on those that were on our tail. It seemed endless; as soon as one
peeled off another was in its place, with tracer speeding toward us.

What was my reaction? Apart from using every Naval swear
word I could muster, my instinct appeared to be to place as much of the feeble
.303in tracer in front of the 190s as I could, stoppages permitting; all drill
in this respect went overboard, as indeed went any malfunctioning magazine.
There simply isn’t time to do other than that. The whole affair, from my
backward viewpoint, was developing into a practice shoot for Fw190s, and we
were the drogue target; they were coming so close. As they peeled off to the
port I had a sideways clear view of the pilot. I had a quick visual image of
the shells hitting the water, giving them perfect alignment to hit the old
Swordfish.

Strange to say, throughout the entire action, I had no
impending sense of danger or injury to myself, despite all the hardware being
thrown at us. I just considered myself `fireproof’. Alas, my Pilot and Observer
were less fortunate, both being hit.

Just as suddenly as it had started, the fighters left.
Presumably our torpedo had been launched; one is usually aware of the drop, but
not on this occasion. Now I could look around. I turned, to sit down, and found
a gaping hole to the port side of the seat. Gingerly, I tried sitting, in order
to send some kind of distress signal, but the wireless set was dead. However,
the IFF worked, and I immediately switched to the distress position, but as
this relied on radar contact, at sea level, this must have been a useless
exercise.

Taking casualties

At about this time, I turned to the Observer, `Mac’ Samples,
(although I didn’t refer to him as `Mac’ in those days, but over the years we
have become fi rm friends) to ask if he was ok. In reply, he reached down with
one hand and brought it up covered in blood; his leg and foot were badly
injured. It appeared the Pilot, Pat Kingsmill, was also hurt in the lower leg
at the same time.

A glance to starboard showed a group of small boats – MTBs?
And we appeared to be heading for them. As we closed, their true identity was
revealed: they were E-Boats, and gunfire from them immediately began hitting
us, and Pat, with great skill, began to crab away, and I, with further oaths,
emptied my last magazine in their direction.

It was all the old Swordfish could do to crab, because the
damage was considerable, and we began to assume a tail-down position. Then,
suddenly, great flashes streaked down the port side; a large square hole in the
upper main plane meant that the dinghy had been shot away; the marine distress
flare was lodged in place, and our last encounter with the E-Boats must have
ignited it; a few more flashes and it sputtered out. What of the rest of the
damage? The Stringbag was beginning to live up to its nickname. Everywhere a
shell had passed through the fabric, a three-cornered tear had appeared; there
was no fabric at all on the port tail plane. Oil was dripping down the
starboard fuselage, where the oil cooler had been punctured. Pat Kingsmill told
me afterwards that it is quite normal to be able to see three cylinders of the
Pegasus engine. Two were shot away, and we still managed to fly; not for long
though: with the tail well down, we ditched perfectly.

ML rescue

Mac and I could see a single MTB type boat on the starboard
and, as we appeared to be heading that way, I was convinced that Pat had seen it
too, but, no, it was a pure coincidence, we dropped into the sea a few hundred
yards short. It was a Motor Minelayer (ML), sent out for just this purpose. On
impact, I hit my harness release button and threw it off, then, literally,
stepped overboard into the Channel, to help Mac. A jerk on my head told me that
I had forgotten to unplug the headphones and, quickly yanking off my helmet, I
found that Mac had floated free. The ML was now alongside, and I hung back,
thinking that I might be able to help the others, but was `politely’ informed
that, if I was ok, to get out and leave it to the experts. I was grateful, for
it was extremely cold!

Once aboard, I was bundled down below, to lie between the
giant diesel engines, given dry clothes and a cup of `pussers’ rum. Pat
Kingsmill was in the wheelhouse, and Mac Samples lay on the after deck, a big
matelot attempting to keep him warm, for his injuries were quite severe. The
passage to Ramsgate harbour, at full speed through a choppy sea, must have been
a nightmare to the other two. The rum helped me, but the roar of the engines
precluded any conversation, leaving me with my own thoughts.

