by John Nichol
In February 1941 Castle Bromwich began mass-producing a new version of the Spitfire, the Mark V, which had punch and power. Now carrying two 20mm Hispano cannons as well as four Browning .303 machine guns, it had true firepower.
With the Merlin tuned to give 1,407hp, it had a maximum speed of 371mph5 and could reach 38,000ft at twice the rate of climb as the first Mark I.6 Later variants were equipped to carry two 250lb bombs, giving the Spitfire the potential to become a dive-bomber. With nearly 6,500 built, it was the most produced of any mark.7
Jeffrey Quill, Supermarine’s test pilot, had returned from active service in the RAF during the Battle of Britain with ideas for improvement. In particular, he had advocated changing the canvas ailerons – the flaps on the wings used to roll the aircraft left or right – for metal ones, which made a huge difference to high-speed turns, greatly improving manoeuvrability. These were standard by the time the MkV entered service, with one pilot describing the old ailerons thus: ‘When you were diving at speed with fabric ailerons, the aircraft used to try to turn to the left and I hadn’t the physical strength to straighten up.’8
While Hugh Dundas churned gloomy thoughts of life, death and love, fortune favoured him. In May 1941, Douglas Bader became his immediate boss and his unconquerable spirit buoyed up Dundas through the dark days.
Fighter Command sent Bader down to RAF Tangmere, on the West Sussex coast, to become a ‘wing leader’ with three Spitfire squadrons under his command. He chose to fly with the Auxiliaries – or what was left of the originals – of 616 Squadron. Better still, he put himself in charge of ‘A’ Flight, where Dundas was second-in-command.
The new strategy of grouping squadrons together required new tactics. As Denchfield’s plight and others had consistently shown, the RAF’s three-ship Vee formation was dangerously outdated. Bader, Dundas and others put their heads together and came up with the ‘finger four’ formation – roughly similar to the German tactic developed in Spain. Four aircraft would fly in line abreast, fifty yards apart, with those on the left covering the tails of those on the right and vice versa. This did away with the exposed position of rear-end Charlie at the back of the Vee formation, who regularly got bounced.
Like the Germans the previous summer, and as Denchfield had already found to his cost, Fighter Command was now experiencing the dangers of battling over enemy territory: anti-aircraft fire, a waiting enemy, running out of fuel, and bail-outs becoming POWs.
Dowding’s parsimony and shepherding of his force had been replaced by a view that one-for-one losses, like sacrificial chess, were acceptable. In fact, if it had been chess, Fighter Command was heading towards checkmate. Between mid-June and September 1941, it lost 194 pilots and planes, the Germans 128.
Dundas, in mourning his brother’s death, was not alone. Wilfrid Duncan Smith, an outstanding pilot with 611 Squadron, was among those who grieved over the summer after his successful fighting partnership with ‘Polly’ Pollard ended abruptly when his wingman was killed over France.
‘The loss of a close friend in war stirs a deeper feeling of personal sorrow because of its abrupt and harsh reality. Though there is no reason to brood on the tragedy, the chances are that if his name is mentioned it will recall the happy moments of laughter shared, and never any of darkness. Though it makes one aware of the uncertainty of life, it also hardens the will to survive and in a strange way the thought of death as the final enemy transforms it instead into an honourable escape.’9
The losses were taking a toll on everyone and pilots took small pleasures when they could. Most resorted to drink and relied on their youth to see them through the consequences. However, to get from one pub to another required transport and more importantly petrol, so pilots topped up their cars with precious aviation fuel.
Someone tipped off the military police and they began testing fuel tanks. Sgt Alan Smith, Bader’s wingman, was stopped in a 1932 MG Midget brimful of aviation gas and arrested along with several other offenders.
Before they could be dragged off, Bader pulled up in his car and stomped towards the military police on his tin legs. ‘What the hell’s going on here?’ he demanded.
The senior policeman stood his ground, insisting the pilots had broken all the rules. He didn’t get to the end of his explanation before Bader cut in. ‘Get your buggers out of here and fast or I will sort you out.’10
The policemen did not hang around to discuss the point.
