by John Nichol
The human and machine losses were high, but that was not everything. For the first time the Nazi war machine had been defeated. And defeated decisively. The Spitfire had been blooded and successful in its early battles. But the war was only just beginning.
CHAPTER FOUR
RHUBARBS, RAMRODS AND CIRCUSES
When Robbie Robertson picked up a newspaper and read about the capitulation of Sudetenland to Hitler he understood conflict was coming. It was September 1938. His mind raced over the possibilities and the desire to escape the tedium of life as a poorly paid London insurance broker.1
He saw the smooth lines of a Spitfire in a recruiting poster. That has to be the most beautiful aircraft in the world, he thought. Robertson’s future was decided. He would become a fighter pilot and get as far as possible from the dreariness of the Ocean Accident and Guarantee Company.
He applied for the RAF Volunteer Reserve in April 1939, was accepted then told to await a medical. And he waited. War came in September and, despite recruitment offices springing up across the country, still he waited.
It was the Conscription Act that rescued him from the Ocean Accident and Guarantee Company. In June 1940, Robertson was called up for interview with several other pilot hopefuls.
‘What are thirteen thirteens?’ the interviewing officer asked seconds after he’d sat down.
‘One hundred and sixty-nine,’ Robbie immediately replied.
The man looked staggered. ‘That’s jolly good – did you just work it out?’
‘No,’ he replied. ‘I just asked the last chap who came in.’
The officer chuckled and ran through a list of questions. Could he drive a car, handle a yacht, ride a horse? Yes, Robbie replied to all, wondering if he’d be believed. He even agreed to become an air-gunner if he couldn’t be a pilot.
As Britain fought for its life during 1940, Robbie joined other potential pilots training in the Devon countryside, where they had a brief glimpse of the reality of war. During a route march, a Ju88 flew at 100ft over the column of men, smoke streaming from its starboard engine. Despite their corporal’s blasphemous tirades that they’d all be massacred, the men stood staring. Seconds later two Hurricanes streaked overhead, ensuring the Ju88’s destruction.
Two years after he’d first applied for the RAF, Robbie Robertson began to fly. And he was good at it. After eight hours and fifty minutes he went solo.
‘Right, Robbie, the next time I see you I want to see that top button undone,’ his instructor said, as Robertson stood grinning at the postings board. The hallmark of Fighter Command pilots was for their uniform to be left open at the neck.
Out of the five people on his course, only two had been chosen to go on fighters.
* * *
For those actually in the fight there was little room for mirth. Hugh Dundas had fretted at the idea of returning to action after he had been shot down in August 1940. ‘I view the prospect of combat with real inner fear. The memory of what had happened last time crowded back in on me. The juvenile desire for glory which had been uppermost in my mind had been driven out altogether by the fear of death and the personal knowledge of the unpleasant form in which it was likely to come.’2
Cocky Dundas (right) with brother John
Dundas was not alone in warriors undone by what they had seen and experienced. The RAF’s finest were beginning to wobble. It was a time for leaders in the mould of Drake, Nelson and Wellington.
It was a man with tin legs who steeled Dundas’ nerves towards the end of the Battle of Britain. Douglas Bader was a man of deep resilience. He had lost both legs in an air crash when training to become an RAF pilot in 1931. First he relearned to walk then got back in a plane and passed all his flying tests. But the RAF administrators decided against having a double amputee in the air force. On the outbreak of war Bader presented himself ready for action. Desperate for pilots, the RAF took him on. They did not regret their decision. From Dunkirk onwards, he bludgeoned his way through melees, scoring victory after victory. His strong nerve, resilience, bitter humour and pure bloody-mindedness set him apart as a leader. ‘Douglas showed the way a man should behave in war,’ Dundas wrote.
Sometimes this was through something so fantastically calm and obscure that it could salve an entire squadron’s fears. Dundas and the other sixty-odd pilots were turning butterflies in their stomachs as they waited over London for an armada of German aircraft that was surging towards them in September 1940.
Suddenly, Bader’s voice came on the radio, breaking the silence they strictly followed. He radioed base asking them to locate a friend he wanted to play squash with on his return.
