[paulmcmillan]

Earliest WW2 "Wreckage Rider" can find is Sgt Alfred Adair Griffin from
51 Sqn Whitley K8984 October 27/28, 1939


Griffin was #514579 later with a DFM (22 November 1940)

Griffin was the tail gunner and rode the plane down, suffering some cuts and bruises he was 27 years old at the time

Rest of crew baled out

From:

Terror From the Sky - Page 50 Edward Jablonski - 1971
First to jump was the front gunner, who entangled himself in the intercom wiring and dangled outside the aircraft, unable to get free, until the navigator gave him a push. The opening of his parachute knocked him out and when he next awakened he was startled at being ringed in by enormous brown eyes. He had
dropped into a pasture and became the center of curiosity of a herd of cows. The radio operator, who had been forced to jump with an oxygen bottle in his hand because his fingers had frozen to the metal, apparently landed in an adjoining field. He also proved that it was possible to cover a hundred yards in record time
while encumbered by full flying regalia, complete to boots, and to hurtle a four-foot hedge while being pursued by a bull. The navigator jumped, with a resultant sprained ankle; the pilot, after setting the plane in a flat trajectory, also jumped and landed gently in a meadow

From:
Royal Air Force 1939–1945: Volume I: The Fight at Odds By Dennis Richards
LONDON 1953 HMSO
Even greater hardships were experienced by the crew of the remaining Whitley, whose objective was Munich. Ice blanketed the windows and snow lay on the floor of the front gunner's cockpit, but the men kept up their spirits on the outward journey by well-established methods: strains of 'Roll out the Barrel', 'Hang out the Washing on the Siegfried Line' and 'East of the Border'—a slight geographical adaptation for operations over the Franco-German frontier—echoed over the inter-com., and some of the more meritorious solo performances earned vigorous applause. But when the 'Nickel' dropping was done the 'dust-bin' remained frozen in the down position, and the effort to move it manually soon reduced the crew to complete exhaustion. Then the starboard engine gave trouble, and near the frontier a cylinder head blew off. As the Whitley lost height, it descended into thicker and thicker snow clouds, and the port engine began to fail. Finally, at 2,000 feet, and with hills ahead, the captain order the crew to abandon the aircraft. The front gunner jumped first. Fouling the inter-communication lead, he hung by the neck until pushed out by the navigator. Knocked out by the opening of his parachute, he eventually came to in a field, surrounded by a herd of cows. Next the navigator left; loosening his boots during the descent in the mistaken belief that he was over water, he sprained his ankle on landing. Then came the turn of the wireless-operator, who jumped with one hand on his rip-cord and the other clasping an oxygen bottle which had frozen to his fingers. Alighting gently in a field, he instantly discovered the exception to the rule about the female of the species, but a smart hundred yards in full flying kit beat the bull to the nearest hedge. Meanwhile, the captain, after trimming the aircraft to a slight descending angle, had baled out without difficulty. When all this was done the Whitley glided down, bumped heavily, and burst into flames; and from the rear turret stepped Sergeant A. Griffin, air-gunner. Blissfully ignorant of the parachute descents—his inter-communication point had failed at the last moment—he dashed to the front of the burning aircraft to save his comrades. The cockpit was empty. Dazed, cut, burned, and more than a trifle puzzled, the sergeant limped his way to the nearest
village, where the sight of familiar figures taking refreshment in a café rapidly restored his full powers of movement and expression.

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