Throughout the isolationist Midwest, he kept reiterating that if Roosevelt’s assurance to keep Americans out of foreign wars was no better than his 1932 promise to balance the budget, then “They’re already almost on the transports.” In St. Louis, he shouted, “We do not want to send our boys over there again. If you elect me President, they will not be sent. And, by the same token, if you re-elect the third-term candidate, I believe they will be sent.”
Willkie’s foreign policy reversal brought him into alliance with people for whom he had contempt, including such isolationist stalwarts as Hamilton Fish, Charles A. Lindbergh, and Colonel Robert McCormick, but it disappointed a great many of his backers. Political analyst Richard H. Rovere wrote: “By the time the campaign was over, Willkie was as much in opposition to the man he had been a few months earlier as he was to his opponent.” And in a 1981 interview, Oren Root, one of Willkie’s staunchest allies, admitted that his sudden change on the war issue was nothing more than a cynical appeal for votes.
Questionable though the tactic might have been it revived his candidacy and alarmed Democratic strategists. Within, two weeks, the Gallup poll reported he had trimmed the President’s popular vote margin by half, had moved ahead in five Midwestern states and was surging in the industrial North East. The New York Daily News poll indicated the Empire State was a toss–up. On Wall Street, the betting odds against Willkie dropped from twelve-to-five to seven-to-five.
As the results came in on election night what later became known as ‘The Long Effect’ was quickly obvious, crucially the industrial states of New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania with a combined total of 99 Electoral College votes declared for Willkie because of the split in the Democrat vote. [56]
Only in his home state did Long actually succeed in winning but its small contribution of 10 Electoral College votes could not make a difference to the final result. In the end Roosevelt won 28 states and Willkie 19, but even with Louisiana’s votes thrown to Roosevelt he only succeeded in securing 257 Electoral College votes, the remaining 274 going to Willkie.
CHAPTER 10: SATURDAY 14TH SEPTEMBER 1940
Number 506 Squadron lifts from the scattered web of cloud and into the searing light at seventeen thousand feet. There are seven Spitfires in a loose ‘V’ formation, Sub Lieutenant John Leighton is flying one of them, its code letters are FS–G and his call sign is Red Two. The sun is low and there are less than three hours of daylight left, he has been with 506 Squadron for three weeks.
Summer is slipping into autumn and though the hours of daylight have grown mercifully shorter, almost every day has given perfect flying weather and the enemy have come at them relentlessly. The pilots of 506 are scrambled three or four times every day. Exhausted, they drag themselves into the air each dawn and by nightfall are too tense to rest. They drink too much in the mess, laugh too loudly and talk too quickly. They do it to blot out the roar of engines, a sound that rings in their ears long after the engines themselves have been switched off, but when they finally crawl into their beds, sleep eludes them. Their minds range back over the day, over who had lived and who had died, reliving every terrifying moment of the fight.
When Courageous returned from The Battle of Lofotten, he had fully expected that the task of rebuilding 843 Squadron would begin immediately, but to his surprise and annoyance he and the other surviving pilot had been posted to the Naval Air Station at Donibristle in Scotland. There it seemed that the Admiralty had forgotten about them. Throughout July, the Battle of Britain had raged in the sky above southern England and Leighton chafed at his enforced inaction until in mid-August he was ordered to number 17 Operational Conversion Unit to convert to Spitfires. So desperate was the RAF for fighter pilots that in the memorable words of his instructor, ‘Fighter Command are even prepared to consider you Navy types.’
Leighton loved flying the Spitfire, the dull brown and green camouflage could not disguise the aircraft’s beauty, and while there was nothing wrong with the Nimrods and Sea Hurricanes that he had flown before, the Spitfire was something special. Even the rather worn example on which he converted was a delight to fly and perform aerobatics in.
From the newspaper and radio reports, as well as the inevitable rumours, he had learned that the battle was hard fought. Still, when he arrived at Hawkinge aerodrome in the last week of August he was shocked by its condition. It had been attacked repeatedly by the Luftwaffe, most of the buildings had been destroyed and the pilots and ground crew slept in tents. He had been posted with two other replacements, both straight from flying school; neither had flown high-performance fighters for more than a dozen hours. The other pilots in the squadron were taciturn, almost curt, Leighton put it down to the strain of constant operations, it was only later that he realised that it was simply a defence mechanism designed to insulate them from the inevitable sorrow of loss.