Dundas grinned at Bader’s terse order. ‘That conversation had a decidedly calming effect on my nerves and the butterflies were somewhat subdued. It was extraordinary enough that a man with tin legs should have been thinking about squash in any circumstances. That he should be doing so while leading three squadrons of Hurricanes and two of Spitfires into battle against the Luftwaffe was even more extraordinary. Here, quite clearly, was a man made in the mould of Francis Drake – a man to be followed, a man who would win.’
A few months later, in November 1940, Dundas suffered a devastating blow. His older brother John was killed in his Spitfire moments after downing the German air ace Helmut Wick, Germany’s top-scoring fighter pilot with fifty-six kills to his name.
‘So it happened at last,’ Dundas wrote in his diary on 1 December 1940. ‘I suppose that it had to happen. I suppose that we were inordinately lucky to have survived intact as long as we did.’
He later wrote: ‘I think that hardly a day has gone by since then when I have not thought of John. Poor mummy . . . I believe that even her brave heart will be broken.’
The loss made him focus on his own life choices. He committed to telling his girlfriend Diana that he loved her.
‘Tonight I almost did tell her and then stopped and felt like a fool,’ he wrote in his diary, on Christmas Day 1940. ‘But of course she knows and I think she could be persuaded to love me. But then I am back full circle at the unanswerable argument that in my present occupation I can’t make girls like Diana love me.’
He was in a generation where, aged twenty, you confronted the existential questions of love, death and life.
* * *
In what many considered a disgraceful coup, the architects and victors of the Battle of Britain, Air Chief Marshal Dowding and his excellent tactician Keith Park, 11 Group’s commander, were removed from command. They were considered too parsimonious and too cautious in their use of fighters. A more offensive spirit was needed to take the fight to the Nazis.
‘We have stopped licking our wounds,’ decreed Trafford Leigh-Mallory, the new commander of 11 Group. ‘We are going over on the offensive. Last year our fighting was desperate but now we are entitled to be cockier.’
That cockiness or aggressive intent was given several playful names that underplayed their danger. ‘Rhubarbs’ were low-level strafing runs; ‘Circus’ was a bombing raid intended to lure fighters into the air; and ‘Ramrod’ a bombing mission with Spitfires as escorts.
* * *
Like Robbie Robertson, David Denchfield had concluded that the Munich Agreement of September 1938 was a sham and war was going to be the reality. He was also in a decidedly dull clerk’s job that failed to fulfil the expectations of his grammar school education. He had been seduced by the dash of a diving Spitfire on the RAF Auxiliaries’ recruiting posters that went up in early 1939 and applied. His weekends had been filled with glorious days of flying and weeknights he applied himself to study. On the outbreak of war he had been called up then pushed on through advanced pilot training, forever craning his neck to the action overhead during 1940. By early 1941 his time had arrived. He was a pilot sergeant and he was in a Spitfire in the renowned 610 Squadron.
A Derbyshire lad from Eckington, Denchfield felt overawed as he was driven through ancient trees and dense fields of the Duke of Richmond’s 12,000
-acre estate in West Sussex, base for the Tangmere Wing. Sergeant Denchfield’s awe quickly diminished when he arrived at the satellite airfield of Westhampnett, where the divide between the comfort of the gentry and the rest became apparent.
The ground crew, or ‘erks’, mostly slept anywhere they could put their heads down. Goodwood had been built as a premier horse-racing grandstand in 1904. In peacetime it was a premium spot, but during the war the racecourse’s two-tier open grandstand, close to the airfield, was dossers’ corner for mechanics snoring under their blankets.
The ‘erks’ boasted to Denchfield how they had fashioned ‘the cookhouse out of a shithouse’, using the large circle of five-foot-high brickwork that had formerly been the ‘midden’ or dung heap. The airmen had cleaned out the cow dung and stinking straw then filled it with trestle tables for soup cauldrons and other kitchen equipment. A form of luxury came when a roof was fashioned from corrugated iron.
The mess was ten yards away in a large open-fronted cart shed lined with more trestle tables. Generally, the food remained warm except when rain lashed through the open front, filling plates with water.
