by John Nichol
Peart put his survival down to luck, but his modesty hid the fact that he was a pilot with great gifts and of supreme skills. Those qualities, married to a superlative machine, ensured his survival.
‘I had a friend who was in the infantry in WWI – he told me his great fear was being bayoneted so he had trained until he was an expert in bayonet fighting. He survived. I did the same with the Spitfire – no ruddy Japanese was going to get the better of me!’
If there was one consolation, it was that his faith in the Spitfire, which was already high, had now been redoubled. ‘I had to do things with that aeroplane which must have exceeded the aerodynamic and physical limits and it never let me down.’
As the fight for Burma continued, the Japanese, suffering from disease and lack of supplies, faltered in their attack. The attempted invasion of India had been their biggest defeat to date, costing them 55,000 casualties including 13,500 dead. It also meant that by the next year they were weakened to the point of defeat in Burma. Alan Peart’s courage and skill, and ‘Babe’ Whitamore’s sacrifice, had ensured the Spitfire had triumphed in the Far Eastern skies. And it was also in action in even further-flung corners of the globe.
* * *
Hauptmann Günther Rall was told by his group commander in no uncertain terms not to report what he had just seen over the Eastern Front.
‘Perhaps you are mistaken, Rall?’ he told the experienced Luftwaffe pilot. ‘And all this will only do is alarm your comrades.’5
Rall was adamant. He had seen Spitfires. Six of them. And he had shot one down.
The commander had to respect his opinion. Rall, twenty-five, was an ace with more than 100 victories and had fought in France, the Battle of Britain and the Balkans. But most of his kills had been in Russia, flying his Me109 against the inferior Yaks and other Soviet aircraft.
It was 28 April 1943 and the Red Army had unleashed its offensive against the Nazis, who had penetrated the Caucasus as far as the Kuban district on the eastern shores of the Black Sea.
Months earlier the first batch of 600 refurbished Spitfire Vs had been ferried to Russia via Iran. The Spitfires had arrived after the Soviet leader Joseph Stalin personally requested them from Churchill in 1942. The Soviets received a further batch of 143 overhauled Mark Vs, many the veterans of dogfights during the Rhubarbs over France.
But they were supplied without any British instructors, manuals or mechanics. So the Russians managed to learn to fly and maintain the Spitfires by trial. And error.
The Spitfires’ first appearance on the Eastern Front, attacking a dozen Stukas, had not ended well in terms of victories but it had landed a psychological punch on the Luftwaffe pilots who had been notching up easy kills.
Rall immediately typed up a report but was then asked by his commander not to discuss what had happened. The ace did not concur. ‘Is it not more likely that tomorrow we will encounter a large number of Spitfires in our sector on the front?’ he argued.
He was right. The same day another Luftwaffe ace, Alfred Grislawski, twenty-four, had been confronted by eight Spitfires outnumbered by two to one in his flight of Me109Gs.
‘Achtung, Spitfire!’ was heard over Russia for the first time as Grislawski warned of the danger to his young wingman, who had only ever seen the fighter in aircraft recognition books.
Seconds later the fighters engaged in a swirling dogfight and the Germans knew they were up against an entirely different foe. Even the experienced Grislawski could not manoeuvre into a decent firing position behind the agile fighters.
Initially, Grislawski’s commander also did not believe his report that they’d encountered Spitfires.
The next day the first Me109 fell to a Spitfire piloted by Kapitan Viktor Chernetsov leading eight former RAF fighters against four Germans.
While the German army might have suffered a massive defeat and the loss of 730,000 men following the capitulation of Stalingrad in February 1943, the Luftwaffe at least until now had been the undisputed master of the skies.
What type of Spitfires did the Reds have? How many and how many more would they get? The questions swirled around Luftwaffe messes for a week, then on 7 May they got into a proper dust-up with the Red Spitfires.
