The Second World War D.F.C. group of five awarded to Squadron Leader R. W. “Wally” Wallens, Royal Air Force, a Battle of Britain ace who was seriously wounded by a cannon-shell in a combat with a 109 in September 1940, his leg resembling ‘a ghastly mess of blood and mush’: unable to return to operational flying until late 1943, he went on to serve with distinction in Air Sea Rescue, flying Walrus aircraft

Distinguished Flying Cross, G.VI.R., the reverse officially dated ‘1944’, with its Royal Mint case of issue; 1939-45 Star, clasp, Battle of Britain; Air Crew Europe Star, clasp, Atlantic; Defence and War Medals, the last four privately inscribed ‘S./L. R. W. Wallens, R.A.F.’ and the 1939-45 Star additionally ‘Battle of Britain’, and with original addressed card forwarding box of wartime vintage, but actually official replacement issues as confirmed by later accompanying Air Ministry forwarding and entitlement slips, extremely fine (5) £4000-5000

This lot was sold as part of a special collection, The Ron Penhall Collection.

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D.F.C. London Gazette 15 August 1944:

‘In the early phases of the War, Squadron Leader Wallens took part in a large number of sorties during which he destroyed at least four enemy aircraft. In a combat in September 1940, he was wounded in the leg by a cannon-shell. Since his return to operational duties, he has been responsible for saving a number of personnel from the sea. He has set a splendid example of gallantry and devotion to duty.’

Ronald Walter “Wally” Wallens, whose wartime career is admirably described in his entertaining memoir Flying Made My Arms Ache, was educated at Worksop College and joined the Reserve of Air Force Officers on a short service commission in May 1937. That very same month he commenced pilot training at No. 11 E. & R. F.T.S. Perth and in the following year, having obtained a short service commission in the Royal Air Force, he joined No. 41 Squadron at Catterick.

The Battle of Britain

He subsequently flew numerous convoy and defensive patrols in early 1940 and was engaged in the Squadron’s Spitfires over Dunkirk in late May and early June. And with the onset of the Battle proper, and No. 41’s move to Hornchurch - and Manston as a forward base - he quickly saw further action, not least on 8 August 1940:

‘I was Green 3 in the section detailed to investigate 6 or 7 unknown aircraft circling in the Manston area. We dived from 25,000 feet down to 18,000 feet and identified the aircraft as Me. 109s, in straggling formations of 3 and 4 in wide Vics. I attacked the rear aircraft of the latter formation from astern and broke away to see my leader attack and the enemy aircraft went straight down into the sea. I then found another single Me. 109 and attacked from astern using only a very short burst. Blue and white smoke immediately poured from this machine and it went straight into the sea (mid-Channel). I returned to Manston and landed, but took off immediately (without rearming or refuelling) as I realised the fight might still be in progress. I climbed to about 12,000 feet and came across a lone Me. 109 returning home. I again attacked from astern and a short burst was sufficient to send this aircraft into the sea in the middle of the Channel. Flight Lieutenant Webster, returning from the engagement (apparently he had been across to Calais) saw this machine crash. All my attacks (I find I only used 389 rounds) were from astern and were just a question of “pressing the tit” for a one second burst; each time I must have hit the petrol tank or the pilot, since the enemy aircraft went straight in. Camouflage - silver all over with usual black crosses’ (combat report refers).

With two confirmed and one shared to his credit, Wallens added a shared Ju. 88 over Whitby on 11 August and a confirmed Me. 109 on 5 September, thereby gaining fighter ace status. But his success came at a price, for in the very same combat that he claimed the last named victory, his Spitfire was jumped by another Me. 109. Wallens takes up the story:

‘On a south-easterly heading, and jinking, I caught up with two 109s below returning home in open formation and, seeing no cover, attacked one with a long burst, which destroyed it. Then, like a foolish virgin, the most simple of novices, I committed the cardinal error and, instead of breaking violently away, slid across after the other 109.

As I lined the 109 up in my reflector sight the roof fell in on me, and I cursed the stupidity that would probably cost me my life. Of course, the Jerries were not fools, keeping tail cover for protection, and I had fallen for it.

The 109, which I glimpsed screaming down had opened up, luckily at maximum range, and raked me with heavy and concentrated fire before I could move. The din was indescribable as the 109s cannon and machine-gun fire tore great chunks out of my wings and blasted the cockpit. My instrument panel disintegrated, my radio control disappeared, my armoured glass windscreen was scored on the inside but intact and my leg went numb with a hammer blow that, strangely, did not seem to hurt at all, as a cannon shell tore it apart.

