Extract from 'Father Thames'

The Times - Tuesday, Jan 14, 1941. Admiration for the bravery of Lieutenant Commander Walter Edmund Fletcher, R.N., of H.M. Trawler Haslemere, who lost his life when he dived overboard from the vessel in a rescue attempt when Miss Amy Johnson's aeroplane crashed in the Thames Estuary, was expressed by the Coroner at the resumed inquest on the body at Chatham yesterday…

I AM the commanding officer of the Haslemere, the navy trawler that was in the Thames estuary on January 5 1941 when Amy Johnson fell out of the sky. It was a filthy afternoon, darkening in the sleet and snow, with an easterly wind blowing tufts of spray off a heavy swell. In the wheelhouse, in jersey, scarf, duffle coat and thermals, it was ruddy freezing, and ice was forming on the deck. The gunners were in balaclavas. Our barrage balloon vessel was part of a merchant convoy needing deep water, so we had come in off the North Sea through Black Deep Channel and had just sighted the buoy marking Knock John Channel, which narrowed to less than a quarter-mile wide. Herne Bay was the nearest landfall, eleven miles to the south, and visibility was so poor that our barrage balloon remained stowed on deck. The only thing good to say about the weather conditions was that it might keep the Luftwaffe away: this frightfully cold winter had added to the misery of the bloody blitz that had brought German bombers up the Thames to London just about every night for the past four months. London and the docks had been bombed to bits. Fire and ice. The cold and snow reminded me of 1934, when I had been navigator on a navy ship through the northwest passage around Baffin Island in Canada. Amy Johnson and her husband had flown west the previous year, aiming for New York via Newfoundland, but they had run out of fuel and crash landed in Connecticut. The plane overturned and they were both injured. At the time, I was on leave and every day I had scoured the papers to see how she was. Each night I prayed for her, even as I lay in bed next to my wife, and I imagined finding her, plucking her unconscious body from the wreckage and carrying her in my arms for mile upon mile, perhaps holing up overnight in an abandoned New England log cabin, where I would light a fire and bandage her wounds before delivering her safely to a hospital, to general admiration and to her eternal gratitude. When she divorced her air-ace husband just before this war started, I was elated. Daydreams returned, foolish ones that had begun the moment a picture of this pretty and engaging air ace appeared in the papers: the first woman to fly solo to Australia. I recalled the cottage I had in mind for us in Princes Risborough, the Sunday church services we would attend, the outings with the children, the cocktails with neighbours and her home baking, which I would encourage through unstinting praise, especially of my favourite ginger cake. We would have tea together in deck chairs on the lawn where spaniels would sit at our feet. These are the harmless daydreams of grown-up sailors as well as adolescents, spun through idle watches and in the confines of hammocks, to keep the heart warm and offer a purpose to life – however imaginary or unrealistic – when it seemed to lack any rewards. Some sailors had Amy Johnson’s pictures pinned in their lockers, and perhaps they had the same thoughts as I did, or perhaps their intentions were not as honorable as mine. I cannot have been the only man who was in love with her, though I had never mentioned it to a soul for fear of ruining my innocent imaginings. Lieutenant Henry O’Dea, on the bridge with me, saw her first. Of course we didn’t know who it was, just a parachute coming out of the low cloud and landing half a mile away to the south, followed by the silent twin-engine Oxford that circled down to the water where it broke up. Immediately, I ordered a change of course and we headed at full speed towards the survivor. Other ships altered direction, too, but we were the nearest. The crew rushed to the railings to keep an eye on the pilot, to make sure we didn’t loose sight of the figure among the buffeting waves. Air in the parachute helped to keep the pilot afloat, the leather flying helmet and raised goggles dancing just above the surface. Light was fading. Nobody would last long in this hellish sea. I opened the door of the wheelhouse and told the crew to stand by the launch. The pings from the echo sounder were increasing. We were on the southern edge of the Channel, and as we tried to manoeuvre towards the parachute, we ran into the mud with a sickening thud. That was all we needed. The helmsman yelled Slow astern into the voice pipe. The ship juddered but she didn’t move and we waited for the waves of the incoming tide to give us a lift. It was a seeming age before we were moving again.  As we broke free, a voice came over a wave like a gull’s cry. Hurry, please hurry. It was a woman’s voice, and the glint of her pure blue eyes electrified us all. The name Amy Johnson raced around the ship and froze the heart of every sailor. As we approached, ropes from the bow were thrown towards her, but none of them got near, and I ordered the launch to be winched into the sea. A seaman stood out on a derek to try to reach her outstretched hand but the ship buffeted and kicked at the waves and would not allow him near. She was slipping towards the stern of the ship when O’Dea appeared at my side, unbuttoning his duffle coat. I shouted at him, ordered him not to go in. A moment later my own duffle coat was set aside, my jacket and shoes, too, and I stepped up to the gunwale. I dived in a wide arc as the ship heeled over towards the figure. Hurry, please hurry. Great Christ it was cold. My hair, my eyeballs, my joints froze. But I was numb to the pain and I struck out towards her. I am coming, Miss Johnson. Hang on, just hang on. She came and went from sight, the goggles dragged away by the waves, those blue eyes glinting, snowflakes landing on their lids and melting on the helmet. My crawl changed directions twice. A knight’s in full armour would not have had the weight of my clothes. The shadow of the ship was looming over us, and I needed to get Miss Johnson away from the stern where the propellers were struggling to hold a steady course. When I finally reached her, I did not waste a moment. Taking hold of the collar of her flying jacket, I pulled her towards me and put my arm under hers, but my fingers were frozen and she was so much heavier than I had anticipated. It was hard to get a grip, and it was all I could do to keep afloat. The engine started in the launch. Its throbbing sounded in my frozen ears each time my head went under. Waves were breaking over us. I could not let her go, and with my right arm locked around her, we sank beneath the surface. Holding her close, we drifted into a quiet world, slowly, comfortably, our bodies becoming pliant and warm. Blood returned to soften my crippled fingers; there was no more stinging pain. The water was clearer here; the storm was abating. Her dark hair floated around her lovely face. She opened her blues eyes and smiled at me, showing those happy, confident teeth. I asked her what had happened to her aircraft, what had brought down one of the most experienced pilots in the world? But she said it didn’t matter. It was unimportant. Everything was unimportant now. But if I had known you were coming, she said, I would have baked a ginger cake. Her eyelids slowly closed over and she moved her wet lips forward. It was the kiss of a lifetime. It was the kiss of death. 

© Roger Williams

• Extract from Father Thames by Roger Williams, to be published by Bristol Book Publishing in 2012
For further extracts, see Bomber
and Poor Palatines