‘Better waterlogged food than dead, ain’t it, sarge?’ the mechanics ribbed Denchfield as they pointed him towards the low thatched cottages set aside for sergeant pilots. They lay a short distance from the officers’ base in a grand flint and ivy-clad farmhouse.
Still, at least in the Spitfire we’re all equal, Denchfield thought as he settled into the damp thatched cottage with its single coal fire and green-tinged whitewashed walls.
As a pilot, Denchfield, twenty-one, had been given a large downstairs room. Most mornings he was awoken at 6am with the first uncertain coughs of a Merlin followed by a roar as she caught. This subsided to a rumble as the ground crew throttled back to let the engine gently warm.
One by one, all fourteen Spitfire engines came to life, leading to a crescendo far more effective than any alarm clock. This was soon followed by an airman bringing in a cup of tea with the cheerful words, ‘Readiness in five minutes, sergeant.’3
Denchfield enjoyed a few delicious minutes drinking the tea, exchanging the odd monosyllabic comment with the other sergeant pilots. ‘Then the shocking plunge out into the freezing atmosphere beyond the blankets. A quick wash and shave, dress in the “working blue”, throw on the Irvin leather jacket and then the crunching walk across the iron-hard field to B Flight dispersal.’
Sleep was quickly forgotten under the harsh glare of the Nissen briefing hut’s light bulbs. With a grunted ‘what-ho’ to fellow pilots, Denchfield picked up his brolly and slung the parachute over his shoulder.
After slipping on the iced-over port wing, Denchfield got in his Spitfire and switched on the cockpit light for pre-flight checks.
‘Check the reflector gunsight is set for 250-yard range and 60ft span – 60ft was about right for heavy stuff but I made sure that for 109s I’d be a lot closer than 250 yards. Helmet placed over gunsight, with the oxygen tube plugged into the socket. Check mixture lever right back, levers up to “off” and tail and rudder trims set for take-off. Align compass gridlines with needle, ensuring “red on red” so as not to fly in the opposite direction to that desired. Check fuel tanks full, oxygen full and “on”, air and brake pressures at recommended level, radiator control lever at fully open.
‘Place the four harness straps to be instantly available and not snagged on anything and then switch off the light, get out, shut the door and hood and wander back to dispersal to slump into a wicker armchair and catnap gently away with flying boots up on the cast-iron stove along with those of the other hopefuls.’
At 9am they were given a briefing by the squadron leader for the upcoming operation. ‘The intention was to “wake up” the Luftwaffe in France, who were apparently having an easy life after their attacks over southern England had diminished. Specifically, it was to be the 109s we were to upset.’ At this point one of the pilots, who had notched up several kills in the Battle of Britain, interjected. Why bother, it was nice and peaceful as it was? The CO ignored him.
The men rested in the dispersal room until mid-morning, when the CO popped in. ‘Right, chaps, you’re to be released at 1pm and off duty until tomorrow morning.’ Before any further thoughts of carousing could be had, he quickly added: ‘That’s after we get back from St Omer. Take-off 12:00.’
Denchfield listened carefully as they were told to form up with other squadrons over Rye then escort a dozen Blenheims to cause ‘great alarm and despondency with their 250lb bombs’.
On his way to lunch Denchfield asked for his aircraft to be topped up with fuel after the pre-op engine run. He had been designated ‘rear-end Charlie’ in the Vee formation, so he’d be doing a lot of weaving and catching up on the other dozen Spitfires.
He was also in a Spitfire Mark I, from one of the earliest batches made at Supermarine’s works in Woolston, Southampton, in 1939. It had flown in action over Dunkirk.
At this stage of the war, early 1941, all pilots flying over occupied France were well aware of the risks they faced if shot down on these offensive operations. They were given a last-minute briefing then ordered to empty their pockets of any compromising documents. They had just been issued with tunics with a silk escape map and a compass needle sewn into the seams. ‘Naturally we had to check them ourselves! Consequently, our re-stitching was nowhere near as neatly done and my shoulders were lumpy!’