The shock was so intense that I sat, unbelieving that I had been ‘jumped’ and must pay the forfeit, for what seemed ages, but really must have only been a moment before I reacted and broke away violently.

To my great relief the Spitfire recovered to straight and level flight, handling like a sack of coal. Looking at the havoc around me, I decided that my Spitfire was a most unhealthy place in which to linger. I had never previously baled out or done a parachute drop but this was no time to sit and weigh up the pros and cons.

The Spitfire 1 had no canopy jettison so I reached up to pull back the canopy and get out while the going was good. To my horror it would not budge and I realised that the burst of fire must have jammed it. I was sealed in and, slumping back in my seat, realised that the moment of truth had finally arrived.

How and when my sanity returned I do not know. A drowning man clutches at straws, and, shouting, more I think with desperate frustration than fear, I pulled myself together and tried to weigh up my chances of survival. I had to get the Spitfire down before the engine, which was labouring and clattering, blew up or went on fire.

Fortunately for me it did neither and I managed to head back towards Hornchurch, losing height and looking desperately for a field in which to crash land.

When within four miles of base the engine finally ground to a stop, at a very low level, I had no choice but to put the aircraft down. My luck held as I rocketed across a field, smashed through a fence, hurdled a ditch like a Grand National winner into another field, coming to a rest in the shelter of a very large tree.

I sat there trapped in the cockpit for a hundred years or more until two men, running across the field, arrived to release me and help me out.

It was an astonishing thing but, during my noisy arrival, my attention was drawn to a hay-raking machine in the next field, the driver of which was having great difficulty in restraining his two terrified horses and I wanted to get out and apologise for being such a bloody nuisance.

It has been said that imminence of death gives added strength in the desperation to survive, but, no matter how desperately I hammered my fists against the jammed canopy, it was to no avail. I raised my seat to the top and frantically banged my helmeted head against the perspex, knowing that, if my petrol tanks had ruptured, the aircraft would, at any moment, go up in a frightful ball of fire. “Oh God, get me out, get me out,” was all I could croak to myself in despair.

The two men running across the field were suddenly standing on the wing and I was yelling hoarsely at them to hit the button and prise the canopy back. I was dying by inches, trapped in suffocating heat and with the will to live draining from me, when the seemingly freezing cold breeze of a hot afternoon wafted into the cockpit and strong hands were pulling at me to lift me out of my near-coffin. Some yards from the Spitfire I stood on one leg, supported by my two angels and tried, without success, hands shaking uncontrollably, to light a cigarette. My lovely Spitfire crackling like mad from its overheated and ruptured engine, lay forlornly on her belly under the tree. Cannon shells had gouged large chunks out of the top of the wings, shattered the rudder and smashed the cockpit, reducing it to a shambles.

Later I found that one bullet had neatly removed my right radio ear-phone, from my helmet, another coming down through my sleeve had neatly removed the face from my wrist watch. But the most shattering news that day was that my back armour had been almost penetrated by cannon-shells, still embedded in the metal, but just lacking the impetus to come through and split me apart, due, I imagine, to the toughness of the steel and the German who jumped me being just that fraction out of most effective range when he opened fire.

The men, whose names I never knew and who saved my life, helped me to walk, as I belligerently refused to be carried, to their small car in the lane and drove me a short distance to a large building which they said was now a hospital, at Orsett, just north of Tilbury on the River Thames ... ’

Another pilot from No. 41 Squadron wounded that day was Pilot Officer E. S. Lock, but his injuries were relatively minor, and he went on to become the highest scoring British pilot in the Battle of Britain. Casualties were indeed high, a matter upon which Wallens now had time to reflect:

‘When I was in hospital the time I crash-landed my aircraft shot up and a cannon-shell through my leg, the boys in the Squadron would come and see me when they had time off. The hospital was only a few miles from Hornchurch. Sometimes they’d fly past my window and wave to me. Some days, someone wouldn’t come past the window and I knew he’d gone and I’d never see him again.’

After several painful operations - including skin-grafts - Wallens reported back to No. 41 Squadron in April 1941, but was immediately sent away by the M.O. for further convalescence at Torquay. Even then, he was refused an operational posting, instead joining No. 1 Aircraft Delivery Flight at Hendon that June. The unit later moved to Croydon, and he remained similarly employed until November 1943, when he obtained an upgraded medical category and was able to return to the operational sphere - but only based in the U.K.