An ambulance was waiting on the quayside and quickly whipped
us off to hospital. The others received treatment immediately, and I was left
to loaf about the corridor until transport picked me up that evening. I did
manage a bedside visit before leaving, but it was to be many years before I was
to see them again.

No news is not good news

I now began to look forward, with some trepidation, for news
of my mates. Edgar Lee, (Observer in the second aircraft) who, too, was
uninjured, must have arrived back at Manston at about the same time as I did,
his pilot, Rose, told me. Rose had severe back injuries but, to my dismay, his
TAG, `Ginger’ Johnson DSM, had been killed early in the action. There was no
news of the rest, but there was still hope. Next morning, it became
increasingly evident we who had made it back were to be the only ones!

The impact of this must have put me in a kind of daze, and
it didn’t help when, along with the PO Fitter, we were ordered to assemble and
pack the kit of the other five TAGs. Stowing photographs and other personal
items was very traumatic, but it had to be done, and rather me than anyone
else. Quite how I arrived back at Lee-on-Solent escapes me. I vaguely remember
being hauled out in front of Sunday Divisions, with Edgar Lee, to be told that
we were some kind of heroes. A week or so later, the Daily Mirror front page
announced, along with the VC for Esmonde, DSOs for the officers; the CGM had
come my way. What was the CGM? Nobody could tell me! The rest of the squadron were
`Mentioned in Dispatches’.

`Buy’ your own ribbon

During this time, I saw no Medical Officer, nor indeed
anyone else, except when passing `Jimmy the One’ (The First Lieutenant, also
referred to as `Number One’; second in command on a ship). One morning, he
stopped me and asked why I wasn’t wearing my medal ribbon. `No idea what it
looks like, Sir,’ I replied.

With that, he hauled me off to examine the records, and
eventually came up with the `gen’. It was some time before I could trace a
source and `buy’ some.

Counselling, of course, wasn’t heard of in those days, so I
was packed off on leave, with the idea, no doubt, that it was a cure for
everything! It was, perhaps, the worst thing that could happen. All my mates
from pre-service days were either in the Services themselves, or working all
hours, so I became completely isolated. At one point, I became so disturbed
that I was afraid to cross the road and, in those, days, even in the centre of
Oxford, you couldn’t say there was a traffic problem. What of my fellow TAGs
whose experiences that day easily overshadowed my own? Some of us had been
together for almost twelve months; it seemed much longer.

Remembering the TAGs

Jack, or `Clints’, Clinton had been in the third sub-flight
on the Bismarck attack, and on that day was TAG to Esmonde. At the height of
the action, he was seen outside the cockpit, astride the fuselage, beating out
a fire with his hands, witnessed by a Spitfire pilot. I’m sure that if this had
been known at the time he would have collected a VC, like his pilot. His swap
of duties with Les Sayer, our Squadron PO, is well known, and must give Les the
miss of the century. `Clints’ is buried at St James Church, Ruislip. Laurence
`Ginger’ Johnson and I were alongside each other in the first sub-flight on the
Bismarck attack, and retained the same position that day. He was awarded the
DSM, after the Bismarck action. My abiding memory of `Ginger’ is on the Ark
Royal. Every time he was flying, you could always see his father, a member of
the Ship’s Company, waiting anxiously for his return. I received a very sad
letter, many years later, from `Pop’ Johnson. No doubt, by now, he has joined
his son on that Final Draft.

Henry Wheeler had been in the second sub-flight against the
Bismarck and is best known for the yarns he could spin on being a gasman in
London.

Ernest `Horse’ Tapping joined us, I think, on the Ark Royal,
and was famed for his consumption of beer. The rest of us tried to keep in step
at those very enjoyable lunchtime sessions in the NAAFI at Lee, prior to moving
down to Manston.

William `Bill’ Smith had joined us, again, on the `Ark’. His
family were Thames watermen, a career he intended to follow. Smithy is at rest
a few yards from Lt Cdr Esmonde, in Gillingham cemetery. Nothing is known of
the fate of the second sub-flight that day. They were led by my pilot on the
Bismarck action, Lt Thompson, and also included my pilot from the Ark Royal,
Sub Lt Wood, an ex-Rating Pilot.