Ford was born on 1 January 1880 in Saint Helier, Jersey, Channel Islands, the son of Major C. W. Randle Ford. He joined the Royal Navy as a cadet on 15 January 1894, was promoted to sub-lieutenant a couple of years later, and to lieutenant on 26 June 1902.[1] Promoted to captain he commanded HMSDiligence between 1 September 1922 and August 1923 then HMSCalliope as part of the Atlantic Fleet between 23 October 1924 and January 1925. Assigned to the shore establishment HMSPresident on 29 March 1926 and became the Director of Physical Training and Sports between 5 April 1926 and May 1926.[2] Later transferred as the commanding officer to the training establishment HMSGanges, Shotley[2] and the Captain-in-Charge of Harwich Docks between 2 May 1927 and June 1928.
Ġużè Ellul Mercer, in his war diary
Mercer, Ġużé Ellul (1949). Taht in-Nar: Djarju ta' l-Ewwel Sena tal-Gwerra[Beneath the Flames: A diary of the first year of the war] (in Maltese). Klabb Kotba Maltin. ISBN9789993274049.{{cite book}}: ISBN / Date incompatibility (help)
describes Wilbraham Ford as follows in the entry for 27 October 1940:
Sir Wilbraham T. Ford, who at the beginning of the war was Admiral Superintendent at the Dockyard, has now moved, together with many of his naval offices, to Lascaris. He is a big man, built like a bastion, always tirelessly on the go. And what's more, he is never grumpy or moody like most of the top brass around here. He wears khaki trousers and shirt, without ribbons, medals or epaulettes, and black shoes. To see him go by reminds one of an old-time constable on holiday. It's hard to believe he is one of the top three who will decide the fate of Malta and its people. From time to time he comes out of his office, which is close to where I work, lights up a cigarette, draws a hearty draft, and sets about teasing the janitors sweeping or otherwise working in the courtyard. I have seen him hide a broom or a bucket behind a door, and then act as if he has no idea where they went when a janitor comes looking for them. And after every prank, he bursts out laughing like a boy without a care in the world. Wherever one meets him, he is taking the mickey out of someone, repeating some silly phrase in Maltese, or teasing the menial workmen. He keeps his shirtsleeves rolled up, revealing a pair of heavily tattooed arms. He is as tough and strict with the English officers working under him as he is kind and gentle with the subordinates. It was terrifying once hearing him berate a Commander for some minor infringement – the poor officer could have died for shame. As long as England has people like Sir Wilbraham Ford in command, she may yet win a war which today, to me, appears lost.
