Auction Catalogue

23 June 2005

Starting at 10:00 AM

.

Orders, Decorations, Medals and Militaria

Grand Connaught Rooms  61 - 65 Great Queen St  London  WC2B 5DA

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Lot

№ 1239 x

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23 June 2005

Hammer Price:
£2,300

A fine Great War D.S.M. group of four awarded to Able Seaman P. S. Fryer, Royal Navy, who was decorated for his gallantry in the “special service smack” I’ll Try during a successful encounter with an enemy submarine in February 1917: in all likelihood he was still serving in the same vessel when she was lost in another encounter with an enemy submarine later that year, an action that resulted in the award of a posthumous V.C. to Skipper Thomas Crisp, R.N.R.

Distinguished Service Medal
, G.V.R. (J. 11258 P. S. Fryer, A.B., North Sea, 1 Feb. 1917); 1914-15 Star (J. 11258 A.B., R.N.); British War and Victory Medals (J. 11258 A.B., R.N.), the second with damage to one sword hilt and obverse dates and the third officially re-impressed, contact marks and edge bruising, otherwise generally about very fine (4) £1400-1800

D.S.M. London Gazette 23 March 1917: ‘The following awards have been approved.’

Percy Stanley Fryer was born at Deptford in September 1894 and entered the Royal Navy as a Boy 2nd Class in February 1911. Placed on the books of the fishery protection gunboat
Halcyon in July 1915 - in fact the Lowestoft base for fitting out Q-Ships and armed smacks for anti-submarine duties - he remained similarly employed until removing to the shore establishment Pembroke in October 1917. Official records confirm that his subsequent award of the D.S.M. was for gallantry in the “special service smack” I’ll Try, commanded by Skipper Thomas Crisp, R.N.R., following a successful encounter with an enemy submarine on 1 February 1917, while sailing in the company of a similar clandestine vessel, Boy Alfred. Henry Newbolt’s Submarine and Anti-Submarine takes up the story:

‘The British Boats were commanded by Skipper Walter S. Wharton, R.N.R. (
Boy Alfred) and Skipper Thomas Crisp, R.N.R. (I’ll Try), and were out in the North Sea when they sighted a pair of U-Boats coming straight towards them on the surface. The first of these came within 300 yards of Boy Alfred and stopped. Then followed an extraordinary piece of work, only possible to a German pirate. The U-Boat signalled with a flag to Boy Alfred to come nearer, and at the same time opened fire upon her with a machine-gun or rifles, hitting her in many places, though by mere chance not a single casualty resulted.

Skipper Wharton’s time had yet to come; he was not for a duel at long range. He threw out his small boat, and by this submissive behaviour encouraged the U-Boat to come nearer, which she did by submerging and popping up again within a hundred yards. A man then came out of the conning-tower and hailed
Boy Alfred, giving the order to abandon ship as he intended to torpedo. But 100 yards was a very different affair from 300. It was, in fact, a range Skipper Wharton thought quite suitable. He gave the order “Open fire” instead of “Abandon ship”, and his gunner did not fail him. The first round from the 12-pounder was just short, and the second just over; but having straddled his target, the good man put his third shot into the submarine’s hull, just before the conning-tower, where it burst on contact. The fourth shot was better still; it pierced the conning-tower and burst inside. The U-Boat sank like a stone, and the usual wide-spreading patch of oil marked her grave.




In the meantime the second enemy submarine had gone to the east of
I’ll Try, who was herself east of Boy Alfred. He was a still more cautious pirate than his companion, and remained submerged for some time, cruising around I’ll Try with only a periscope showing. Skipper Crisp, having a motor fitted to his smack, was too handy for the German, and kept altering course so as to bring the periscope ahead of him, whenever it was visible. The enemy disappeared entirely no less than six times, but at last summoned up the courage to break surface. The hesitation was fatal to him - he had given the smack time to make every preparation. He appeared suddenly at last, only 200 yards off, on I’ll Try’s starboard bow; but his upper deck and big conning tower were no sooner clearly exposed than Skipper Crisp put his helm hard over, brought the enemy on to his broadside and let fly with his 13-pounder gun. At this moment a torpedo passed under the smack’s stern, missing only by ten feet, then coming to the surface, and running along on the top past Boy Alfred. It was the U-Boat’s first and last effort. In the same instant, I’ll Try’s shell - the only one fired - struck the base of the conning-tower and exploded, blowing pieces of the submarine into the water on all sides.