Air Sea Rescue

As a consequence, he joined No. 277 Squadron, an Air Sea Rescue (A.S.R.) unit operating in Walrus aircraft and “spotter” Spitfires, Wallens initially serving in the latter capacity, but thereafter, in spite of his C.O’s discouraging words, converting to the Walrus (a.k.a. the “Shagbat”):

‘“You must be off your bloody rocker. It’s like flying a brick s--t house. It takes off, flies, and lands, all at the same speed. It wallows all over the place ignoring you flying it, and with the engine at the back it doesn’t fly like an aeroplane, in fact it really isn’t an aeroplane is it? It’s a bloody monstrosity ... You’ll get bloody wet when you go down, and probably have to taxi back on the surface for several hours to Dover harbour, and then find the bar’s closed when you get home, but, be it on your own head ... ”

As evidenced by Wallens’ log books, he went on to fly numerous rescue missions, many of them fraught with danger, a fairly typical case described in his wartime memoir stating:

‘One day we went ‘hot-foot’ for an American fighter pilot in a dinghy just off Dunkirk. With a calm sea everything looked easy, a ‘doddle’, but we were aware that the Germans would sometimes let a Walrus land on the sea, and when stationary, and if in range, pump their 88s at it with great venom. It had been reported that they were also trailing cork-floated wires, offshore, attached to mines below the surface. If these wires were hooked the mines would surface and splatter everything within range.

Not wishing for an unfriendly reception we went down fast, to make a running pick up, without switching off the engine, and taking off the monent the gunner at the rear hatch signalled that the ‘customer’ was even half in. Waiting for the signal, I looked out to see what I didn’t want to believe I was seeing, corks and wires alongside the Walrus and God knows whether any were also underneath and already snared on the protruding tail wheel.

At times like this there is a strong urge to resign or transfer to road-sweeping or something but one has to sit there, keep quiet, subdue the rising panic and just sweat it out.

The gunner yelled “O.K.” over the R./T. and we took off flat out with all fingers crossed, and I banked the Walrus over and away, very low down on the water. Sure enough the Jerries opened up with their 88s and something came through the floor and embedded itself in the gunner’s seat in the hull but caused no damage. The American, however, was making his presence known in no uncertain manner and had demanded to know why we had taken so long to get to him. Considering the fact he had only been in the water for 40 minutes, and hadn’t had time to get his ‘Y’ fronts wet, he certainly had no cause for complaint, and I gave him a piece of my mind, a very dirty piece, pointing out that he was neither Abe Lincoln, General Robert E. Lee or Franklin D. Roosevelt but only a lowly Captain, and if I had any more lip I would have him thrown back in - and without his bloody dinghy. This seemed, if not to appease him at least to give him food for thought, and, on the way back, we got on like a house on fire.’

He was awarded the D.F.C.

No. 277 was disbanded in February 1945, but immediately re-mustered as No. 278 Squadron at Thorney Island, and Wallens remained actively employed until the end of the War - one of his last rescue operations was on behalf of a ditched glider crew who had been en route for the crossing of the Rhine (‘8 bods. all O.K.’). Posted to ground duties at R.A.F. Davidstow Moor in Cornwall in August 1945, Wallens logged a few more Spitfire flights at R.A.F. Kinloss in 1946, and was released from the R.A.F. in the rank of Squadron Leader in November 1947. Thereafter, he embarked on a new career in the motor trade, but subsequently ran a number of public houses and hotels. He died in December 1995.

Sold with a quantity of original documentation, including the recipient’s complete run of Flying Log Books (3), covering the periods May 1937 to September 1940, June 1941 to July 1942 and August 1942 to August 1946, the second of these commencing with an endorsement ‘Previous Log Book Lost On Active Service 5.9.1940’, but clearly, as described, recovered at a later date; Buckingham Palace D.F.C. forwarding letter and related congratulatory letters from the Deputy-Director of A.S.R., dated 19 August 1944, and Air Marshal Sir Roderic Hill, K.C.B., dated at Bentley Priory on 22 July 1944; a wartime photograph of No. 41 Squadron pilots, circa 1940 and an embroidered Air Sea Rescue (A.S.R.) uniform flash.

Provenance: Glendining’s, July 1990 (Lot 415).