Scottish Aircrew Association Logo

 

Library Reference Number: 139

Finneagle Rescue - October 1980

Sqn/Ldr. Bill Campbell, AFC, Scottish Saltire Branch, ACA.

At 8.27pm on 1st October 1980 a distress message on 500 kilohertz triggered the Auto Alarm signal at BT's Wick Coastal Radio Station: "This is Motor Ship Finneagle, SFAI, in position  59°15'N 04°11'W, Fire on board". What followed for members of 202 Squadron's SAR Sea King Flight at RAF Lossiemouth and one of the station's Medical Officers was a night of unforgettable experiences.

Finneagle rescue - October 1980The Swedish Marine Accident Report begins with the initial loading of the 14,497-ton deadweight Swedish roll-on/roll-off vessel in Vera Cruz, Mexico on 15 September. Further loading took place in Houston, Mobile and New Orleans from where Finneagle departed on 21 September bound for Wallhamn, 30 miles north of Gothenburg, Sweden. She was to follow a course that would take her north of Rockall and through the Pentland Firth, keeping her south of 2 low-pressure areas where the predicted maximum wave heights were forecast to increase to over 25 feet. After passing Rockall, wind and sea had increased in strength and by midday on 1 October the captain estimated the wind to have reached 10-12 on the Beaufort Scale (10 Storm, 11 Severe Storm, 12 Hurricane), with a following sea estimated to have reached a height of 40 feet.

There was a significant load of chemical containers in the cargo, carrying large and small tanks, drums, tins and cylinders. Some, listed as toxic or corrosive or highly flammable liquids and gases, were classified as dangerous cargo. Just to add to the cocktail were paints, varnishes, adhesives, petroleum products and alcohol including bottled whisky. Despite efforts to secure the cargo, four units, including a tank-container full of trimethyl phosphite, had broken their fastenings and slid against empty refrigerator trailers. A strange smell was noticed but although the tank-container had received damage to its thick insulation it was impossible to see any damage to the tank itself. On top of this had been stowed a container with drums of synthetic rubber solution which had also been damaged, allowing the rubber solution to run out. After further work, by 5pm the cargo was considered provisionally secured.

At 7pm the captain altered course to avoid the Pentland Firth and transit north of the Orkney Islands. Between 7.30 and 8pm the vessel made several violent lurches as a result of which the trimethyl phospite container came adrift again. This time the crew could not secure it. While the crew were there the container bumped repeatedly against a refrigerator trailer on the starboard side and at 8.20pm fire broke out. According to the second mate white smoke began to rise and then a ball of yellow-orange fire appeared. Trimethyl phosphite reacts violently with acid with a marked increase in temperature. The refrigerator trailers were all equipped with charged batteries and everything points to these being knocked off their mountings allowing dilute sulphuric acid to leak and react with the trimethyl phosphite.

Those crewmembers who were 'tween decks were forced to leave quickly. The fire, which spread fiercely resulting in the development of great heat, set off the fire alarm. The released heat led to the heating up of the weather deck above (the uncovered part of the upper deck) and inflammable gases developed leading to an explosion. Shortly afterwards there was a further violent explosion. Some of the force of this was dissipated by a 40-ton container lorry parked on the lift, which was blown from the lower deck to the roof of 'tween decks and fell back. Two ventilators with their 4-ton impeller motors were blown clean out of the ship. The first distress message was sent at 8.27pm.

The subsequent rapid spread of the fire indicates that after it had started the heat caused the trimethyl phosphite to vaporise. The swift development of heat led to the vaporisation of different substances. These gases were later to ignite and explode at several points on the vessel. The rubber solution and other spilled liquids caused the fire to spread to the decks below and ignite among other things the foam plastic insulation on the refrigerator trailers considerably stimulating the fire and leading to the development of great quantities of smoke and noxious substances.

