The Bill and Angela Strong Medal Collection

A very rare Second World War P.Q. 17 D.S.M. awarded to Lance-Sergeant A. Moir, Maritime Regiment, Royal Artillery

Distinguished Service Medal, G.VI.R. (1548681 A. Moir, L./Sgt.), one or two edge bruises, otherwise good very fine
£2000-2500

This lot was sold as part of a special collection, The Bill and Angela Strong Medal Collection.

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Just 51 Distinguished Service Medals were awarded to Gunners of the Royal Artillery for services in Defensively Equipped Merchant Ships.

D.S.M. London Gazette 27 October 1942:

‘For fortitude, seamanship and endurance in taking merchantmen to North Russia through heavy seas and in the face of relentless attacks by enemy aircraft.’

His captain’s original recommendation states:

‘Sergeant Moir, in charge of the Bofors gun, was outstanding and the crew of his gun were all excellent. They stuck to it through all attacks, also during the fire from our own ships, mostly American, who often fired at random at anything they could see, irrespective of any ships being in their line of fire.’

Alexander Moir was born at Inch, Huntly, Aberdeenshire in December 1914 and enlisted in the Royal Artillery (Territorials) in January 1940. Posted to 4th Maritime Anti-Aircraft Regiment as a Lance-Bombardier in May 1941, he was serving as a Sergeant in the S.S. Bolton Castle at the time of the disastrous P.Q. 17 operation in the summer of 1942.

The fate of P.Q. 17 has been graphically described by such historians as David Irving (The Destruction of Convoy P.Q. 17), and by Richard Woodman (Arctic Convoys), but in terms of more immediate statistics it is worth recording that the convoy originally assembled at Reykjavik on 27 June 1942, a formidable gathering that in addition to the naval escort comprised 22 American, eight British, two Russian, two Panamanian and one Dutch merchantmen. In their holds they carried sufficient supplies to re-arm a good portion of the Stalin’s forces - 297 aircraft, 594 tanks, 4246 military vehicles and over 150,000 tons of other vital military stores and cargo: but most of this equipment never reached Russia, for just a few days later, following Sir Dudley Pound’s fateful order for the convoy to scatter, no less that 23 of these merchantmen were lost to enemy action, including the Bolton Castle.

The Destruction of Convoy P.Q. 17, by David Irving, takes up the story on 5 July 1942:

‘At five o’clock, the lookouts sighted a lone Junkers 88 flying high above them at some 13,000 feet. Bolton Castle’s gunners prepared to man their Bofors guns, but held their fire when it seemed that the aircraft had not noticed the three ships. But the Junkers went into a dive, and swooped down on the Washington, its machine-guns rattling. A row of holes was drilled in the ship’s superstructure; dents appeared in the pill-box only a few inches from the Armed Guard officer’s head. The bombs landed about fifteen yards off the ship’s starboard quarter; the ship was shaken but undamaged. Washington transmitted an ‘air attack’ signal and gave her position.


Pascoe knew that it would not be long before more German aircraft arrived, called up by the first one. He ordered Bolton Castle’s four lifeboats to be swung out but not lowered; if the worst came to the worst, he would have perhaps only a few minutes to supervise getting seventy seamen and gunners safely into the lifeboats. He also summoned his boatswain and carpenter, and confided in them that he expected the ship to be sunk within the next few hours; they were able to make an unobtrusive additional check that the lifeboats were properly provisioned with food and water.

Half an hour later, it was obvious that his forethought had been justified; a starboard lookout reported that several more Junkers 88s were approaching. The aircraft were from Captain Hajo Herrmann’s notorious third squadron of KG.30, specially bought up from Bardufoss to Banak, the most northerly air base in Europe. One aircraft swooped on the Washington, its bombs lifting her hull partly out of the water. Several other aircraft followed at once. The ship’s crew counted twenty-one bombs hitting the sea near them. Washington’s steering gear was knocked out, the ship began to take water and Captain Richert gave orders to abandon ship. A wireless signal was transmitted to this effect, repeating their position.






