The Great Spitfire Dig

At this point it seems his luck had changed, unlike the American tourist Ginger Meadows who was taken by a huge crocodile in mid 1987 the prehistoric killers left him alone. He was quickly picked up by Aboriginal pearlers and was back on his base within seven days.

Four and a half decades later, battling the same tropical heat, and having to contend with a largely increased crocodile population, thirteen RAAF servicemen and one Royal Australian Naval Officer recently prepared to dig the ageing wreck from its watery grave.

Their adventure began in Broome in the north west of West Australia. Working from a military style landing craft, sponsored by Lord McAlpine the plan was to dig the plane out within seven days.

Despite all their hard work preparing the barge prior to leaving Broome, Lady Luck it seems had been left standing on the jetty. During their two and a half day trip to the salvage site the boat’s engines broke down twice, the first time they were adrift in the Indian Ocean for more than an hour. The second while negotiating dangerous reefs.

When the servicemen finally arrived, the Spitfire was seven metres beneath them. It was marked with a white polystyrene buoy, suitably embroidered with crocodile teeth marks. Within hours though the tide had gone out leaving the plane high and dry. It was painfully obvious the men had to get into the thick glutinous mud and dig it out.

The men had been told no creature was to be killed, but they were not leaving the safety of the deck of the barge without letting the crocodile population know there would be trouble if they wanted it. Sharp shooters were posted and a volley of gun fire sent birds and crocodiles scurrying for cover.

Day two and for more than five hours the men worked waist deep in the grey sticky mud clearing it away from the old fighter plane. The sweat from their labourers running off their brows into their eyes as the temperature reached the 45 degree mark in conditions of near maximum humidity! With about an hour to spare before the tide returned they attached special flotation bags to the wreck. The plan was to lift it out of the mud on the next tide. But luck was against them. The bags punctured on the sharp edges of thousands of oysters which had made the 44 year old wreck their home.

Apart from crocodiles, one of the biggest problems the men had was lack of sleep. The sun rose around five. Before eight the temperature was in the thirties, by noon it had routinely topped the forty degree mark. After the failure of the flotation bags the previous day it was back in the mud. While some worked on the fuselage, others slithered out to the tail. It was a long hot day. Again temperatures soared to the mid forties, and guards were posted to keep watch for the prehistoric man eaters. While one gunner stood lookout on the bridge, the other crawled out into the mud with his mates. It was a desperate race against time. It had been decided to cut the huge Merlin engine from the rest of the plane. There were some surprises for the workers, hydraulic oil, still under pressure, squirted out from the engine, and the discovery of two almost perfect Dunlop tyres, a face mask, and compass.

Despite these thrills luck was still against them. It took more than 24 hours of hard slog to get the engine on board. Using two six tonne winches it was slow going. Centimetre by agonising centimetre the men pulled on the dead weight. Stopping only for a drink of cordial, the men managed to get the engine on the edge of the ramp just as the tide began to wash over it again. It was dawn the following morning before it was secure, and all were exhausted. Some had given up around 2am, others had worked through the night under spotlights. But they were all suffering from dozens of sandfly bites, attracted by the light.

This was the beginning of their third full day in the St. George Basin, and the stifling heat was beginning to get to them. When they worked they had to dress in army greens or be cut to ribbons by the shell fragments in the mud. By the time they finished their day they were caked in the thick grey mixture. There were no showers here, and no fresh water to spare. The only way to get the mud off was to wash in sea water. For this they had to wait for the tide to come in. A petrol driven pump was used to draw sea water and by the time they were hosed down, the mud had dried rock hard.

They wore Rambo style webbing around their foreheads to stop the sweat running in their eyes. They hadn’t shaved for days, and were beginning to look like a mob of pirates. It went well with the scull and cross bones the barge was flying. Time though was running out. So the officer in charge of the operation, Wing Commander Jim de Bomford decided to try the flotation bags a second time. Another six hours in the unyielding mud. Dusk came, and again the tide was rushing in. But for once luck smiled on them and they managed to get the flotation bags attached.

With the combined buoyancy of the barge and the bags, the plane lifted. The men were positively jubilant. They could push it with sticks, and watch it move in the water. There was some frantic winching as they tried to manoeuvre the plane onto the lowered ramp of the barge. Then disaster struck as one of the bags punctured and half the Spitfire disappeared. The tide was about to turn. Dejected they sat and waited as the Spitfire settled back on the mud. It was time to get radical. They were running out of time. They still had enough drinking water, but they had almost run out of fresh food.

The decision to cut the starboard wing from the body was made. It was while they were removing the wing that the crocodiles attacked. It wasn’t a full out assault, rather, as you’d expect from such creatures, an attempted kidnapping.

Wayne Dicks, the cook, and Flying Officer Mike (Beeker) Roberts, were in a dinghy trying to retrieve a rope, when two crocodiles snuck up on them. Beeker spotted them first. They came within metres of the boat. Beeker yelled to the gunner, and as he stood up to point the reptiles out, the small boat lurched violently. Whether it was an attack from an unseen man-eater or the erratic movements of the worried couple in the dinghy no one was sure, but it appeared that Beeker had gone overboard. As the men on the barge heaved on the tope which held the dinghy they made as much noise as they could to scare the man-eaters away. The gunners let off a volley of tracers, still not sure whether Beeker had gone over and become their first victim or whether he’d just fallen over in the boat. But he need not have worried, Beeker was lying in the bottom of the dinghy.

Extra lookouts were posted and, as the men went back in the mud, the reptiles could be seen among the mangroves, their small bright eyes shining, or perhaps twinkling in the torchlight.

Despite the obvious dangers, the men were now desperate to get the job finished. Again they laboured through the night, winching the wing slowly on board. By the time dawn broke all that was left in the mud was the port wing and cockpit. They worked throughout the day, now on the verge of complete exhaustion. Time had almost run out, if they didn’t get the remainder of the plane up within the next 24 hours it would stay in its watery grave forever. By the end of the day their hard work had paid off. To everyone’s joy the fuselage and port wing were on board. All they had to do now was wait for high tide, and see if the barge had enough hydraulic power to light the remainder of the wreckage.

Although the Spitfire adventure had come to an end, the story hasn’t. The wreckage was taken back to Broome, and from there by Hercules to Laverton in Victoria (refer Warbirds this issue), where the plane will be preserved at the RAAF Museum at nearby Pt Cook. Meantime the search is on for the pilot of the plane, Flying Officer DW Grey, Service Number 123590 of 54 Squadron. Any help by readers in tracking down this gentleman would be appreciated.