At 8.55pm the electrics failed and the main engine stopped leaving the ship rolling violently in a thwartships sea with a list of 45°. Within 15-20 minutes the first engineer succeeded in restarting the engine but only at about half speed. Steering was also restored but with no rudder position indication. At 9.30pm the firefighting sprinkler system had to be stopped as the 300 tons of water used threatened to capsize the vessel which was listing 45-55°. By 10.30pm fire had spread to the weather deck where it became raging. The after part of the ship had to be evacuated because of dense smoke and gases and the crew were finally forced to move to the wing bridges and the top bridge above the wheelhouse. Preparations were made to abandon ship but the captain decided that sea conditions made this impossible. At 11pm even the radio room, which opens directly into the wheelhouse, was evacuated.

Shortly afterwards at 11.15pm the first Rescue Helicopter, Rescue 37, arrived on scene, knowing little more than that there had been a 'fire on board'. At 8.36pm the ship's initial distress message had been relayed to Orkney Coastguard at Kirkwall who at 8.45 scrambled the Sumburgh S-61 helicopter. At 9pm the RAF Rescue Co-ordination Centre (RCC) at Pitreavie Castle in Fife scrambled the Kinloss SAR Nimrod and rang Lossiemouth. Flt Lt Jim Gatherer's 4-man crew got airborne at 9.20, callsign Rescue 37, estimating the ship at 10.40. Rescue 17, the Sumburgh S-61 was estimating airborne at 9.30 with 90 minutes transit. The Nimrod, callsign Rescue 51 got airborne at 9.35 and at 10pm located the ship.

I had been at the flight since 8am acting as the flight's response cell for Lossiemouth's Tactical Evaluation Exercise (TACEVAL) to keep the duty crew free of disruption. After R37's departure I started thinking about how this operation was going to pan out. I didn't know conditions on scene but RCC's met forecast was giving a surface wind of 30-40 knots gusting 50-60 so the sea state could be imagined. I thought that we should find some off-duty aircrew and get another aircraft with full fuel and six hours endurance up there to complete the job if the others ran out of time. I put my concerns to the RCC Controller and at 10.10pm RCC asked us to generate a second crew. We found a co-pilot, young first-tourist Flt Lt Dave Simpson and winchman Sgt Rick Bragg. Meanwhile the ETAs of the helicopters went further back, R37 to 11.20 and R17, who had had a delayed departure, was estimating 1145. I felt it was becoming more likely that RCC were going to use us but we didn't have a captain. Last chance; was Flt Lt Mike Lakey home yet? He had flown to London that day for a press conference announcing an award to a Boulmer crew for the Alexander Kielland rescue operation. Mike had just got home when I rang him at 10.20. Ten minutes later RCC asked us to launch and at 10.50 we were airborne with a fifth crewmember, one of the station medical officers, Sqn Ldr Hamish Grant.

We stayed low in the relatively sheltered Moray Firth but as we passed John O'Groats we hit a 50-knot headwind. At 11.40 we got a surprise when we heard R37 was leaving the scene to refuel at Kirkwall having been unable to winch. Flt Sgt Ron Webb, R37's Radar/Winch Operator, recently described to me how despondent the ship's captain had been when they told him they were departing, "Can you at least take the women and children?" he said. "If we could get them off we could get all of you off", they replied. How bad were conditions that one of our crews had not been able to find a way to do it? The answer was that while they were on scene a 52-foot whippy signals mast had stood on the corner of the only area available for winching on the entire ship. Frustrated they certainly were but they were instrumental in preparing the way for us by instructing the ship's crew to dismantle the array of masts dotted around the forward superstructure. The signal mast had been unscrewed and lowered by the time we arrived.

