Orders, Decorations, Medals and Militaria

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 I be lying half-charred with the inside of me hanging in bits on the deck? I suddenly thought of an old instructor at Osborne who used to curdle our youthful blood with accounts of some of the nasty sights that he was alleged to have seen during the bombardment of Alexandria. That, luckily, made me smile. I felt very empty inside as though I hadn't had a meal for ages though I didn't feel hungry. My tongue was dry, and I smoked a cigarette hard, hoping that with its aid, an illusion of sang-froid and devil-may-carishness was accepted by my neighbours at its spurious value.
Anyway, Der Tag had come, and it was no use my getting rattled. So, I busied myself with testing voice pipes and other accessories to my official function, that of fire control. Incidentally, I always think that those poor devils charged with cowardice during the war must have been men possessing vivid imaginations over which they had no control.
Our signal to attack came at last and we increased to full speed to draw ahead, gradually close the enemy and then swoop down to fire our torpedoes. We were going nearly thirty-five knots and the whole ship vibrated with the strain. H.M.S. Nestor led us, then ourselves, then H.M.S. Nicator, but the latter going better than we did eventually took second place astern of Nestor. Simultaneously the German Destroyers moved out towards us, and we opened fire on each other. The din was ghastly. We were going all out, the ship shivering with speed; our three four inch, one on the foc'sle, one aft and one amidships were all firing; the German Destroyers’ shells were exploding round us, the projectiles from the big ships whistling overhead and the perpetual thunder of their guns rolling eternally. Control of our three guns from the bridge became a farce, what with the fact that our ever-changing course and the movement of the German Destroyers meant that each gun's target was continually shifting. The order for “Local Control” was given, which meant that No. 1 took charge aft, the gunner took the midship gun and I went down to the foc'sle.
Events moved too quickly to get other than fleeting impressions. I remember ceasing fire on a Destroyer in the belief that she was a friend, then the smoke cleared, and we saw her colours plainly and got at her again until she started sinking. Every time we altered course the ship heeled over, but gradually I noticed that we seemed to be permanently listing to port. The German Destroyers had retired, and both the fleets had turned about to the North-North-West. We seemed to be moving very slowly, and gradually we stopped and the list to port increased. Looking aft I saw clouds of steam amidships and going there found the deck a shambles. A shell had struck the starboard side, entered the engine room and severed the main steam pipe, effectively stopping our motive power. We had fired two of our torpedoes, one was left in a third tube with a merry little fire on the deck underneath it which was soon put out and the fourth tube was out of action. A shell had struck just by it and blown the man, whose job it was to sit astride the tube, clean over the side. The bilge pumps were out of action, we were leaking badly and only two men were alive in the engine room. This was our position at about 4.30pm.
Out of the haze on the starboard quarter an interminable line of battleships was approaching, shaping their course to pass about a mile from us. Our spirits rose. “The Grand Fleet,” said the foc'sle gunlayer. He was wrong. H.M.S. Nomad was lying crippled in the path of the German High Seas Fleet. Amongst the best disciplined crew in the world a panic might have arisen, but our captain was more than equal to the occasion. Orders were passed to prepare to be taken in tow. This involved getting most of the hands on the foc'sle and ranging the cables along the deck together with various wire hawsers. It kept our minds on a definite job of work, and it kept us to the opposite end of the ship to the High Seas Fleet. There was however no hope of anyone towing us. A few minutes before, Nicator had lain off us and offered to do so but the skipper had waved her away. Why risk a second ship?
When a ship is in danger of sinking or capture by the enemy all confidential books and documents must be destroyed, and I spent five minutes in the chart room routing out signal books, cyphers and charts and dumping them over the side. Meanwhile all boats were lowered to the deck level and rafts were cast loose. We still had one torpedo left, but in order to train the tube on the leading enemy ship it would have been necessary to turn. As we couldn't do this we had perforce to wait until the target ship came into line of sight instead.
Just then the three leading battleships opened fire on us. The rough idea of fire control by spotting corrections is this. If the first round fired lands well over the target, then the sights are lowered say 800 yards. The next shot is probably short and then the order of “Up 400” is given. If this is over “Down 200,” and so on, always correcting half the amount until the target is hit. Similarly, the deflection is corrected for directional errors by giving orders “Right 20”, “Left 10”, “Right 5”, etc. until direction is correct. With a sitting target a hit should be obtained after very few spotting corrections have been given. Like everyone else in the Navy I have many times watched from a ship the effect of spotting corrections on gunfire, but never previously had I watched from the target!
Our foc'scle gun would not bear and the rest were out of action, so we waited. No. 1 and I stood on the foc'scle. Between us and the enemy was a piece of painted canvas, and its moral support was enormous. “What the eye don't see, the heart doesn't grieve about”, was our motto then. The first salvoes passed over us. “Down 800”, said No. 1, laconically. The next were short - “Up 400”, said I, and so we kept this farce up until “Next one”, said I. By the grace of a bit of dust that must have got in some Hun's eye the next salvo was wrong for direction, though the range was right. “Damned rotten shooting,”, said No 1. We went aft and watched the last torpedo fired but alas it missed. At this moment they got our range and things began to happen. As we sank lower the order “Abandon Ship” was given. The whaler and motorboat were miraculously unhurt and dead ahead of the sinking ship. The dingy was splintered but looked as if it would float. I was sent forward and the skipper went aft to see that no-one wounded was left on deck. The stern was now under water and the whole hull was an inferno of smoke, steam, explosions, and hailstorms of splintered metal. The skipper returned staggering and badly wounded, but we got into the dinghy and pulled clear. She had lain alongside with nine men in her waiting quite uncomplainingly for the captain to return. Suddenly we saw two wild figures on deck. We went back and took them in the dinghy, two stokers both scalded and half raving with their agony. They must have been knocked out and missed the order to abandon ship.
Only the fore half of Nomad was afloat now but the ensign still flew at the masthead. All this time the dinghy had been making water steadily and now she gracefully sank under, and we swam away. One by one we were picked up by the motorboat and as I was hauled over the side I turned and saw Nomad take her final dive. The Germans put a few parting salvoes into the middle of the survivors in the water and then disappeared into the northwest leaving two Torpedo boats to collect us as prisoners.
Two hours later the Grand Fleet in hot pursuit of the fleeing Germans passed over the spot. All that remained of Nomad was the dinghy floating bottom upwards in the middle of some wreckage.’

