by John Nichol
Scott was soon on Rhubarbs with 124 Squadron, arriving at Biggin Hill in November 1941. Like most of the pilots, he was entirely reliant on the combat experience of the squadron leader. ‘If you had no battle experience you didn’t see anything; the leader could be heard reporting, “Twenty-plus to your right, three o’clock coming out of the sun . . .” But no matter how much you strained, your eyeballs out like chapel hatpegs, you could not see them. This was when we relied upon our leader’s experience and sight to get us through, weaving all the harder and following him blindly. We flew in sheer terror half the time and obviously there were losses.’
In just one week they lost nine pilots. ‘War, sadly, cannot stop for its casualties, we just had to get on with the job,’ Scott recalled. He was soon in the heart of the fighting.
‘At nineteen I suddenly found myself, adrenaline flowing, coming up on the tail of a Luftwaffe twin-engine Ju88, firing at it and wondering how the hell I had got there. That was my first kill and there was no doubt about it, it was thrilling to down an enemy aircraft. This feeling increased with my catching sight that the German crew had bailed out. I hoped the pilot would be able to bail out as I hoped that’s how someone would think of me.’
* * *
By now Spitfire production had fully recovered from the Battle of Britain and was running at pace, with Castle Bromwich able to churn out squadrons of Spitfire Vs by the fortnight. In the three months to 1 July 1941 the number of Mark V operational squadrons went from one to seven, with a total of thirty-two squadrons now of all types. If the war looked grim elsewhere, at least by the end of 1941 the skies over Britain were well defended.
Robbie Robertson had to wait eight months until he fired his guns in anger. The squadron had just completed a Circus sweep over Gris Nez, close to Calais, on 14 April 1942 when they were jumped by a group of Fw190s.19
‘We were flung around in all directions. I managed to find a 190, which seemed to be a bit lost, so I fired like mad at it. Being overkeen, anxious and a rotten shot, I didn’t allow enough deflection and all I did was waste a lot of ammunition. But it was quite exciting to get chased round and round.’
Ten days later he was in action again after the squadron was jumped over France and Robertson, along with his American wingman, got split up from the rest. And they were up against two formidable Fw190s. ‘The Focke-Wulf is some aircraft. To start with, it’s a lot faster than the Spitfire V; it seems to have all the ammunition in the world and they can start firing their cannons from miles out of range which was frightening, especially when you can see all the flashes coming from the gunports.’
The American dived after the first 190 despite Robertson yelling at him to come back as the second German was closing on his rear. ‘The second 190 overhauled him like mad and although I tried to chase down after him I couldn’t get within range and my number two was shot down.’
Fighting back the surging panic and distress at seeing his comrade taken out, Robertson decided to stay and fight the remaining 190.
‘We went round and round in circles for a while, which was fine as the Spitfire could out-turn anything and eventually I managed to get a few hits on him. He decided to call it a day and beetled off.’
But Robertson would not let him escape. ‘I followed still banging away and he started to smoke and eventually was going down almost vertically at a hell of a lick.’
Robertson also discovered that all was not lost if you did parachute into the Channel. A call went out that a bomber crew had ditched off the Dutch coast and were bobbing around in a dinghy. Five airmen were spotted drifting off German-occupied Ostend.
Robertson’s flight took off to give them cover at the same time as a rescue launch shot out of Dover. With the Spitfires overhead they quickly located the crew. ‘The launch got to the dinghy, swung round, grabbed the chaps aboard, all without stopping, then belted for home.’
A few weeks later they received a letter of thanks from the bomber crew enclosing a £1 note ‘for a drink on us’.
* * *
What stood out most about Terry Kearins was the dark thatch of hair that sat like a bird’s nest atop his head. Otherwise he was a quiet man from hardy farming folk in New Zealand. Kearins and his two siblings had been brought up in a house without central heating or electricity. It was a spartan life, where he constantly found ways to make the uncomfortable comfortable. Kearins knew the long, hard hours of labouring on the farm in Woodville, North Island. His mother showed him how the monumental tasks of running a farm and bringing up children could be done. She made the most of her wood-fired range, producing cakes, pastries and main meals. With no refrigeration she was adept at preserving all kinds of meat, fruit and vegetables. It was a rugged but wholesome upbringing, where people knew their worth and pulled their weight.