We picked up the ship on radar at 30 miles and, 5 miles from it, Dave, a science graduate, recommended we divert left after recognising some nasty chemical fumes emanating from it. We arrived at 0.25am to be greeted by a truly fantastic sight. This 600 foot long, near-15000 ton ship was pounding along, every few seconds the bow crashing into huge waves, the stern rising and falling 100 feet, rudder and propeller frequently exposed. From every orifice from bow to stern dense black smoke was billowing and midships a fire was raging on the open deck. The rear superstructure was almost totally obscured by smoke, but the most amazing sight was up front. A large block shaped forward superstructure topped off by a prominent radar mast sat just aft of a very short bow, and maybe 30 feet above the lot was the relatively diminutive shape of R17, the Sumburgh S-61, bucking around with his 65 foot winch wire and rescue strops flailing in the turbulence. They had been trying for 40 minutes to get the strops to the crew and we watched their valiant efforts for another 10 minutes before they conceded defeat and flew off to refuel at Kirkwall, the trademark red dayglow chevrons on the hull of the Bristows' aircraft reflecting the glow of the flames as it towered away.

The time was 0.38am, more than four hours from the start of the incident,  and we who had got airborne as a backup aircraft now found ourselves in the hot seat. Although we had had a good look at the ship already we did a quick circuit to check all the hazards and it was obvious that there was only one winching area and that was where the crew, now confirmed as 22, were mustered, on the top bridge above the wheelhouse.

The light-coloured area in the aerial photograph was the roof of the Navigation Deck which housed the wheelhouse, radio room, captain's offices and pilot's room. The forward bulwark above the wheelhouse windows provided some shelter and a waist-high guard-rail bounded the rest of the perimeter. Flanking this area on either side was a yellow semi-opaque roof over an open deck area. On the 44-foot mast were mounted two radar scanners and an array of lighting gantries. Two tall whip aerials were mounted on the forward bulwark behind which some of the crew were sheltering under space blankets. Others were waiting between the mast and the guard-rail on the port side and we targeted them for the first lift.

Our instruments indicated a wind of 50 knots gusting 60-70 and waves 40-50 feet high. We caught glimpses of the helmsman spinning the wheel trying to keep the bow head into wind and sea. He had no rudder position indicator due to fire damage so the course was erratic and the ship, being pounded by waves from either flank, was rolling 15-20 degrees either way. The biggest problem, however, was the pitching. The bow would be lifted by a wave then as the wave passed along the vessel to midships the bulbous bow would topple into the next trough before smashing into another wave. Our Doppler showed that the impact reduced the ship's speed instantly from 12 knots to 4 knots before the bulbous bow punched out of the back of the wave, whereupon the ship surged forward and accelerated back to 12 knots. As the ship rose on the wave the bow lifted an enormous chunk of water, possibly 20 feet deep, which hung momentarily on the bow before thumping into the bridge in a cloud of spray then cascading over the sides of the bow like a giant emptying a bucket. This process was repeated every 7 seconds or so, and every seventh wave was bigger than the others.

It's always preferable to get the winchman on to the deck to supervise the recovery of survivors so we decided to try as Rick, the most gutsy winchman I've ever flown with, was willing. Following my directions, Mike had to move right and follow the ship's gyrations to try to get Rick to the exact point just to the left of the mast. Within seconds the impact of the coarse control inputs Mike was having to make began a swing and then as we moved closer to the ship Rick was hit by invisible waves of air which were gushing around the superstructure. Rick was soon in a huge anti-clockwise spin, disappearing round the front of the helicopter and reappearing several seconds later behind the tail. This was madness so we gently moved left, damped out the swing and brought a grateful Rick back to the cabin.

We would now have to resort to our only alternative, using our Hi-line equipment to lower two rescue strops to the deck, leaving the crew to use their initiative to get safely into the strops and indicate to us that they were ready to be winched up. We could have three attempts with our Hi-line sets, each 150 feet of braided nylon cord and diver's weights with a nylon weak link connecting to the winch hook.