Viktor Chernetsov, leading six fighters, spotted a squadron of Ju88 bombers heading towards Soviet lines and immediately dived on them. But in his excitement he had failed to spot the Me109s high above providing top cover. Alfred Grislawski led the Messerschmitts down in a screaming dive and hit Chernetsov with his first burst of fire. As the German closed in for the kill he had to break away and fend off another attack. Chernetsov’s wingman had flipped his Spitfire round and got on his tail. A savage dogfight ensued, with one Spitfire lost when attacked by two 109s.
Grislawski was desperate to match Rall and get his first Spitfire kill, and doggedly remained on Chernetsov’s tail. But the Spitfire persistently refused to settle in his gunsight. Grislawski had to break away, allowing the Russian to make it back to safety, albeit via a skilful belly-landing.
The Soviets decided to put their best pilots in the new aircraft, as Chernetsov proved. ‘These pilots were not your average Russians. These fellows know their business,’ one Luftwaffe pilot reported.6
After a month of intense combat over Kuban during spring 1943, just four of the initial twenty-seven Spitfires in Chernetsov’s unit were serviceable, with thirteen lost in aerial combat. But for once the return for the Russians was favourable, with a claim of forty-eight victories that included twenty-five Me109s. Another Soviet Spitfire unit, the 821st Fighter Regiment, claimed thirty-two victories with a loss of sixteen fighters in combat.
But a lack of spares and an inability to properly maintain the complex Merlin engine meant that the Spitfire was withdrawn from frontline action. It was moved instead to a defensive role around major cities such as Moscow, where it proved successful at intercepting the high-altitude Ju86 bombers.
However, the Russian pilots had proved they could master a sophisticated aircraft and the Spitfires had a psychological impact out of proportion to their limited numbers.
While 1,331 Spitfires were eventually sent to Russia they did not prove as successful as the 10,000 American fighters shipped under the Lend-Lease agreement. Their mechanical complexity made them a struggle for technicians used to simpler aircraft and the freezing winters, along with poor logistics chain, made them difficult to keep in the air.
The roar of the Spitfire engine could be heard in almost every theatre of war by late 1943. But the biggest challenges it, and its crews faced, were still to be found in the skies, and over the beaches, of occupied Europe.
CHAPTER TWELVE
A FOOTHOLD IN FRANCE
On the night of 5 June 1944 Derek Walker paced restlessly in his wife’s Chelsea flat as a terrific gale blew outside. As his new wife Diana Barnato Walker lay in bed watching him with half an eye open, she had an inkling of what was making him jumpy as hell and keeping her awake. As an ATA ferry pilot she had flown over the south of England, where lanes were crammed with tanks and landing craft jammed the Solent.1
She watched Derek’s pacing and worried. The invasion of occupied Europe was imminent. She observed her husband closely, trying to capture his features, feeling the ache of love and fear.
They had been married only a month. Diana had met Derek after dropping off a Typhoon fighter at Tangmere. When she went in to get her ‘chit’ signed, Derek was the duty officer.
It had been a whirlwind romance. ‘Derek had a blue-eyed twinkling gaze and the habit of throwing his head back into a proud commanding stance then dropping his eyes.
‘He was as brave as they made ’em. A leader of men. He had the ability to raise a laugh and could lift people up out of any desperate situation or mood.’
Derek proposed on her father’s estate at Ridgemead House near Egham, Surrey. For just a few moments Diana played for time, then accepted.
‘Many of my admirers had, by then, been killed in the war, so I thoug
ht I should hook him quick, in case one or the other of us got bumped off whilst flying.’
If Derek Walker, twenty-eight, knew anything about the invasion he said nothing to his wife. She acted likewise. But the ATA pilots knew more than most.
Joy Lofthouse, who had ferried more than one hundred aircraft over the last year, found her workload intensified in the lead-up to June.2
‘We were delivering planes upwards of twenty fighters a day, Typhoons, Tempests and Spitfires flown straight to the squadrons on the south coast airfields. For a few months beforehand no one had been allowed to travel to the south coast of England for pleasure. From the air we could see all the mechanised vehicles stacked up in the lanes; you could have walked across to the Isle of Wight on the landing barges. The Germans had high reconnaissance aircraft. But they still thought we’d go the shortest Pas-de-Calais route. No one dreamed we’d take the longer route into Normandy.’