* * *
Johnnie Johnson had fought hard to fly. A qualified engineer from the East Midlands, he initially failed to get into the RAF as a pilot partly on grounds of snobbery. He was finally accepted a month before the war’s outbreak, but then had had to overcome a collarbone break sustained playing rugby in order to fly again. He proved his worth against the Luftwaffe, although by 1941 the twenty-six-year-old Spitfire pilot expressed a distaste for the current tactics.
‘I loathed those Rhubarbs with a deep, dark hatred,’ he wrote.11
Something was required to take the edge off the stresses daily endured in combat. A keen sportsman, Johnson had been quick to notice the opportunities presented by the Duke of Richmond’s estate near Tangmere. Within the many acres lay the eighteen holes of the excellent Downs Course at Goodwood. Designed in 1914 by James Braid, the legendary architect of Gleneagles and Carnoustie, it provided a refuge from thoughts of mortality after a morning hunting Germans.12
But to remain operational while playing eighteen holes presented a challenge. Johnson developed a system whereby, if they were to be called to thirty minutes’ readiness, the squadron Miles Magister would go up, find the golfers then fire off a red Very light telling them to return to dispersal.
Aside from the odd weekly casualty, all seemed to be well at Tangmere. Then on 9 August the wing was ordered to provide cover for a mid-morning Ramrod raid on Béthune.
There was the odd bit of cumulus lingering in the blue skies as 610 Squadron took off. As they gained height, Dundas saw Bader waggle his wings vigorously and fly within 2ft of his wingtip.
‘Airspeed indicator,’ Bader mouthed, pointing to his instrument panel. His vital flying instrument had broken. Bader pointed ahead and Dundas took the lead to the start line precisely on time at 28,000ft. As they arrived over the French coastline someone spotted a gaggle of 109s below. Both Bader and Dundas watched them for several seconds. Something seemed odd. The bait was too easy. They smelled a rat.
With another squadron covering the sky above them, Bader gave the ‘tally-ho’ order. The Messerschmitts flew on, straight and steady as the flight speared towards them. Dundas fixed on a target and dived. But he was still uneasy.
‘I had the strongest instinctive urge to look round behind me. We closed fast, a little too fast. With half an eye I watched Bader and the second he opened fire I did the same.’
‘Break!’
At the warning of imminent danger Dundas instinctively flipped the plane hard over while searching the sky above and behind. He hunched his shoulders and his grip on the control stick tightened, expecting the canopy to shatter any second at the impact of cannon rounds. The sky behind him was full of 109s and winking guns. The Luftwaffe had executed a near-perfect ambush.
Dundas found himself in the middle of a ‘hot and furious’ dogfight. ‘Several times I fired my guns; several times I was under hard pressure of attack. No time to worry about results, no time for anything except taut, insistent, concentrated effort to avoid getting in front of an enemy’s guns. The penalty for getting caught in that game of tag was death and destruction. And everyone sooner or later got caught.’13
Again Dundas won through.
‘Dogsbody, do you receive?’ There was no reply.
‘Dogsbody, come in please.’ Again Dundas used Bader’s call sign and got no response. Dripping in sweat, he pushed the nose down and dived back for home, hearing others try to call up the wing leader.
They returned to Tangmere in ones and twos. Bader was not in their number. There was an atm
osphere of quiet desolation. Dundas immediately ordered a sweep. Four of the most experienced pilots set off to search the Channel to see if Bader had ditched. When they returned without success, Dundas knew he now had to break the news to Bader’s wife, Thelma. He grabbed a bottle of sherry and some flowers. He told Thelma that Douglas was missing in action then cried all the way on the drive back. ‘The thought of Douglas Bader dead was utterly shattering to me.’
The Germans quickly informed the British of Bader’s capture. With some difficulty he had managed to exit his crippled Spitfire, but with one tin leg left behind, jammed in the cockpit.
A German doctor examined Bader and looked relieved to see that the missing limb was an old injury.
‘Now, we look at the other leg,’ he ordered Bader. Relishing the moment, Bader watched the shock register on the doctor’s face when he realised the fighter pilot had no legs.