Coming in from the side of the ship trailing the Hi-line was impossible due to the turbulence so we were forced to trail it from ahead of the ship. Even here the line was snaking in all directions and the one kilogramme weight was floating like a feather on the airflow. Frequently the aircraft and the ship got a bit close and for safety we stopped and joined two Hi-lines together to increase the spacing and put a total of 7 Kg on the line. This gave us comfortable clearance but the weight was still flying beautifully. It was right over the outstretched hands of the crew for ages but we just couldn't get it to drop. Suddenly Rick shouted "They've got it!" (followed by a big cheer from the rest of us). The weight had crashed to the deck at the rear of the top bridge with the line draped over the mast. The top bridge is known to mariners as the 'Monkey Island' and it was with the alacrity of a monkey that one of the crew shinned up the mast and released the line. Game on!

We backed off and came to the hover alongside the aft corner of the top bridge. The Hi-line was now being hauled into a scrum of people to the left of the mast. There was no lighting apart from our helicopter lights and it was impossible to see what was going on. After a few seconds someone on the deck made a rotating motion with a torch which we took to mean ready for winching. I couldn't make out who was in the strops as I gave Mike instructions to move forward and right 25 yards for the lift. All went well until we were within a couple of yards of the pickup point. We didn't know it but a rogue wave had come along, the ship had dived into a deeper trough, been slowed more severely and been lifted higher than even a seventh wave had done. I sensed that Mike had lost visual contact with the ship. The result was the mast was rearing up and rolling towards us and my brain computed a collision. Regardless of what's on the wire, heartless though that may sound, aircraft safety always comes first and I had no option but to give Mike the emergency climb command, "UP! UP! UP!". We were still closing with the mast so I continued to shout, raising my voice and increasing the pitch until my voice broke on the seventh "UP!". What happened in the next 2 seconds is a terrible memory. I looked down the slack cable to see with horror that the mast had rolled across it. Beyond the mast I could see the scrum of people but between them and us were the two scanners and the lighting gantries. I remember the thoughts flashing through my mind. "Can I stop Mike from climbing? No! They're going to be shredded! What are my next words going to be!". Well, with indescribable relief, I was able to say the normal "Clear of the deck, clear left, survivors on the hook", because a split second before we started climbing away, the ship lurched to starboard and the mast rolled clear of the cable. The survivors in the strops were wrenched off the deck (as Mike was later to say 'like a Saturn Five Rocket!') and sailed clear. (Mike told me later that he had indeed lost contact with the mast and had pulled normal red-line max power till I kept shouting, whereupon he pulled 'a bit more').

The emergency lift had caused an enormous swing on the 60-70 feet of cable we had out. When Mike brought the aircraft to a very high hover to the side of the ship I pulled and pushed on the wire to damp out the swing.

Our spotlights had been trained on the ship so it was some time before Rick could get our winch spot trained on the survivors who, until the swing reduced, were alternately out to the right or out of sight behind the aircraft. I winched in and as they came into the light we saw that they were women. As they came closer there was a sudden exclamation from Rick, "They've got kids!". Then we saw that the kids were not in the strops but had slipped down and were simply being held by the women. I slowed the winch and gingerly brought them up to the door. Rick and I had agreed to grab one child each but the women pre-empted us by turning and tumbling the 6 and 3 year-olds onto the floor. We handed the kids over to Hamish Grant then brought the women on board, one momentarily collapsing at our feet.

The time was 1.17am, four rescued, 18 to go, in pairs - 9 more lifts. Then we saw that the Hi-line was hanging below us and was not on the ship. Mike was the first to say it but we all agreed that the trail was too time-consuming and we'd have to find another way of getting the Hi-line onto the ship. First we had to recover the rope - 300 feet hand over hand with 7Kg on the end! While we were doing this we got the German vessel Walter Herwig to move ahead and provide a hover reference for Mike. Once that was done we re-surveyed the top bridge and decided that, to winch well clear of the mast, we'd get the remaining crew to move in pairs outside the guard-rail onto the yellow plastic roof over the outer navigation deck. This roof was of similar dimensions to a cricket wicket and I thought that if I threw the weight at the forward end it would drift back onto the middle of the 'wicket'. At the first attempt the weight flew along the 'wicket' and sailed off the back end. I had to talk Mike into a position in space a few yards ahead of the 'wicket' and chuck the weight into the wind. The next attempt was successful and as the weight slid across the roof one of the crew made a great diving stop.