Prisoner of War and Escape from Holzminden
In the immediate aftermath of the Battle of Jutland Wainwright’s parents received an Admiralty telegram informing them that their son had been killed in action. Ten days later came another telegram, informing them that their son was safe and uninjured, and a prisoner of war at Mainz. Having been rescued, Wainwright spent the next two and a half years in captivity, at Mainz, Clausthal, and Holzminden. His letters home during this period (even allowing for the fact that they would of course have been censored) give a graphic account of life as a Prisoner of War, with one of his earliest letters requesting that all food parcels sent out to him should be sourced from Fortnum and Mason! A talented musician, whilst in captivity he served as camp pianist, singing and performing to keep up the morale of his fellow prisoners, and whilst outwardly successful, his own personal musings describe a more tortured soul.

Whilst in captivity Wainwright was involved in at least two escape attempts; a letter to the recipient’s mother, from his friend Captain Sampson, recalls the first attempt:
‘Wainwright and another fellow disguised themselves as the Commandant and another Officer of the camp and managed to bluff the sentries on a dark night. This was very well planned. Khaki uniforms dyed with ink, wooden swords etc. I'm told that the acting was very good and pleased a few friends in the know hugely. Unfortunately, the real Commandant arrived at the gates to leave the camp only about half an hour afterwards and that's when the row began. So, they got a sorry short start and were taken and returned to camp the next day.’

After a period in solitary confinement, Wainwright was transferred in March 1918 to Holzminden P.O.W. Camp, near Hanover, and it was from here that he was involved in one of the most famous escape attempts of the Great War, as recorded in ‘Escape form German - the Greatest P.O.W. break-out of the First World War’, by Neil Hanson. In November 1917 the prisoners had begun digging a tunnel that would run under the camp’s perimeter wall. The captives also made imitation German uniforms and used a basic camera to forge identity documents. The tunnel remained undiscovered during its construction, and after nine months was sixty yards long and six feet deep.
On 24 July 1918, sixty officers, including Wainwright, began the escape, getting away through a nearby field, but the tunnel collapsed on the 30th man out, blocking the escape route. Of the 29 who got away, 19 (including Wainwright) were recaptured: as he later noted ‘the last of many to escape but I was recaptured and put into solitary confinement.’

Following the cessation of hostilities Wainwright and the other prisoners finally left the camp in December 1918, but before they left, they made a bonfire of all the furniture and everything combustible - ‘a splendid sight, and the Germans could only stand by hopelessly condemning the waste.’

H.M.S. Penarth and the Albert Medal
Having been promoted Lieutenant on 15 September 1916, whilst in captivity, Wainwright returned to the U.K. in December 1918, and on 10 January 1919 was appointed to the minesweeper H.M.S. Penarth. On 4 February, having lost its way in fog and a snowstorm off the Yorkshire coast, Penarth drifted into an un-cleared minefield, hit a mine, and immediately began to sink. Wainwright, taking command of the situation, was the launching of the Carley floats, when he heard that there was a stoker injured in one of the stokeholds. Even though there was by now a heavy list on the ship, and it was apparent she would not remain afloat much longer, he immediately made his way below unaided to rescue the wounded stoker, and while he was in the stokehold the ship struck a second mine. 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 up the escape.
When the Penarth finally sank, Wainwright, along with six others of the crew, got onto a Carly float and drifted for over 40 hours, in a freezing atmosphere, without any form of sustenance or nourishment. They were finally picked up by a patrol boat, but by that time four of the party had died from exposure, and Wainwright and the other two survivors were in the last stages of exhaustion. 37 of the crew were killed, and although exhausted and suffering from acute frost bite, Wainwright eventually made a full recovery. As he wrote home to his mother three days later, ‘I appear to have the happy knack of walking straight into trouble and then squirming out again.’