While Bader’s loss was keenly felt on one level, his job had already been done. Like every effective war leader he left behind a fighting legacy.
Although Dundas and many others now felt little enthusiasm for the fight, Bader’s spirit demanded they carry on. ‘To pass onto the new pilots the experience and knowledge I had gained, as well as the spirit of aggression with which Douglas had imbued us,’ wrote Dundas. He needed to hold on to that spirit more than most. He was the last surviving original member from 616 Auxiliary Squadron left flying. And the realisation of death’s proximity was intruding on his ability to fight.
‘I subconsciously shrank from battle. The instinct for survival, the urge to rest on my laurels, was very strong. During the weeks which followed there were a couple of occasions I shirked the clash of combat at the critical moment. This was a time of extreme danger for me and also to some extent the men I was leading. It was the stage of fatigue when many experienced fighter pilots have fallen as a result of misjudgement or a momentary holding back from combat.’ Dundas found some solace in the brandy bottle.
Then a new menace emerged. In August 1941 the outline of a fighter appeared that was very different to the Me109. The Focke-Wulf 190 was, at 389mph, fast. It could also outmanoeuvre the newly arriving Spitfire Mark Vs and carried a bigger punch. Four 20mm cannons and two 13mm machine guns gave it unsurpassed potency.14 The Fw190 presented a real threat to the Spitfire’s future, usurping its position as the premier fighter. A riposte was urgently required and Supermarine’s designers went back to work, this time frequently toiling through the night to retain the Spitfire’s superiority.
As the Rhubarb, Ramrod and Circus operations over France continued, pilots reported less enemy activity than usual. There was a simple explanation: on 22 June 1941 Hitler used an army of four million, including 2,700 aircraft, to invade Russia, committing men, materiel and reputation to conquering the Bolsheviks.
A new cause was found for the RAF’s Rhubarb raids on occupied Europe: they were to tie up German fighters in the west.
* * *
Those still in training and yet to combat the lethal Fw190s or suffer the mourning of lost comrades were living in a blissful world of new experiences and high jinks. The former insurance clerk Robbie Robertson, who had waited more than two years to get into the RAF after applying in late 1938, had now passed his first stage of fighter pilot training and found the biggest challenge was leading his pals to find a well-stocked pub near RAF Kidlington, Oxford. After long treks down muddy lanes they’d often reach a country inn only to find the sign: Sorry, no beer this week.15
The course ended in July 1941 and Robertson’s desire to fly fighters had not diminished.
‘What do you want to fly?’ his Flight Commander asked.
‘Day fighters!’
‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty-three.’
‘Twenty-three! That’s far too old to fly fighters. I’ll put you down for instructor.’
A long argument ensued and Robertson was sent for an interview with the Station Commander. The officer was amazed, disgusted and infuriated that a trainee had questioned his authority. Never has anyone been so audacious as to say they didn’t want to be an instructor – you should consider it a damned honour!
Undeterred, Robertson coolly replied he’d take it up at the next station. But he was in luck. A trainee who’d been posted to night fighters wasn’t so keen. They swapped.
His luck then doubled. He was put on Spitfires.
After practising on a Spitfire jacked up on blocks in a hangar he was told to find a fighter and go up. As many others had already discovered, he found the Spitfire was easy to fly, and he too fell in love. ‘We flew once or twice a day, for an hour or so, and began to find that the Spitfire was probably the most beautiful aircraft in the world. It was a delight to be in the air in a Spitfire, when you got to know it. It was easy to fly and very quick responses on the controls.’
Robertson was posted to 111 Squadron in North Weald, Essex, in early autumn 1941 and given an abrupt introduction to war.
‘We’ve got a funeral tomorrow morning, you can be part of the escort,’ the squadron leader told him with a smile.