* * *
Ken French
On that stormy June night, Ken French, the affable Irish trout fisherman-turned-fighter pilot, had been ordered with the rest of 66 Squadron into a briefing.3 On the wall was a large map of Normandy. They were told at that very moment an invasion fleet of 5,000 ships and 287,000 men was heading to five beaches in Normandy. The RAF’s job would be to cover the dawn landings, particularly the American beach of Omaha. It was clear to French that they were going to be part of the largest and most complex amphibious operation in history.
‘We had waited a long time for this so there was a feeling of excitement tinged with a certain amount of apprehension, for, although we knew that this was going to be the biggest day of our lives, we had no idea what to expect. Now the chips were down they would throw everything at us.
‘It was clear we would not get much sleep as the first squadrons would be taking off before dawn and this was June when dawn comes early. Then from midnight onwards there was the constant noise of planes passing overhead – heavy bombers attacking the coastal defences and others pulling gliders packed with airborne troops and transport planes full of parachutists.’
Sleep proved difficult. French could not help thinking about the men crossing the rough seas, including his brother Phil, a soldier on one of the landing craft. At dawn he boarded his Spitfire, which, like all invasion aircraft, now had black and white stripes painted underneath to identify them as friendly.
‘When we arrived over Normandy we had a panoramic view of everything below. We could see the landing craft running up onto the beaches. I seemed strangely detached from the reality of it all, so it was hard to imagine the terrible noise that must have been going on and the fact that thousands of men were dying on Omaha beach below us. I had nothing but sympathy for the men dying below and was glad that I was flying above it all. Their sacrifice was truly amazing. A terrible time.
‘As it took us about half an hour to get to Normandy and the same to get back we were only able to stay on patrol for about one hour. I made three trips that day and we met with no opposition.’
* * *
Tony Cooper had wanted to be a pilot ever since, as a five-year-old, he had sat on his sister’s lap for a ride in a biplane during the visit of one of those flying circuses that had inspired so many youngsters to learn to fly. He did not let two RAF medical failures put him off and persevered, becoming a flying instructor. But he wanted operational experience and, by June 1944, he had got his wish.
Flying in his battle-worn Spitfire V, with his newborn son’s name ‘Peter John 1’ painted on it, he took off from Deanland, a forward landing strip in the South Downs, at 4am on 6 June. Like everyone in 64 Squadron, he felt the excitement of a significant step being taken to bring the war to a close.
The Spitfires soared over the Channel to cover the massive fleet below at the American Utah Beach.
‘Opening up into battle formation we reached the beaches over in France at 05:20 and as dawn broke we were able to survey our patrol area,’ Cooper said. ‘Our feeling of pent-up excitement turned into one of total awe at the scene below us. The coast and beaches were covered in a pall of smoke from the softening up by our bombers and the naval bombardment. But below us as far as we could see was a multitude of ships, thousands upon thousands, formed up in a tremendous, gigantic armada.’
At first an inquisitive single Junkers 88 made for the fleet. With scores of aircraft above and heavy flak below it was a suicidal move. A barrage of hot metal tore up from the sea into the bomber, making it shudder in midair. Pieces of airframe broke off as the plane was eviscerated by the vicious groundfire then sent plummeting in flames down into the sea.
The biggest danger was to come from overanxious naval gunners below, as Cooper, twenty-eight, recorded in his logbook. ‘Navy shelling beaches. First landing made by infantry troop at 06:20. Nearly shot down by a [Allied] Thunderbolt. Spitfire in front of me actually was. Another Spit hit by naval shellfire blew up.’4
* * *
The Luftwaffe failed to turn up on D-Day. With just over 300 serviceable aircraft it was outnumbered twenty to one.