The commanding officer, Squadron Leader Huntingdon, welcomed them briefly and showed them their aircraft. They were brand new, straight from the factory in Southampton with only a few tens of hours on the air frames, but they barely had time to stow their belongings in their tents when the squadron was scrambled.
And so it has gone for three weeks. Fewer than half of the pilots that made up the squadron when Leighton arrived are still flying. The strain tells on those that remain, they are worn out, nervous, irritable. In just four days they are due for rotation out of the combat zone, but each man asks himself if he will live long enough to see it.
The formation of Spitfires climbs into the bright blue summer sky, the clouds spread out below and through them can be seen patches of Kent, the radio crackles in his headset, Huntingdon is practically shouting;
“There they are! There they are! Straight ahead! Echelon starboard – go!”
Leighton’s eyes search the sky as the seven Spitfires move into a ragged line behind and to the right of their leader, his heart races and he counts thirty Dornier 17s in six ‘V’ shaped formations of five aircraft each. They are passing in front of them, going west across their noses from right to left. About two thousand feet above and behind the bombers, a mixed formation of fifteen Messerschmitt 109s and 110s in groups of twos and threes, wheel and zigzag like hovering wasps.
Huntingdon rocks his wings for the squadron to close in tighter, they are still climbing but he levels out and leads them into a left-hand turn.
“Now! Keep in! Keep in! And keep a bloody good look out!”
The German formation keeps straight on, though they must see the British fighters angling in from their port quarter, at the last moment the fighter escort breaks right and left wheeling into the attack and the two formations meet and split into a wild melee.
Leighton banks hard to the right and selects the rear aircraft of two Messerschmitt 110s in line. The ‘110 breaks from his leader and turns to port, but the Spitfire flicks over and easily turns inside him. Leighton waits until he is within fifty yards, but the Messerschmitt rolls out of the turn and is suddenly flying straight and level. The Spitfire shudders as he fires a short burst at three-quarter deflection and to his amazement, a mass of pieces fly off the German aircraft – bits of engine cowling, lumps of the canopy – and he watches in a kind of fascinated horror as the ‘110 goes into a spin, its tail suddenly swivels sideways and tears off and he feels an unaccountable relief as he sees the sudden puff of white parachute and a figure swaying beneath it.
He pulls the stick into his stomach, engages the boost override and climbs into the blue at full power as his head swivels from side to side. Close by, a ‘110 is climbing at forty-five degrees in a left-hand stall turn, a Spitfire is on its tail firing into it and a series of flashes and long shooting yellow flames erupt from its engines. It hangs for a second in the air and then tumbles end over end towards the earth.
Above him he can see three Messerschmitt 109s climbing in line astern to get above the fight and pounce. There are three more off to his right closing fast. He turns towards t
hem, firing. They break right and left and he hauls the Spitfire into a starboard turn as he tries to target the exposed belly of one, but it is moving too quickly and he cannot turn fast enough to catch the twisting shape in the web of his gun sight.
The ‘109s turn back towards him, two from the right and one from the left. He twists and turns, kicking the rudder to send his aircraft slewing sideways to put off their aim. One fires, but his shooting is wild. Leighton can see tracer flashing well above his canopy and he turns tight to starboard to fly straight at his opponent. There is time for only a half second burst. He pushes the stick forward and dives under the Messerschmitt’s nose, then pulls up in a steep climbing turn to meet the next attack.
His mouth is dry as he again sees two ‘109s coming straight at him head-on. He fires almost simultaneously with the Messerschmitts and at the last possible second he pushes the stick forward violently and there is a sudden bang right behind him and the Spitfire staggers in the air. For a moment his mind is blank, the aircraft seems to be falling, the controls are limp, black smoke is pouring from the nose and enveloping the canopy. Suddenly there is a hot blast and a flicker of reflected flame is creeping into the cockpit.