After a fortnight of bedding in, Robertson was sent on his first Rhubarb operational sortie over Dunkirk. Outwardly he looked calm climbing into his Spitfire but he grabbed the cockpit rim tightly to steady his shaking hands. He was given a Czech pilot as a wingman and told to stay close. As they approached the enemy coast Robertson felt a surge of fear. ‘I felt vulnerable being on the other side of Dunkirk, actually over France. It wasn’t so bad when you’re over the Channel because you think, “Well, if I’m shot down I’ve got a very fair chance of being picked up and brought back.” But over France it wasn’t so funny. Your stomach turns over and your nerves are still twitching just flying over there.’
But his flying log entry on 20 October 1941 omitted any reflection of feelings. It read: ‘No flak, no 109s’.
Nerves got the better of the most experienced pilots during Rhubarbs. On one occasion, two of Robertson’s fellow 111 Squadron pilots flew over the Channel up into cloud then came down and slipped over the coast. They spotted a train and shot it up before heading back home.
They were surprised on return to be called into the Station Commander’s office.
What had they been shooting at?
A train.
Did they damage it?
Yes, quite a bit.
Did they realise the train they’d shot up was heading to Margate?16
* * *
Robbie Robertson meeting King Haakon of Norway
The veteran pilots soon warmed to Robertson’s humour and after a few sorties he was accepted as one of their own. During one later operation his squadron was returning from escorting bombers over Le Havre, where they’d experienced heavy flak, when Robertson’s engine made a churning noise and glycol came pouring out.
It was now winter, and the enemy landscape was cold and very bleak. Below was a churning sea with a couple of coasters ploughing through white-capped waves.
‘Get out, get out!’ Robertson’s wingman shouted.17
The prospect of being lost in big seas and freezing to death did not appeal, especially as landfall was not far away.
‘No, I’ll put down on the beach.’
As he limped towards Brighton, Robertson suddenly remembered that the beach was mined. I’ll put down in a field.
Smoke was now coming from the engine into the cockpit. I’d better get out. He undid his Sutton straps then paused and called up his wingman.
‘Is it right you get a week’s leave if you bail out?’
‘Get the bloody hell out!’ his wingman shouted.
Robertson pushed back the hood, trimmed the aircraft fully forward, stood up and next thing he knew he was flying through the air.
‘I looked round and found I hadn’t pulled the ripcord, which I did a bit smartly, and a second later there was a satisfying thump and the parachute opened. It was a very soothing experience. The only thing was that the aircraft was still on fire an
d flying round and round on its own. I had visions of it colliding with me.’
He landed in a tree, undid his harness, climbed down and crawled through a hedge.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ an old lady asked him on the other side.
‘No, thank you very much.’ He was driven to a nearby barracks. It was a Canadian dental centre, which assumed, with the second Spitfire in attendance, that he was a shot-down German pilot. The commanding officer had armed everyone with rifles, revolvers and anything they could lay their hands on.
After a whisky, cigar and good meal, Robertson was taken to overnight at Shoreham airport. ‘I wasn’t too popular with the lads there either. They had an air-sea rescue base with a Walrus seaplane. They’d watched me coming across the Channel with smoke and everything else billowing out and they were looking forward to doing a bit of air-sea rescue. They were most upset when I chugged across Shoreham still emitting smoke and bailed out farther on.’
On returning to base his commanding officer at first congratulated Robertson on his escape then added: ‘There is one point, Robbie. You don’t have to tell all the bloody German air force you’re going to bail out!’
* * *
Other fresh-faced pilots were now entering the fray. Ever since his childhood flight in a Fox Moth over Southport, Allan Scott had not let go of his dream to become a pilot. He threw out plans to be an architect and presented himself before an RAF recruitment office in early 1940. On interview for pilot training he stumbled over the answer to 136 multiplied by 365. It was fortunate. A swift answer and he would have been allocated to ‘observer’ training.18
A year later he found himself behind the controls of a Spitfire. He was full of admiration. ‘To fly a Spitfire you became a part of it. Sitting on the seat, it fitted like a glove, the side walls conforming to your shoulders, the controls at your fingertips and obeying every command at a touch. In combat, with a turn of the head and the eyes, it would follow that direction without deviation; upside down and you were held in your seat, as though glued to it. All these qualities proved to be so valuable in combat, especially in a dogfight when the easy flow of vital manoeuvres meant the difference between life and death.’