Captain Pascoe resigned himself to his fate; he made no attempt to take evasive action when the bombers next came in. The aircraft were attacking not from one direction but from several, and from different altitudes. An aircraft dived out of the sun at them, and dropped a stick of bombs right on the ship. The second of the three bombs penetrated No. 2 hold, containing hundreds of tons of cordite. For a moment Bolton Castle forged on, ignoring the direct hits; the ship did not shake, and Pascoe did not even hear the detonation as the bombs exploded in the hold. But as he looked through the bridge windows, the world suddenly went green: a brilliant flash blinded him and he heard a roar lasting some seconds, like a mighty waterfall. The cargo of cordite had ignited – not as an explosive with shattering violence, but ‘like a giant Roman candle’. From Washington’s lifeboats, they saw the mushroom cloud where Boston Castle had stood, barely a quarter of a mile away; but the prayer died on the men’s lips, for as the cloud drifted away the British ship was still there. The heat had melted the steel hull, and the hatch cover had vanished. ‘The bridge windows buckled, twisted and melted away in the heat.’ Pascoe went forward and leant over the gaping hole where the cordite had been stacked. The hold was empty, but he could hear the sound of water rushing blackly in below.

At the same time, the bombers straddled the third of the ships, the 7,168-ton Paulus Potter, disabling her steering gear. Her crew escaped safely in four boats, as did the crew of the Bolton Castle. Within a very few minutes, three ships had been lost; but there had been no casualties.

The eight Junkers 88s descended to only a few feet above the waves, and roared in triumphant formation over their three victims, firing incendiary bullets into the abandoned hulks, while German war reporter Benno Wundshammer, crouched in one bomber’s cockpit, took photographs of the scene. As the aircraft disappeared, Washington began to burn, and Bolton Castle slowly stood up on end and sank; Paulus Potter looked unscathed.’


And of the crew’s subsequent journey in the lifeboats:

‘Now once again the story of this convoy is interrupted by one of those almost unbelievable episodes that serve to elevate it above other naval operations of the Second World War. After the yellow wing-tipped aircraft had returned towards Norway, the Masters of Bolton Castle and Paulus Potter conferred on their next best course of action. Pascoe, the Briton, announced that he intended to row his lifeboats towards the Russian coast, some 400 miles to the south-east; but his Dutch friend, Captain Sissingh, observed that since according to his chart the nearest land was Novaya Zemlya, it made more sense to take his lifeboats there. Pascoe tried to persuade him that the shorter journey was in fact the more dangerous, as it would take them through regions of extreme cold close to the ice-barrier. The Dutchman was adamant. He wanted to find dry land as soon as possible. Pascoe sadly shook hands with the Dutchman and bade the Dutch crew farewell ... ’


Refusal of help from the S.S. Olopana;

‘Captain Stone concluded that the British crew were equally unenthusiastic about being rescued by his ship; Captain Pascoe has since confirmed that nothing was farther from his mind at that time than the desire to board another merchant ship in those seas. Thus, to the already grim saga of Disaster Convoy PQ.17 was added the story of how one hundred and fifty ship-wrecked seamen elected to drift for weeks across the expanses of the Arctic ocean in open boats rather than once again set foot aboard an unescorted Allied merchantman ... ’

Journey’s end:

‘The two Bolton Castle lifeboats had drifted apart soon after their ship had sunk, as one had a sail and the other an engine. As the days had turned into weeks, and the water and food ran out, knife-fights broke out between the Arabs and the white seamen in the Captain’s lifeboats, and Pascoe despaired of ever surviving to see land again. Then a seaman in the bows had shouted that they were approaching an empty lifeboat. Across its stern was painted S.S. El Capitan, Panama.

There was every sign that its occupants had abandoned it in haste. On its bottom boards were discarded clothes and a half-eaten biscuit. But that was not all, for in the provision lockers the incredulous Pascoe found large stocks of food, liquor and drums of fresh water. There were even compasses, charts, a gun, fishing nets, lines and reels. Marvelling at the munificence of the Panamanian Mercantile Marine, Pascoe transferred the stores to his own lifeboat, and increased the water ration to one cupful per day. Some days later both Bolton Castle’s lifeboats independently reached the North Russian coast.’

Moir, who also awarded a “mention” for ‘displaying a high standard of discipline, cheerfulness and willingness under difficult circumstances at Archangel’ (his service record refers), received his D.S.M. at a Buckingham Palace investiture held on 30 February 1943. And he remained actively employed in the Maritime Artillery until the War’s end, service that took him to the U.S.A., Canada, South America, India, the Mediterranean and Africa, in addition to a stint of service off Normandy. He was demobilised in December 1945; sold with hand written service details, a paperback edition of David Irving’s The Destruction of Convoy P.Q. 17, and other pertinent research.