He pulls the pin from his harness, wrenches back the canopy and hauls himself out to the left. The slipstream presses his body tightly against the fuselage, his legs are still inside. He sees that his aircraft has lost its tail and he grabs at the trailing edge of the wing and heaves. He falls free and somersaults, whirling round and round through the air, fumbling for the rip cord, until at last he finds it and with a violent jerk the parachute opens above his head.
There is no sensation of movement, just a slight breeze as he swings gently to and fro. Two ‘109s are circling, he looks at the ground and sees a shower of flaming sparks as his aircraft explodes in an orchard, then another in a nearby field as the ‘109 he collided with also goes into the ground. His is the only parachute. The German fighters turn and fly off.
*
When he returns to Hawkinge after hitching several lifts, it is nine o’clock at night. The sound of rowdy singing spills from the blacked out windows of the mess, the only building apart from the control tower to have been repaired.
He goes to his tent to get a change of clothes and to his surprise sees the angular shape of a Royal Navy Swordfish parked at dispersal. The Swordfish is the aircraft the Albacore replaced, a bi-plane bomber, used mostly to launch torpedoes but sometimes to drop bombs. It is unusual to see a Swordfish on an RAF base in the south of England, the domain of the Swordfish is the Naval air stations in Scotland and the north. This one has suffered damage, there are bullet holes in the fabric of the wings and tail. He walks over and finds a soldier standing guard by the cockpit.
“It came in about an hour ago Sir, one of the crew was injured. It was getting quite dark and we had to line the cars and lorries up with their lights on either side of the runway to show the pilot where to land, I think the crew are in the mess, but I can’t say for certain Sir.”
Two naval fliers are by the bar. One of them is a Royal Navy Commander of about thirty; the other, is a Lieutenant, younger by two or three years. His hair is curly and his rank insignia is in the gold wavy lines of a member of the Royal Navy Volunteer Reserve. There are pint glasses in their hands and cigarettes dangle from their lips. Most of the 506 squadron pilots are crowded round them, their faces are weary, but elated and they both smile when they see Leighton’s naval uniform. Huntingdon sees Leighton and says, “Where the hell have you been? We thought you were dead.”
Leighton responds; “Sorry to disappoint you Squadron Leader.”
“Get one?”
“Thanks, I’ll have a pint.”
“No you scrounging bastard – did you get any Germans?”
“Two Messerschmitts, a ‘109 and a ‘110, but I had to ram one of them and bail out, so I don’t know if it counts.”
“Oh it counts, it counts Leighton. Two – one to us. Well done; I’ll have to invoice the Admiralty for that Spitfire though, I expect they’ll take it out of your pay.”
Huntingdon offers him a cigarette and gestures to the older of the naval fliers. “Leighton, this is Esmonde.”
Leighton salutes, the Commander returns the salute and offers his hand, his voice has an Irish lilt and he says; “Call me Eugene.” Huntingdon turns to the RNVR Lieutenant,
“This is another one of your own; his name’s Brabner.” As they shake hands Esmonde grins and says,
“Wait now, let’s introduce the man properly shall we,” Brabner, closes his eyes, shakes his head slightly and says, “Not this again.” But Esmonde is clearly enjoying the moment.
“This is the Honourable and Gallant Lieutenant Rupert Brabner, MP…” Huntingdon looks confused.
“What, hang on, Brabner? You’re Military Police?” Esmonde laughs,
“No, no, Squadron Leader, he’s a Member of Parliament.” Huntingdon looks askance at Brabner,
“Get out of it, you’re not a Member of Parliament…” Brabner grins ruefully.
“For my sins, yes.”
Esmonde is still laughing, “Yes, by God, the Honourable and Gallant Member for Hythe no less, which is just down the road about five mile if I’m not mistaken; the Honourable and Gallant Member for Hythe is having a pint with us fortunate souls in this very place. Honourable and gallant mind you, one of the elect no less, in fact, one of the elected.”
Huntingdon is still confused. “Honourable and gallant? What?”