Mike and I agreed a way of hauling the crew off at an angle to minimise the swing and over the next few lifts got quite good at it. Then suddenly the sky lit up. From the rear of the weather deck a massive fireball erupted. We were alarmed at first as it expanded towards us but for a change we were glad of the 70 knots of wind across the deck which squashed the forward progress of the flames and held them away from us. A spectacular globule of flaming gas broke away and rose into the night, extinguishing 200 feet or so above the ship. As quick as it had erupted it died away and we wondered if this was a one-off. We continued the lifts until we had 14 survivors on board and Mike called a break to massage his stiff neck as on every lift he had been craning his neck to see the ship. Dave Simpson, who took over the flying, had had the worst of jobs. He had been briefed by Mike to monitor the instruments and be ready to take over at any time Mike was unable to continue or became disorientated. Dave had been watching the instruments on the blind side of the aircraft and in particular the radar altimeter which was swinging between 40 and 150 feet as towering waves passed in the corner of his eye. This was causing him to feel seasick but he kept his mouth shut. Dave was also working the radios with the ship and the Nimrod and as we sat and observed the ship during our break he pointed out an outrageous sight. The crew had been asked to remove obstructions and as there was no longer access to tools stored in the stern, the ship's cook was hanging on to a stanchion mounted on the forward bulwark and hacking down a fibreglass aerial with a meat cleaver, seemingly oblivious to the pounding seas on the bow immediately below! Unfortunately cutting down one of the aerials cut off our direct link to the ship and it was only through the Nimrod that we were to re-establish indirect comms.

During the break the Coastguard gave us some information on the hazardous nature of the cargo and after a brief discussion we all thought we should just get on with the job as quickly as possible. There was then another explosive ball of fire, much the same as the last one. On the next but one lift, as helpers were thinning out, a crewman, unseen by us, hitched the Hi-line to the guard-rail while he was helping his mates into the strops. He forgot to undo it and, as we lifted them off, the Hi-line weak link did its job. We were reduced to our last Hi-line but got it aboard without much difficulty, however, the captain, checking progress and no doubt looking out for his turn, left the wheelhouse where he, by then, had been steering on his own. The ship veered sharply to starboard and, with the next pair pulling in the strops, we had to make a dash to keep up with the turn and soon found ourselves over the seat of the fire on the weather deck. It was like looking down on a giant glowing barbecue and I remember Rick saying "We don't want to be here!". The captain was only away from the wheel for a few seconds before he dashed back and sorted the problem, enabling us to  complete the next lift.

We now had 18 survivors on board with seats for 16. The aircraft was becoming tail-heavy and Mike was having trouble controlling it. We had to get Hamish Grant to act as 'whipper-in' and push people forward.

 There was then another fireball which we thought was slightly worse than its predecessors and after it subsided we lifted the penultimate pair. With no little excitement we returned the strops for the last pair and saw the first mate bang on the wheelhouse roof with a fire axe. The captain, a tall long-legged chap, raced out of the wheelhouse and, with two enormous leaps up the ladder, reached the top bridge. A torch flash and they were on their way. Job done. Time 2.05am.