For his gallantry in attempting to save the life of the injured Stoker, Wainwright was awarded the Albert Medal, and was invested with his decoration by H.M King George V at Buckingham Palace on 14 June 1919. Given the command of H.M.S. Thomas Jarvis in January 1920, Wainwright transferred to the Retired List at his own request in June 1920, and was promoted Lieutenant-Commander in July 1924.

Auxiliary Division, Royal Irish Constabulary and the British Gendarmerie, Palestine
Wainwright’s next move was to join the Auxiliary Division of the Royal Irish Constabulary on 20 October 1920. His service ended upon its disbandment in January 1922, following which, like many of the other Auxiliaries, he then enlisted in the British Gendarmerie in Palestine. He saw a further four years’ service there, as a Platoon Officer attached to the Department of Customs and Ports, which he ‘organised in a highly efficient manner’. He was also in charge of ensuring no contraband crossed over the Syrian frontier.

David Wainwright married Miss Frances Whitfield in Palestine on 4 April 1924, with whom he had two children, a son, David; and a daughter, Sally. Returning to the United Kingdom in May 1926, he held various civilian jobs, whilst remaining on the Royal Navy’s Retired List.

Observer following the Munich Conference and back to Minesweepers
After attending the ‘Holzminden Escape 20th Anniversary Reunion Dinner’ on 23 July 1938, Wainwright applied for and was appointed an Observer following the Munich Conference, which stipulated that Czechoslovakia cede the Sudetenland to Nazi Germany. Posted for duty ‘outside the Admiralty’ on 28 September 1938, he was part of the International Commission which would supervise a plebiscite and determine the final frontier between Germany and Czechoslovakia. The peaceful transfer of the Sudetenland, as mandated by the terms of the Munich Agreement, was a success and on 7 November Wainwright received a letter from Lord Halifax, the Foreign Secretary, thanking him on behalf of H.M.’s Government, for his efforts.

Returning to England, and perhaps with a growing sense that war with Germany was coming, he once more offered his services to the Admiralty, and was accepted onto a minesweeping course for retired Naval officers in March 1939. After successfully completing the three-week course, he was staying in Portland when, according to his Naval notes, ‘he disappeared from his hotel at Portland on 28 March 1939, after attending a mine sweeping course on H.M.S. Hebe. Has not been seen or heard of since.’

Wainwright’s body was washed ashore and found on Chesil Beach, Portland, on 19 June 1939, with an inquest returning the verdict of death due to drowning on 29 March 1939. Given his intelligence background, whether foul play was involved is impossible to answer, but whatever the cause of his death, his ‘happy knack of walking straight into trouble and then squirming out again’ had ended.



Sold with the following archive:
i) A silver salver, by Mappin & Webb, hallmarks for Sheffield 1923, engraved with the badge of the British Palestine Gendarmerie, and inscribed ‘Presented to Major D. Wainwright, A.M., by his brother Officers on the occasion of his marriage, April 1924.’
ii) A small Swiss-made Mappin ‘Campaign’ wristwatch, with 9ct gold outer case, with workshop numbers but no personalised inscription, and housed in a small glass display dome, the watch in somewhat relic condition
iii) Various original telegrams concerning the recipient following the loss of H.M.S. Nomad at the Battle of Jutland, the earliest erroneously reporting his death, followed by ones expressing hope that he may be alive, and then joy that he had been saved; together with the recipient’s own hand-written account of the Battle.
iv) A large quantity of letters written by the recipient whilst a Prisoner of War, with typed transcript.
v) Three original telegrams concerning the recipient following the loss of H.M.S. Penarth; together with various letters and documents relating to the award of the Albert Medal.
vi) Various testimonial letters concerning the recipient’s Naval career.
vii) Various testimonial letters concerning the recipient’s time with the Auxiliary Division, Royal Irish Constabulary.
viii) Various testimonial letters concerning the recipient’s time with the British Gendarmerie of Palestine 1922-26.
ix) Admittance Card for the Investiture of the Albert Medal by H.M. the King at Buckingham Palace, 14 June 1919
x) Letter to the recipient from the Foreign Secretary thanking him for his services as an Observer in Czechoslovakia, dated 7 November 1938, and signed ‘Halifax’
xi) Two fine-quality portrait photographs of the recipient; together with various other photographs, including one from the ‘Holzminden Escape 20th Anniversary Reunion Dinner’, 23 July 1938.
xii) Various newspaper cuttings and other ephemera.
xiii) A large quantity of copied research, including service records, census details &c.
xiv) Various letters and documents and ephemera relating to his wife’s family, including a Great War medal pair comprising British War Medal and Victory Medal both named ‘Lieut. C. G. Whitefield.’; together with a mounted group of three unnamed Second War Medals, comprising 1939-45 Star; Atlantic Star; and War Medal 1939-45, with riband bars and a Royal British Legion lapel badge.
xv) A copy of the hardbacked book, The Life of David Wainwright, R.N., by Jonathan Wainwright, privately published 2023, 132pp, with numerous illustrations.