Kearins did well at school. His headmaster described him as ‘of sound character, courteous in manner and of a healthy physique’. In the end Kearins gave up full-time education for his first love and became a farming apprentice.
In 1939 Kearins turned eighteen and war was looming. Realising that conscription was inevitable, he decided to volunteer to join the service of his choice. He had seen the posters, magazines and cigarette cards of the Royal Air Force’s modern fighters. Boys at school had talked excitedly about Spitfires and Hurricanes. Kearins had often mused, when watching the occasional biplane buzz over his family farm, on what the ground would look like from the air and the freedom pilots had. He chose the air force and ticked ‘Airman Pilot’ as the number one choice on his application form. Then he answered the ‘flying experience’ question, writing: ‘Flown once as passenger with Middle Districts Aero Club – in rough weather.’
It was perhaps the weather reference, and his list of sporting interests, that led the RAF to put him onto flying training when he arrived in Britain. But only as a glider pilot. For two years Kearins learned the fundamentals of flying, including on the Miles Master monoplane. He excelled as a glider pilot and went on to instruct. But on a posting to RAF Llandow in Wales, Kearins was given the opportunity to join a Spitfire unit. He did not say much when his flying officer instructor pointed to the aircraft and told him to go up and fly the fighter. But Kearins felt a deep sense of pride in the achievement. Here he was, a farmboy from rural New Zealand, flying the world’s most modern aircraft. On entering the cockpit he placed a hand over his face to hide his grin. Then he took to the skies in a faultless take-off, flying for an hour and five minutes of pure delight.
He qualified as a fighter pilot and was ready for operations. He looked forward to the change. He’d been in Britain, training, for two years. It was time for something different.
* * *
Harry Strawn, August 1942, just after Dieppe raid
The Battle of Britain had put the RAF fighter squadrons on their knees and they’d only just recovered to be knocked down again by the Rhubarb, Ramrod and Circus raids over France. But 1941 had seen two major milestone events. While Russia drew away some of the Luftwaffe’s best fighters and pilots, the Japanese attack on the American naval base at Pearl Harbor on 7 December proved a much greater boon. Previously, a handful of American fliers had risked losing their citizenship to fight for Britain at the height of its peril in 1940. A few more had trickled over to form Eagle Squadrons in 1941, but now they started coming over in numbers. And they only wanted to fly one plane: the Spitfire.
Finding that he didn’t know, or particularly like, one end of a cow from another, Harry Strawn had turned his back on a career in animal husbandry and opted for a degree in advertising at the University of Pittsburgh.20 That didn’t appeal much either. In desperation, the tall young man with the classic good looks of a strong-jawed American took a job in Detroit at the Steel Office Furniture Company. At weekends he increasingly found himself drawn to the local airfield, watching P-40 fighters take off and land. He fell in love with the idea of flying and in June 1941 he joined the air force and was in training when the Japanese attacked.
A year later the American was among 12,000 troops on the former luxury liner Queen Elizabeth surging across the Atlantic to Scotland. Strawn recorded in his diary the welcome they received after landing in the Firth of Clyde and boarding a train south. ‘The people were waving to us from every window with flags. It made chills go down my spine. The hillsides were covered in flowers and green trees and it was hard to realise we were in a war-torn country. We threw oranges to the people for which they were very grateful.’
