On a dark and stormy night in October 1944 an unlikely tragedy played out in the waters off Jersey’s forbidding north coast. It cost the lives of eleven men, who, had the Second World War never occurred, and misfortune not intervened, had no earthly business being anywhere near the Island.
But this was wartime, they were lost and Jersey was occupied. It was a deadly combination of circumstances that brought a Dakota down in Bouley Bay. Could the anti-aircraft battery commander believe his fortune?
A quiet war
Until that night it had been a mostly quiet war for his unit of three light flak guns near Trinity's Ebenezer Chapel - Allied planes tended to avoid the Channel Islands and their bristling German anti-aircraft defences.
Yet in the commander’s sights that night was a large, low-flying plane, slowly passing along the Island’s north coast, and – to crown it all – with navigation lights switched on. It was too good a target to miss.
The commander gave the order to open fire and his guns barked into life, spitting a stream of 20mm shells towards the hapless aircraft. They found their mark - the obviously damaged plane sunk slowly below the cliffs towards the inky waters of Bouley Bay.
A moment of German triumph? Well it might be – assuming the flak unit had not shot down one of its own. Although the battery commander could not have been sure when opening fire on 30 October 1944, his guns had indeed shot down an enemy aircraft - a Douglas C47 Skytrain, known as a Dakota to the British.
Widely revered as a workhorse without equal, the ubiquitous Dakota undertook all manner of transport roles, tirelessly ferrying men and materials in every theatre of war. The one shot down over Jersey that night belonged to the United States Army Air Forces.
Querqueville
The USAAF 302 Transport Wing, which since September 1944 had been based at Querqueville Airfield near Cherbourg, specialised in carrying military equipment and personnel to wherever they were needed. On 30 October 1944, one of its Dakotas departed Villacoublay Airfield near Paris bound for Querqueville.
As well as the usual crew of five, on board were seven passengers, navy men returning from a spell of leave in the city of light. In command was the Dakota’s pilot, Lieutenant Robert (Bob) Blackler, on what should have been a routine flight over friendly territory.
Things began to go awry as the plane approached its intended destination airfield near Cherbourg. Weather in the area was poor, overcast skies with visibility down to just four miles. The co-pilot was a recent addition to the crew, inexperienced at navigation and unsure exactly where they were.
Compounding the situation, the plane’s radio operator reported his set was not working due to an electrical failure - they had no way of contacting the airfield to ask for assistance. Without an option to land, the Dakota had to fly on, overshooting Cherbourg and, in due course, leaving skies above friendly territory.
Despite most of France being liberated by that stage of the war, German pockets of resistance remained, staunchly holding locations along the Atlantic coast. One such place was the Channel Islands, of course, filled with thousands of soldiers and hundreds of guns.
Alderney
Upon reaching Alderney, some of these weapons opened up on the disoriented Dakota. Hit in the tail, Lieutenant Blackler veered south, assuming, fatefully, that the fire was actually coming from mistaken Allied guns.
Desperate for assistance, Blackler took a decision that ultimately would cost him and everyone in the plane dearly. Noting that they were flying over land, he switched on the plane’s navigation lights and descended. Such a move was internationally recognised as representing an aircraft in trouble – even in wartime.
The commander of the Ebenezer anti-aircraft battery was later punished for opening fire on the obviously distressed plane, which may have been German.
The court martial was a retrospective action that was not going to spare Blackler, his crew and passengers that night. Hit on the left-hand propeller and with loss of control over his left side elevators, Lieutenant Blackler could only nurse his crippled plane down and into a comparatively smooth landing on the water around 200 yards from the shore.
There must have been considerable relief on board as the Dakota slewed to a halt with no passengers or crew seriously injured. Yet this was no time for elation - it was dark and they were on a sinking plane being tossed around by the agitated winter sea.
Liferaft dropped
Blacker attempted to launch the on-board inflatable liferaft, but lost his footing as the aircraft heaved in the waves, dropping the device, which sank unopened. The increasingly desperate men had little choice but to attempt swimming ashore, although not having enough life jackets for all of them must have made this a forbidding prospect.
Ten decided it was the only option and set off from the rapidly submerging Dakota. One man remained behind, last seen clinging to the plane’s tail as it went down.
The others made out a line of white waves breaking on what was presumably the shoreline. Striking out in the darkness, the men swam through the bitterly cold water towards a hoped-for safety. It proved to be an illusory prospect. The seven, perhaps eight, of them who reached the shore discovered not a beach or harbour but the foot of towering cliffs with waves smashing against slippery granite.
Unable to gain any grip or foothold, the now exhausted survivors were thrown helplessly against the rocks. One by one, the men succumbed to sea and rocks. Only Lieutenant Blackler had the foresight, strength and determination to swim back from rather than towards the cliffs.
He was soon the only one left alive, although far from being out of danger. Something kept him conscious and swimming, however, long enough for former adversaries to become his saviour.
German soldiers had seen the Dakota come down in Bouley Bay and must have realised that its survivors were in the water. Eventually, they managed to locate Blackler and haul him ashore with the aid of a rope.
While his injuries were remarkably light, an hour in the winter water led to a week in the General Hospital recovering from shock and exposure. In the meantime, the Germans’ attention turned to those less fortunate than the rescued pilot.
Bodies recovered
On the morning after the crash, they recovered the bodies of five Americans from Bouley Bay, a sixth on the following day. Second Lieutenant Ermine Pallatine from New Jersey, Petty Officers Third Class Edward Pycz from Michigan, Timothy Manning from New York, William Kearns from Illinois, Second Officer Woodrow Anderson from Georgia, and Junious Stout, a Petty Officer First Class from California.
They were laid to rest in Howard Davis Park War Cemetery, established a year earlier by the island authorities to hold the remains of Allied airman and sailors washed ashore on Jersey.
Under appropriately leaden skies shedding occasional heavy showers, the Bailiff, Alexander Coutanche, led the civilian representatives, placing a wreath on behalf of Islanders. A German firing party and honour guard ensured the funeral had the necessary military air.
Among the mourners was also an American military representative. Colonel John Reybold was the senior officer among a group of 21 US prisoners of war already in the island. They had come to Jersey from a German military hospital in Saint Malo, evacuated before the liberation of that city in August 1944.
With the arrival of Lieutenant Blackler, their number increased by one. Blackler and the other American PoWs would remain in Jersey until just after the Liberation, leaving to return home via France.
Their deceased comrades lying in Howard Davis Park would also depart, their remains repatriated home or reburied in the huge American cemetery overlooking Normandy’s Omaha Beach.
Curiously (and somewhat confusingly) their grave markers remain standing in the St Helier war cemetery, the stars and stripes of ‘old glory’ still flies proudly overhead.
Somewhere in the seas off Bouley Bay another reminder of that tragic 1944 night also remains. In 1983, a diver came across an aircraft wreck, lying around 200 yards off the shore. It was the battered remains of Bob Blackler’s downed plane, and a silent testament to the ten lives lost when a Dakota came down in Bouley Bay