Later in the day, Diana Barnato Walker ferried an Albacore on the short hop from Hamble to Eastleigh with a splendid view of the invasion force. ‘I saw tanks moving on the roads, going to be loaded onto ships in the ports. Ships seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see across the Channel. I also made out the huge Pluto [Pipeline Under the Ocean] “cotton-reels” holding up the oil pipeline, bobbing about in the rough sea, as well as some of the Mulberry pre-fabricated harbour being floated out towards France. The Allied planning people had decided against taking an enemy-held port: Dieppe had taught them that lesson. This time they were taking their own harbour with them.
‘This was it! The invasion – to push back the enemy into their own country. So many people I knew were in those tanks, those ships and those bombers and fighters. I wondered how many friends I would ever see again.’
Nigel Tangye was back in his Spitfire to do a spot of photo reconnaissance on the Argentan railway junction. Like French, he watched in awe as thousands of troops struggled 25,000ft below.5
‘I was so aware of the contrast in our tasks. The men far below on the white-flaked blue-green of the Channel were seasick and, I imagined, numbed by the long-drawn-out and increasing intensity of anxiety as they approached their unknown fate on the beaches of France.
‘And there was I, sitting in the cockpit of my Spit, clean and civilised, speeding through the heavens, my main anxiety being the low clouds over the battle area that might prevent my pinpointing my target.
‘In only a couple of hours, compared to the months of campaigning ahead for those stalwarts in boats below, I would be back in the mess with a gin in my hand and later would be having supper with Ann, after her show, at the Berkeley.’
The deception plan leading the Germans to think that Normandy was a diversion and that Pas-de-Calais was the real target proved effective. While the casualties at Omaha Beach were particularly high, by the end of D-Day a beachhead had been established. At D-Day ‘plus five’ 326,000 troops had been landed along with 54,000 vehicles.6
The advantage of having airstrips close behind advancing troops had been long recognised and landing grounds sprung up across Normandy.
Aircraft mechanic Joe Roddis, now of 485 Squadron with the likes of Terry Kearins, was among those flown over to set up camp before the Spitfires came in. Only a few months earlier he had stood on the platform at Worthing station and waved goodbye to Betty Wood. Now he was on operations in France where day and night he could hear the crack of artillery and the occasional whine of enemy aircraft. The fear of being in the heart of the war zone was coupled with the sense of adventure, finally being in occupied Europe and taking on the Nazis. ‘I was excited to be on French soil. This had been our aim for so many years and now it was happening. There was also a real sense of danger; it was a war zone with equipment and vehicles everywhere.’7
There was also an intimation that some of the French were not as friendly a
s expected, with rumours that some pro-Nazis were taking up arms against the Allies.
‘The few locals we encountered were openly hostile as they had suffered during the invasion. Snipers were everywhere and some very unsavoury characters calling themselves “Werewolves” were intent on doing us harm. Sometimes when we went through crowds of French civilians some waved but some spat at us.’
However, the intensity of operations at least allowed him a little time to reflect on his separation from Betty Wood. But he could not prevent the images of their last dance and tearful farewell coming to him as he lay awake at night. He knew he had to let her go. Find someone else and move on. And Joe had other matters to concern himself with. After D-Day, keeping the troops equipped with vital supplies was a huge challenge, and there was little flexibility in the logistics chain for luxuries. Hardened troops were distinctly unimpressed by the French lagers on offer, so the Spitfire came to the rescue for men starved of their beloved beer. A Mark IX, fitted with pylons under the wings to carry bombs or fuel tanks, was duly modified to carry beer kegs. If the Spitfire flew high enough, the cold air ensured the beer was ready for consumption as soon as it landed. In a bid to attract much-needed positive media coverage, the modification was designated ‘XXX’ and pictures appeared in the newspapers to illustrate the efforts being made to keep the invasion force happy.
* * *
On 17 July, Spitfires from 602 Squadron pounced on a German staff car hurrying along a lane. Among the wounded was the veteran commander Field Marshal Rommel, on his way to direct operations. Alongside its role as a beer carrier, the fighter had now found another great use as a ground-attack aircraft.