The 309th Squadron soon received delivery of twenty-five new Spitfires courtesy of the Air Transport Auxiliary, the pilots based at High Ercall, near Shrewsbury, Shropshire, who ferried brand-new aircraft from factories and maintenance units to frontline squadrons. Strawn now found his prejudices challenged. ‘One pilot came in and I went up to check him out. This pilot takes the helmet off, and this beautiful blonde hair starts falling down in cascades. Women didn’t fly aeroplanes! It shocked me so badly that I said to one of my other buddies: “My God, if a woman can fly that aeroplane, I know I can.” ’
He also warmed to the modesty of RAF fighter pilots sent to help train the three American Spitfire squadrons of the 31st Fighter Group. ‘One thing about the British, they do the shooting first and the bragging afterwards.’
Strawn and his fellow pilots adored their new fighter. ‘I really fell in love with the Spitfire. It was the most fascinating aircraft and the easiest I ever flew. These Spitfire Vs are new and really fast planes – faster than our P-39s. I had a great time diving through the clouds and slow rolling, doing about every manoeuvre in the book. It made you feel like a king. It was the most gentle acrobatic thing that I ever had my hands on. It was so forgiving, you could make all kinds of mistakes.’
The biggest problem the Americans had was that the engine rotated in a different direction to the US Allison engines, causing it to swing in the opposite direction on the application of power during take-off. It caused a degree of confusion and led to some accidents.
By comparison, Strawn and other US pilots in Britain were critical of their own fighters, the P-39 Airacobra and P-40 Warhawk. ‘As yet the US has no fighter plane that can touch anything the British Spit can, much less the Me109F or the Fw190,’ Strawn wrote. ‘We as pilots know what a good plane is, but the people at home will never know that the P-40 and the P-39 would be death traps in this war. I hope to God that we will never get them here for we wouldn’t have a chance against the Germans.’21
A few days later the men of the 309th Squadron were banned from talking to the press. An article had appeared in Life magazine complaining that the US fighters ‘weren’t worth a damn’.
* * *
John Blyth arrived from America and celebrated his twenty-first birthday in the best possible way. When the US went to war he volunteered for the US Air Force operations in Britain.
In late 1942 he found himself at Biggin Hill in the company of the heroes he had read about in magazines. Within minutes of arriving he was next to a Spitfire, chatting with Sailor Malan and Al Deere, Battle of Britain aces he had read about three years earlier. ‘It felt quite surreal to be talking to them both and it was quite an amazing birthday present.’22
There was one hurdle to overcome before he could start flying. It was decided that US sergeant pilots should become officers. Blyth went before several commissioning boards, always answering the same questions. Finally, he arrived in London with 250 other candidates, all in the same room and looking bored until an air force colonel addressed them. ‘I’ve had to go through all these boards before,’ he said. ‘So today I am the board and today you are all second lieutenants and I hope that by next year you’re all generals! Sorry I had to get you down to London to tell you that.’
Blyth was posted to the 22nd Squadron, for reconnaissance missions as part of the American 7th Photo Group based at Mount Farm near Oxford. But each day when they got into the cockpits of their P-38 reconnaissance fighters for another mission, the American pilots looked on in envy as RAF Spitfires bounced down the airstrip and danced into the air.
Why aren’t we in Spits? the pilots frequently moaned.
No one was happy with the P-38. Operating in the European climate, frequently the turbo superchargers would freeze up, with catastrophic results. The Americans also complained bitterly that the US fighters did not have the power or agility of Spitfires and were vulnerable against German fighters.
Blyth forced himself to trust his P-38 as he took off for missions, but the Spitfire was always there in the background, niggling away at them by its very presence.
Still, when he did get back to base at least as an officer he had a room to himself, half-decent food and the opportunity to go out dancing with Oxford girls. It was at one such dance that he came across a dark-haired beauty called Betty. ‘She looked very different from the rest of the girls; she was a classic English lady, an English rose!’ Puffing up his chest in his smartly cut officer’s uniform and putting on his broadest grin, Blyth introduced himself. The pair instantly hit it off and were spending a lot of time together.
Betty fell for Blyth’s easy American charm and manner, and was intrigued by his English roots. For the next few weeks they went out to pubs together, more dances and even the odd dip in the River Thames.
