Jay ODonnell - Rescue 194

JAY ODONNELL QGM

with HUMPHREY PRICE

PENGUIN BOOKS

PENGUIN BOOKS

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First published 2011

Copyright UK Crown Copyright, 2011
All images UK Crown Copyright reproduced with the permission of the Controller, HMSO, London
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ISBN: 978-0-14-194321-3

PENGUIN BOOKS

Rescue 194

Chief Petty Officer Aircrewman Jay ODonnell joined the Royal Navy in 1991. He qualified as one of a handful of Search and Rescue Divers in 2005. Hes now stationed at RNAS Culdrose in Cornwall, flying with 814 Naval Air Squadron aboard Merlin anti-submarine helicopters. He was awarded the Queens Gallantry Medal for the rescue of the crew of the MSC Napoli.

Co-writer Humphrey Price is a writer and editor with twenty years exprience working in publishing. He lives in London.

The Royal Navys Search and Rescue capability starts and ends as a form of military tasking. Rescuing civilians, be they sailors on yachts or on tankers, or walkers and climbers, or any other related emergencies, are ancillary tasks to the role that SAR plays within the Royal Navys operations.

Rescue 194 tells only one story of the many aspects of life in the Royal Navy, my own and that of other members of 771 Squadron. I never forget that I am a proud serving member of Her Majestys Armed Forces and that many of my comrades and colleagues in all branches of the services face a far more dangerous and traumatic day, in combat zones such as Afghanistan, than I do when I board an aircraft to fly into the air above Cornwall.

I want to dedicate this book to the strength and courage of those serving abroad, and to the memory of those who fell in the service of their country.

And to my dad, who I felt was with me throughout those testing hours on the Napoli lifeboat.

Lastly to Sean Freddy Krueger, who died doing his job, 7 July 2010. RIP mate.

Chris ripped the door back and the heat inside the cab rushed out into the cold night outside, the pungent smell of aircraft fuel mingling with the salty Mediterranean air that poured in. I shuffled out of my low seat towards the open doorway of the Sea King Mk 6 and knelt by the side of the cab, peering down at the water below. A glimmer of light over in the far east lifted shadows out of the sea, greys and deep blues seeming to grow out of the thick blackness. Chris the Observer and aircraft commander, as well as the winch op spoke clearly over the intercom: Were nearly over the scene now, lets start looking out for any survivors, or anything else we can see out there.

The roar of the rotor blades beating above my head was kept at bay by the well-fitting headset. With a microphone clipped to the front of my helmet, I could speak to everyone on board as well as hear clearly what was being said not that there was much to report, as nothing from the shipwrecked Express Samina was visible below.

Itll be a lot easier to see down there when dawn breaks, I said. Its hard to see anything right now. I didnt bother saying sir when addressing Chris, no one does when speaking to officers in the helicopters; if any of us did, it would slow down what has to be a fast and sometimes frank exchange of views.

From up front in the cockpit, one of the pilots chipped in: Weve got some lights out in front of us. Fishing boats perhaps. Nothing bigger than that.

Chris was in his seat opposite the door where I squatted, his eyes fixed on the radar screen in front of him. Theres Gary coming in now, theyre circling the boats below, they must have seen some survivors.

No need for us to get in their way while they got on with the job, so we moved off starboard. I carried on looking down continuously for anything that might be a life raft or maybe some survivors gathered together with floatation devices. It was too dark to see individuals just yet, unless they had some sort of flares or reflective devices on them, but a group together might stand out.

An hour before midnight, the Greek passenger ferry Express Samina had capsized and sunk near the island of Paros, in the Aegean, going down in a little over half an hour. With the 500 people on board now in the water it was vital that any rescue was carried out as soon as possible because, we learned, the angle of the hull in the water had made it impossible to launch the lifeboats, while inflatable life rafts had blown away in the strong winds before those fortunate enough to grab one of the few life preservers could reach them. There was, though, one unexpected bit of good fortune in the unfolding tragedy. The Sea King helicopters of 814 Naval Air Squadron, on board HMS Invincible and RFA Fort George, were in the area and ready to answer the desperate call for help. We were airborne less than an hour after being shaken from our beds.

Every second counts when people are in the water, even in somewhere as seemingly benign as the Med. Theres the probability of hypothermia setting in, as someone in the water loses their body temperature much faster in water than they would do on land; if the water is at, say, 10C, they might expect to die in about an hour if they had no protection like a wetsuit or anything of that sort. The people down below us had already been in for a lot longer than that, because wed been radioed from the ship as we were flying north to give us full details on what to expect; the ferry had gone down in a matter of minutes, and most of the passengers had no more than a quarter of an hour to get off the sinking ferry.

A voice from one of the Invincibles aircraft came over the radio. It was Lieutenant Gary Milton, the commander of the SAR duty aircraft, saying, Weve located some survivors on a rock, and Nicks going down to start bringing them up. Nick Hipkin was one of the Aircrewmen from