The three fighter squadrons assembled over Rye. ‘The Channel to the east looked ridiculously narrow and the skies over the snow-clad French landscape were broodingly ominous. As usual the sun glare blinding out of the clear blue made looking to the south-east difficult. God only knew what nasties were moving into their hidey-hole. As we circled over Rye for a good five minutes we certainly gave them plenty of time to get ready for us. I guess, like me, that the others had their gunsights switched to “on”, their gun-firing buttons turned to “fire” and their hoods slid back for better visibility. And I bet they were sweating cobs too.’
Just after they crossed the French coast, Denchfield, weaving at the rear, spotted contrails behind and above but they quickly disappeared. The condensation trails generally formed above 25,000ft, when warm water vapour from the engine exhaust froze in cold air. Pilots frequently checked their rear-view mirrors to ensure they were not emitting a long finger of cloud pinpointing their position.
Denchfield tried to ignore the growing fear that the enemy was close. But a minute later he saw a flash far up behind. He searched the skies. Nothing. He looked ahead. A distance of 800 yards had opened up between him and the rest of the squadron. Damn it. It wasn’t safe to be alone in enemy skies. He did a couple of left and right turns then pushed the throttle open to catch up.
‘I was about halfway back when there was a sudden staccato vibration and sparks seemed to erupt out of my port wingtip. Bloody hell!’
More rounds hit the front. The rudder pedals became useless. ‘As the nose fell away the cockpit filled with a white mist accompanied by the foul smell of glycol and 100-octane fuel.’
The mist cleared and he was able to assess the damage. He was at 9,000ft and still flying. Then the oil and radiator temperature began to rise, followed by a strong smell of petrol. ‘Nearly twenty gallons of fuel were sloshing about in the belly of the fuselage under my feet. I now knew why my lower legs were so cold. Inside my flying boots and my trouser legs were saturated with the damn stuff.
‘Some six minutes after being hit I was down to maybe 6,000ft with the radiator temperature almost in the red. I could see the Channel and the Blenheims pass about 1,000ft above me on their way home, going like the Devil.’
He was never going to make it over the Channel. With petrol sloshing at his feet he undid the Sutton harness straps. Smoke followed by jets of flame came out of the engine. The nose dipped down violently. It was time to get out. Fast. He shot out like a cork from a bottle.
Denchfield landed in a snow-covered field minus one boot which had b
een wedged in the aircraft. He ‘hid’ in some bushes ‘even a mouse would have laughed at’ and was having a pee when two German soldiers entered the field.
‘They walked straight up to me and as I stood up one said: “For you the war is over.” And I thought they only said that in The Hotspur boys’ comic!’
He was taken to St Omer airfield where twelve Luftwaffe pilots came out of a hut and one by one came to attention and saluted. ‘Of course I had to reciprocate. There was a fair degree of mutual respect between us.’
He was then introduced to Major Walter Oesau, the German ace who had shot him down. Denchfield sportingly agreed to sign his cigarette case in pencil for him to have engraved over. On closer inspection, he saw another six English signatures. So much for causing alarm and despondency.
* * *
Stung by reports of the Spitfire’s effectiveness over Dunkirk, Willy Messerschmitt had worked hard to find a response. The Spitfire’s agility had to be matched. In late 1940, the Bavaria factories rolled out the Me109 ‘F’, which, with wings and rudder adjustments, was by far the most aerodynamically efficient of the 109 models, potentially out-turning the Spitfire. It was also more fuel-efficient; with light-alloy 300-litre drop tanks, it more than doubled the 109 ‘E’ variant’s range from 410 miles to 1,060 miles. It also came with a bullet-resistant windscreen and light-alloy armour fitted behind the pilot and fuel tanks. Generally, Luftwaffe pilots agreed that the ‘F’ was the best-handling of all 109s.4
The developments down in Bavaria did not go unnoticed by the hard-pressed Supermarine boffins working out of their sheds at the Woolston works. Under the guidance of chief designer Joe Smith, who had led the Spitfire’s development after Mitchell’s death in 1937, they grafted to find a design that gave the fighter speed at altitude and greater firepower while retaining its agility. Fighter Command could not continue sending up pilots like Denchfield in Mark Is for much longer. Something was urgently needed as a stop-gap measure.