Betty was well-spoken and clearly well-connected. She took her beau up to London where they went to dine in the Savoy and then on to a nightclub. It was all a new and wonderful experience for the American airman.
Then one day Betty announced they were going to lunch with her uncle. As Blyth went to sit down he almost got straight up again, thinking he’d got the wrong table. Opposite him was a man in a smart blue RAF uniform with lots of gold braid. His eyes fixed on the rank insignia band on the lower arm of his sleeves. An air vice-marshal!
‘Sir,’ he responded quickly as Betty introduced him as ‘uncle Richard’, then added ‘Air Vice-Marshal Richard Peck’. The officer was quick to put Blyth at his ease and they were soon chatting amiably. Peck, who had no children of his own, clearly approved of his favourite niece’s choice of companion.
After lunch Blyth found himself being driven by Peck in his car. Here he was, a mere lieutenant, being chauffeured by an air vice-marshal! As they drove, Peck asked about Blyth’s work.
The flying was OK, Blyth responded, but it was pretty rough-going in the P-38s.
Peck’s eyebrows raised. 22nd Squadron, was it?
Blyth nodded then listened in astonishment as Peck told him they’d all be getting Spitfires very soon.
Back in Oxford, Blyth knew he was privy to some sensational information. Everyone was itching to get onto Spitfires and if he broke the good news he might be among the first on them. He sought out his Station Commander.
‘We’re going to get Spitfires, sir, and I’d like the opportunity to fly them,’ Blyth said.
His boss looked astonished. ‘Where in the hell did you hear that?’ he fired back.
‘Air Vice-Marshal Peck, sir.’
His boss shook his head in despair, only half-believing Blyth.
Blyth had to pinch himself again when, a few days later, he sat in a Spitfire cockpit with the propeller spinning, his hand resting on the throttle lever. There was little instruction, he recalled. ‘We just got in the Spitfire and went flying.’ The Americans were thrilled.
Blyth, Strawn and their fellow pilots’ view on American fighters appeared to be reinforced when the RAF rejected the P-39 as unsuitable for warfare in western Europe.
The Spitfire was to remain the air force’s premier fighter.
CHAPTER FIVE
SPITFIRE WOMEN
Mary Ellis
If ever an aircraft was built for a woman to fall in love with it was a Spitfire. Of course, the ladies could admire its fine curves and elegant nose, but actually flying the thing was surely beyond them?
Female aviation pioneers like Amelia Earhart and Amy Johnson had already proven that women could fly equally as well as men.
A
t the outbreak of war, pilots were needed to ferry aircraft from factories and airfields. It would have been a waste of resources if, like the French, combat pilots were used. The Air Transport Auxiliary (ATA) was introduced and it didn’t take long for some influential female fliers to argue for a role in the war effort.
After a brief struggle, permission was granted for eight women to join the ATA, albeit only flying Tiger Moth trainers. They demonstrated their hardiness and skills flying to Scotland in open cockpits in winter weather.
Every day the ATA pilots would wake up not knowing what aircraft type they would fly. Fortunately, they had an invaluable aid. The little ‘Blue Book’ had notes on more than seventy different aircraft types. Printed on both sides of postcard-size paper, it gave helpful hints such as if a plane had a tendency to swing on landing. The pilot would find the aircraft she was piloting – often for the very first time – read its notes for thirty minutes, then take to the skies.
By summer 1941 the ATA women had proven their worth. They would be allowed to fly operational aircraft and a great prize awaited: the Spitfire.
Perhaps more so than men, women fully appreciated the graceful lines that suggested a glorious flight. ‘To sit in the cockpit of a Spit, barely wider than one’s shoulders, was a poetry of its own,’ said Lettice Curtis,1 one of first ATA women.
The same flying circus that had taken Allan Scott on his first flight in 1932 had done the same for Mary Ellis two years earlier. She was also aged eleven when she took off in a two-seat Gypsy Moth biplane, and she too was immediately smitten by flying. ‘It was the most wonderful experience I’d ever known. I simply had to do it again.’