Esmonde is pleased to clarify, “‘Honourable and Gallant’, is the correct style of address for a member of the House of Commons who is also serving in the armed forces. So you people better be careful what you say to this one, Leighton and me, we can say what we like, we’re Navy, but you Air Force boys…”
Amid the general laughter Leighton asks; “What brings you to Hawkinge? You know the beer’s better on naval bases.”
Esmonde smiles and shakes his head ruefully. “We were lost, our navigator was injured, but he’s going to be alright. We were running out of fuel, leaky tank, had to put down. I think Brabner here wanted to get back to his constituency and say hello to them all...” Brabner grins and says,
“I was flying the aircraft, Commander Esmonde was leading the raid.”
Esmonde interrupts, “If you can call it leading, mostly I was just leaning out of the side of the cockpit with a map trying to figure out where we were.”
Leighton says, “Were you on an operation?”
Esmonde hesitates before he responds, “Yes, yes we were – I suppose I shouldn’t tell you, but the secret is out now. We hit the fighter bases in the Pas de Calais, the ones near the coast. Quite a big show actually, air groups from three carriers, over a hundred and fifty ‘planes, plus a couple of RAF fighter squadrons that could be spared, flew down from Scotland yesterday, left the carriers behind…”
“Which carriers?”
“The Home Fleet’s. Fearless, Formidable, Victorious and odds and ends from Ark Royal, Indomitable and Courageous – I was on Ark you know, most of us got off when she sank...” There is a pause, then Leighton says;
“I didn’t know Indomitable had commissioned yet.”
Brabner interjects, “She hasn’t. I’m from Indomitable, our air group is forming up and we need the practice. It was just a couple of flights, twelve Albacores and some Sea Hurricanes, I was one of the spare pilots for the Sea Hurricanes but Commander Esmonde’s pilot went sick yesterday. Appendicitis or something…”
Leighton interrupts him, “I was on Courageous – which squadron came from her?”
Esmonde shakes his head, “Just a flight – I’m not sure which one, led by a chap named Higgins. Know him?”
“Higgins, yes he was the Commander (Flying).”
“Yeah, that’s the fellah. We had to hit Audembert, went in just before sunset. We were right down on the deck, as we planned, though we were a wee bit late. Some of our ‘planes had already gon
e in, but we caught most of the Germans on the ground. I suppose they weren’t expecting us, only a couple got airborne…”
It is Huntington who interrupts now, “From Audembert?”
“No, from all of them I suppose – all the German fighter bases. There are seven of them to the south west of Calais, within five miles of the city and all less than four miles from the coast. We left Audembert pretty banged up, and I flew over Wissant on the way back, it looked a mess as well. You know, I think Babner shot a Messerschmitt 109 down there…”
The room falls abruptly silent. Huntingdon, incredulous, says; “With a Swordfish?” Babner shakes his head,
“I know, I can scarcely believe it myself. We came over the treetops and we were flying right over the airfield when I saw a ‘109 halfway through it’s take off run. The sun had gone down and I could hardly see him, but I lined the Swordfish up and had a pop at him with the machine gun. Had to really, if he’d got up, he’d have come after us. He was just airborne and I managed to hit him, he belly flopped back onto the runway, his undercarriage collapsed and he skidded off sideways. Esmonde saw it, I’d call it a ‘probable’.”
“Wait now,” said Esmonde, “damaged is about all I can give you, probably destroyed is a bit too much.” Huntingdon is aghast.
“I didn’t know Swordfishes had forward firing guns?” Esmonde takes a pull on his pint and says;
“Oh yeah, just the one though, a three–oh–three Browning, the back of it is right next to the pilot so you can give it a thump if it jams. When I’m flying, I keep a bit of stick in the cockpit just for that.” Esmonde takes a long pull of his pint and Brabner takes up the story.
“The fighters that escorted us shot up everything in sight on strafing runs, while we put bombs all over the place. Two fifths of the bombs we dropped were booby trapped flares with delayed action fuses, they’re supposed to send in bombers later on, after dark. The idea is that they will bomb on the flares and smash the German air fields up a bit more. If it works. Well, even if it doesn’t I don’t think you’ll be seeing as many German fighters tomorrow as you may have today.” He turns to Huntingdon; “If you don’t you can thank the Navy.”
The Peace of Amiens Page 10