Rick and I were pumped up with adrenaline and when these two big Swedish seamen arrived at the door we got Mike to control the winch and bodily lifted them across the cabin and plonked them on the seats as if they had been lightweight kids. I had no wish to waste time hauling-in the Hi-line so ditched it, stowed the winch hook, closed the cabin door and gave Mike the clearance to "get the hell out of here!". I took one last look at the unmanned Finneagle, framed in the door window, still powering through the night, then turned to share a 'high-five' with Rick. Dave Simpson gave us a steer for Kirkwall where Mike landed a heavy, wallowing aircraft at 2.30am. As the engines wound down we could hear and feel the 40 knot wind rattling the tail rotor blades but it was lovely to be on solid ground after the gyrations of the past few hours. The odd experiences of the night, however, were not over. Lucky to have a seat in my radar cabin, I watched fascinated as the survivors started moving towards the forward exit door, hands in pockets, looking just like unconcerned commuters getting off the local bus. It was such a contrast with the way they had entered this helicopter just a few minutes beforehand.

Orkney Coastguard had whipped the crew off for a hospital checkup in the town by the time we finished the shutdown checks. Hamish had had little to do medical-wise, one crewman suffered a broken arm securing the cargo, two had minor leg injuries and two were suffering from shock. We went into the terminal for a coffee and had a chat with the crew of Rescue 17 before they departed for Sumburgh. We had all felt fit enough to go straight back to Lossie after refuelling but then the airport staff told us a BBC Scotland TV crew were just landing. After half an hour of interviews where we re-lived the night's entertainment we were shattered, the adrenaline had evaporated and we were done. Each of us felt the same. So off to the metropolis of Kirkwall at 4.30 in the morning. The Coastguard drove us to the Royal Hotel at the harbour. It was apparent policy not to take rescuers and survivors to the same accommodation. We saw in later TV broadcasts that the survivors' hotel had opened the bar. The night porter at the Royal very kindly found us a can of beer and a whisky miniature each. We stood and chatted outside his office and listened to the account of our escapades on the 5am news, then to bed at around 5.30.

Rick and I shared a room and after wringing out our sweat-sodden clothing, hung it over the radiator, hoping we might not be disturbed till midday when the kit might be dry. I lay in my bed staring at the ceiling, still wound up, with images and events churning through my mind. A combination of orange street lights, wavy patterns on the curtains and a slight draught created dancing images on the ceiling very reminiscent of the flames on Finneagle. After half an hour of this I couldn't take any more and whispered "You awake?". "Yeah", said Rick. We chatted for ages and knew we wouldn't sleep tonight. Eventually we decided to get up and find a payphone to warn our families what we'd been up to. The clothing was now cold and wet but at least we could look forward to a decent Scottish breakfast. Eventually when the dining room opened we sat down and ordered everything that was going. I was just waiting for my kippers when Mike came in and said, "Eat up lads, Station Commander (Gp Capt Sandy Wilson of ACA fame, no less) wants us back at Lossie for a press conference at 11 o'clock!". No rest for the wicked!

Flt Lt Mike Lakey was awarded the George Medal; Flt Lt Bill Campbell the Air Force Cross; Sgt Rick Bragg the Air Force Medal; Flt Lt Dave Simpson and Sqn Ldr Hamish Grant were awarded Queens Commendations.

All 5 were awarded the Silver Medal of the Swedish Society for the Rescue of Shipwrecked Seamen.

The crew were the first recipients of the Edward & Maisie Lewis Award from the Shipwrecked Fishermen and Mariners Royal Benevolent Society.

Mike Lakey was awarded the International Helicopter Heroism Award from the Aviation & Spacewriters Guild of the USA, the Order of the Golden Lions of Sweden, and was also voted '1980 Scot of the Year' by Radio Scotland listeners.

Several of the awards were accompanied by generous cheques to the RAF Benevolent Fund.

The Johannson Group, owners of Finneagle, presented the crew with a replica ship's bell with an engraved plaque which reads:

 "The crew members, their families and the owners of Finneagle express their gratitude for the most courageous rescue of all on board the vessel when she was burning and in a gale and had to be abandoned at 3.10 on October 2, 1980. The bravery and endurance of the crew are beyond all praise. "

Web Master's Note:- On 6th March 2008, a postscript to this story was added to the Branch Library and listed under Reference 144. You can jump directly to this postcript by CLICKING HERE.

Top Of Page