The U-Boat immediately took a list to starboard and plunged bows first - she disappeared so rapidly that the gunner had not even the time for a second shot.
I’ll Try immediately hurried to the spot, and there saw large bubbles of air coming up and a large and increasing patch of oil. She marked the position with a Dan-buoy, and stood by for three quarters of an hour with Boy Alfred. Finally, as the enemy gave no sign of life, the two smacks returned to harbour ...’

In concluding his report on the above action, the Commodore-in-Charge, Naval Intelligence, stated that the available evidence suggested that this second enemy submarine was also sunk - Crisp was duly awarded the D.S.C., while Fryer’s gallant actions were rewarded with a D.S.M. By the Summer of 1917,
I’ll Try had been renamed Nelson, but was still commanded by Crisp, and there is no reason to indicate that the recently “blooded” - and decorated - Fryer was not too still a member of her small, closely-knit crew. If so, he witnessed the events that led to one of finest “special service” V.Cs on record. A contemporary newspaper feature takes up the story:

‘On an August afternoon, at about a quarter to three, the trawl was shot from the
Nelson, and the smack was on the port tack. The skipper was below packing fish, one hand was on deck cleaning fish for the next morning’s breakfast, and then the skipper came on deck, saw an object on the horizon, examined it closely, and sent for his glasses. Almost directly he sang out: “Clear for action. Submarine.” He had scarcely spoken when a shot fell about a hundred yards away on the port bow. The motor-man got to his motor; the deck hand dropped his fish and went to the ammunition room; the other hands, at the skipper’s orders, “Let go your gear; let go the warp and put a Dan on one end of it.” Meanwhile the gunlayer held his fire until the skipper said, “It’s no use waiting any longer; we will have to let him have it.” Away in the distance the submarine sent shell after shell at the smack, and about the fourth shot the shell went through the port bow just below the water-line, before we fired, and then the skipper shoved her round. There was no confusion on board, not even when the seventh shell struck the skipper, passed through his side, through the deck and out through the side of the ship. The second hand at once took charge of the tiller, and the firing continued. All the time the water was pouring into the ship, and she was sinking. One man, the gunlayer, went to the skipper to see if he could render first aid, but it was obvious that he was mortally wounded. “It’s all right, boy; do your best,” said the skipper, and then, to the second hand: “Send a message off.” This was the message: Nelson being attacked by submarine. Skipper killed. Send assistance at once.” All the time the smack was sinking, and only five rounds of ammunition were left. The second hand went to the skipper lying there on the deck, and heard him say, “Abandon ship. Throw me overboard.” He was asked by his son then if they should lift him into the boat, but his answer was: “Tom, I’m done; throw me overboard.” He was too badly injured to be moved, and they left him there on the deck, with a smile on his lips, though with both legs hanging off, and took to the small boat, and about a quarter of an hour afterwards the Nelson went down by the head. It was just drawing into dusk and the crew of the boat pulled all that night. Towards morning the wind freshened and blew them out of their course. They pulled all that day, and had a pair of trousers and a large piece of oilskin fastened to two oars to attract attention, and once a vessel was sighted, and once a group of minesweepers, but they passed out of sight. At night the weather became finer, and through the night they pulled until daybreak, when, at 10.30 a.m., they found a buoy and made fast to it. By afternoon they were sighted and rescued. The second hand, who took charge of the tiller after the skipper had been shot down, was his son, and so the great tradition goes on ...’

The gallant Fryer ended the War with an apointment in H.M.S.
Tuberose and was finally discharged from the Royal Navy in July 1927. His records, however, indicate that he was never awarded a L.S. & G.C. Medal.