‘I appear to have the happy knack of walking straight into trouble and then squirming out again.’ Letter from the recipient to his mother, three days after his Albert Medal winning exploits. A fine and extremely well-documented Albert Medal for Sea group of four awarded to Lieutenant-Commander D. Wainwright, Royal Navy, for his great gallantry and complete disregard of his own personal safety whilst attempting to save the life of a wounded stoker trapped in a stokehold aboard the rapidly sinking H.M.S. Penarth, which had struck a mine during a snowstorm in the North Sea on 4 February 1919. After his ship sank, he endured over 40 hours on a Carley float, in a winter sea, exposed and without food or water until finally rescued. Previously, Wainwright had survived the sinking of H.M.S. Nomad at the Battle of Jutland on 31 May 1916, being rescued from the North Sea, recording for posterity a graphic account of Nomad’s sinking at Jutland. Taken Prisoner of War, twice he attempted to escape, most notably on 24 July 1918, as one of the ‘Tunnellers of Holzminden’ - the greatest Prisoner of War break-out of the First World War. Wainwright’s later varied career saw him serve with the Auxiliary Division, Royal Irish Constabulary; with the British Gendarmerie in Palestine; and finally, as an Observer in Czechoslovakia following the Munich Conference. Returning to the Admiralty in 1939, he re-trained in Minesweepers before disappearing, drowned, off Portland on the eve of the Second World War Albert Medal, 2nd Class, for Gallantry in Saving Life at Sea, bronze and enamel, the reverse officially engraved ‘Presented by His Majesty to Lieut. David Wainwright, R.N., for Gallantry in attempting to save life on the occasion of the loss of H.M.S. “Penarth” on the 4th. Feb. 1919’; 1914-15 Star (S. Lt. D. Wainwright. R.N.); British War and Victory Medals (Lieut. D. Wainwright. R.N.) mounted as worn and housed in a Spink, London, leather case, contact marks and light pitting, especially to the reverse of the AM, therefore nearly very fine (lot) £8,000-£12,000 --- A.M. London Gazette 20 May 1919: ‘On the 4th of February 1919, H.M.S. Penarth struck a mine and immediately began to sink. Lieutenant David Wainwright, taking command of the situation, at once superintended the manning and lowering of the starboard gig, and later the launching of the Carley floats. Hearing there was a stoker injured in one of the stokeholds, he called for volunteers to show him the way, and at once made his way forward. There was by now a heavy list on the ship, and it was apparent she would not remain afloat much longer, the upper deck on the starboard side being already awash. Lieutenant Wainwright made his way below unaided, and while he was in the stokehold the ship struck a second mine abaft of him. The forepart was blown off and sank, and he was forced to wait till the stokehold had filled before he could float to the surface to escape. He displayed the greatest gallantry and disregard for his own personal safety in going below at a time when the ship was liable to sink at any moment.’ David Wainwright was born in Teddington, Middlesex, on 9 September 1894, and entered Osborne Naval Training College on the Isle of Wight as a Cadet in 1907, aged 13, before proceeding to Dartmouth in 1909, where he was in the same year as the future King Edward VIII. Appointed Midshipman, Wainwright’s first posting was aboard the Dreadnought class H.M.S. Colossus, and having been commissioned Acting Sub Lieutenant in June 1914, he transferred to H.M.S. Tigress in November of that year and was present at the Battle of Dogger Bank in January 1915. H.M.S. Nomad and the Battle of Jutland Wainwright was appointed Sub Lieutenant in H.M.S. Nomad in April 1916, and served in her at the Battle of Jutland, 31 May 1916, during which the Nomad was lost. Eight of her crew were killed, with 72 (including Wainwright) being rescued from the sea by German Torpedo boats and taken Prisoner of War. The recipient’s own account of the action states: ‘“Light cruisers report enemy in sight, Sir?” Thus, the bridge messenger at about 2.30pm on 31 May 1916. I opened my eyes with a start. After my morning watch and forenoon on deck I had hoped for an "Afternoon caulk." It was not to be. Up on deck one found the battle cruisers steaming on out beam. We, the Destroyers, were spread out in a protective fan ahead and abreast of them as a submarine screen. There seemed to be nothing dissimilar to our normal cruising appearance, and it was difficult to believe that the present stunt would vary in its finish from its predecessors; a long sweep to the eastward, a forenoon and afternoon spent in a forlorn dalliance in enemy waters and the ensuing return home with its inevitable zigzagging, submarine alarms and other reiterating monotonies. There seemed to be more of the crew on deck than was usual. Little knots of men stood talking and pointing ahead and away over the starboard bow. On the bridge the captain, one huge smile, breathed, “They're out?” and an air of cheerful expectancy prevailed. H.M.S. Lion decked herself out in bunting, and across the water we heard the call of “Action Stations” sounding in the battle cruisers. It was now about 2.45pm. We went to action stations ourselves, saw that everything was ready, and then as we could see no enemy yet, we went below in turns and had some tea. I remember thinking to myself: “I don't want to be killed, but if it's quick I shan't mind so much. I'm in a mortal funk of being wounded, but I needn't worry about being taken prisoner as that's not likely to happen.” My opinions were shortly to undergo a speedy change! Meanwhile we had received orders to take stations ahead of the battle cruisers and we were gradually drawing into position. From the bridge we could see, low down on the horizon off the port bow, masses of smoke, then masts and then funnels. The smoke was suddenly stabbed by vicious jabs of flame, later came the roll of the German guns and turning to our battle cruisers we saw them surrounded by colossal waterspouts that towered to the height of the foretops. A second later with a ripple of thunder our fleet replied. Think of the worst peal of thunder that you have ever heard, try to imagine it going on continuously and imagine that at the same time you are standing in the corridor of the Royal Scot with all the windows open, passing at full speed another Express going in the opposite direction on the next lot of rails. You will then have a faint conception of what it felt like on the bridge of a Destroyer in the van of the battle cruisers at Jutland. Tearing through the sea we waited our orders and watched the giants fighting. Now through glasses we could make out the head of the enemy a few light cruisers and a low huddle of Destroyers, our opposite numbers. Both fleets heading to the Southeast we were gradually converging, and away over there eight or ten miles away were men manning tubes and guns. Their tubes contained torpedoes for an attack (which we must foil) on our big ships, and the guns were fed with shells for us. Mathematically and in cold blood, at a distance which on land would take two or more hours to walk, we shortly proposed to pump highly explosive pieces of metal at each other. It seemed impossible to realise that Der Tag had at last come, and the state of tension while waiting for it to begin was the worst period that I passed through, because it gave imagination a chance to work. What happened when the shells struck a ship and that dull red glow appeared? Was everyone immediately asphyxiated, burnt or mangled? In another half hour would I be alive and unhurt, or would ...
