Any cold analysis of air-war potential would have considered the situation hopeless, but retreat was not yet an option for the RAF. Every available Battle was sent, with the last functioning French-based Blenheim squadron, No. 139, against the Sedan bridgehead and, in the evening, more 2 Group Blenheims, including eleven of 21 Squadron, flying from Bodney. They left around 18.00 with various targets assigned, of troops in woods, bridges, armoured columns, all in the Sedan area. One machine and its crew was lost without trace. Another crashed in Belgium after a fight with several Me109s; the crew managed to get back home. The third belly-flopped into Bodney, shot up beyond repair but claiming a Me109 downed. The news back at base was that The Netherlands’ capitulation had been announced on Dutch wireless at 18.40.
It was named ‘the day of the fighters’ by the Luftwaffe, but 14 May was the day of the flak gunners too, if all the figures were to be believed. The fighters flew over 800 sorties and claimed 179 Allied aircraft shot down; the gunners claimed another 112. These 291, had they been real, would have had to have been mostly French as the Dutch air force hardly existed at the start of the day, down to about 30 machines of which only 10 were fighters, and the AASF had less than 70.
Bomber Command actual losses for the day were forty-seven, all but nine being AASF, almost exactly half of the sorties flown and more or less half of the already-halved AASF. No such losses had ever been imagined, much less seen before, nor would a proportion like that occur again in a sizeable operation – but then, never again would such an imbalance be struck between huge numbers of modern fighters against so many unsuitable, vulnerable bombers flying low over anti-aircraft batteries.
Some of the men who had been to Breda joined up with a large quota of the rest of 82 Squadron next day, 15 May, led by the great Paddy Bandon with LAC Freddie Thripp in the turret (of whom more later). Twelve of them took off from Watton around 13.30. The target was troop concentrations at the little French town of Monthermé, population then just short of 4,000, nowadays a tourist attraction for its ancient abbey and church and its picturesque position inside a broad meander of the Meuse where it meets the river Semoy, surrounded by the Ardennes forests. This is the very north-east of France, close to the Belgian border, just a few kilometres north of Charleville-Mézières and Sedan and not all that far from the squadron’s Great War flying grounds of the Aisne.
There was fighter cover from the French air force, Hawk H75 aircraft, the Armée de l’Air version of the American Curtiss P-36, which, like the Blenheims they were defending, had been considered the epitome of aerial technology when it first appeared in 1935 but was now outgunned, outpaced and outclimbed by the Me109.
Paddy and his men didn’t meet any Messerschmitts at first but, as was the case on all these low-flying missions, they ran into heavy ground fire. They were employing the same shallow-dive tactic that was meant to reduce the chances of an anti-aircraft hit, and it worked again. They split from their sections of three and dive-bombed in line astern, which seemed not to suit the German gunners who managed only two superficial hits.
In the town square were massed many enemy vehicles and these were bombed, as were the houses beside the road leading to the river; the road was filled with rubble and rendered impassable for the time being. A good day was almost made excellent when a 109 came up on the port quarter of the Blenheim flown by F/Lt Charlie Breese, fired, and was sent away wounded in the wing by WOp/AG Corporal I T Harris. A single Me110 was also spotted but it stood off, while the somewhat braver crew of a Henschel 126 had a go. This machine was a slow, high-wing, general-purpose reconnaissance aircraft, looking something like the Westland Lysander that became famous for ferrying SOE parachutists into occupied France later in the war. The Henschel came in with its fixed machine gun firing forwards and its second gun operated by the observer in his open cockpit, attacking two Blenheims, which fired back with no result to either side.
So, 36 men of 82 Squadron flew home in time for tea. Eleven of those at Monthermé would live to fight another day. The rest would live longer.
Their raid was quickly followed up by four AASF Blenheims of 139 Squadron, a remarkable feat in itself as they had lost four the day before and seven two days before that. The fighters were up in strength by now, to shoot down one Blenheim and damage the others, and among all this chaos the Air Ministry issued a statement:
In the fury of these engagements [in the Sedan area] detailed reports from aircraft crews cannot be expected. Heavy losses must be suffered in attacking vital objectives which are strongly defended by anti-aircraft fire and enemy fighters.
Our losses, which are not considered excessive in view of the results obtained, were 35 aircraft. Several crews from these aircraft, however, have already returned to their aerodromes.
The Ministry might have added that detailed reports on enemy movements from soldiers at the Front also could not be expected, although aircraft crews had to fly whatever the quality of their information. What they had was almost always out of date, and briefings were skimpy – here’s a list of roads, you might find what you’re looking for on them. Crews had some faith in the results obtained but really they were no more than a local nuisance to the Germans, a temporary inconvenience. As for the ‘not excessive’ losses – Air Marshal Barratt knew very well what that meant, as his force was halved every couple of days until he decided he could no longer send brave men in inadequate machines to their destruction in daylight. That was mainly Fairey Battles, of course. Barratt had virtually no Blenheims left, but 2 Group still had plenty to throw into the boiling pot and 82 Squadron was encouraged by messages of congratulation from the chiefs of the French forces.
Four crews of 82 were delegated to help out with AASF reinforcements. More machines from Fighter Command were urgently needed but Hurricane pilots could not be expected to find their way across France so, next day, an expedition of Blenheims led by Sq/Ldr Walter Sutcliffe flew to Manston and from there escorted twelve Hurricanes to Merville and other aerodromes. Among the boys on this little French holiday, unlikely to meet any Germans that far from the front line, were the gunning master of Monthermé, Corporal Harris, a nineteen-year-old WOp/AG called Thripp, six more from the Monthermé op and four others who had no idea just how fortunate they were. Six more crews were stood by from 04.00 to attack troops but they didn’t have to go.
If 82 Squadron had had some luck to ride so far, that was the last of it. That night of the 16th/17th, on stand-by as usual, the aircrews went to bed while the ground crews worked on, urgently trying to keep as many aircraft serviceable as they possibly could. Those men had no reason to fear the dawn, but the pilots, navigators and WOp/AGs never knew what the day would bring. For twenty-two of them, the dawn of 17 May 1940 would be the last they’d ever see, and another three would not see Watton again in wartime.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘WHERE’S EVERYBODY ELSE, MORRISON?’
By the evening of 15 May, the German panzer corps were over the river Meuse and cutting across northern France like the proverbial hot knife through butter. Guderian and Rommel, panzer commanders, were expecting to continue their advance west, right up to the Channel coast, thus cutting off the Allied armies to the north, including the BEF. It is said that Hitler was so deeply impressed by the ease and speed of this victory that he began to think he’d won too much too soon, and the fight now taking place at Gembloux must have reinforced those worries.
With no notion of the Germans’ plan to make this thrust at Sedan, the French strategy had been for a pitched battle further north, to stop the enemy getting into central Belgium. A low ridge across the Belgian plain, the Gembloux Gap, would be ideal tank territory and so plans were made for a major defensive action near the small towns of Gembloux and Hannut. The Germans were at Hannut by 12 May, Day Three of the invasion, and the French sent a strong armoured force to meet them with the brief to hold out long enough for the French First Army to dig in and get ready. The preparatory defensive works expected from the Belg
ians had hardly been started, never mind completed.
Hannut turned into a tank battle, with the French scoring some successes but, by its location it gave the Germans more freedom to advance at Sedan. The French fell back to Gembloux, again with both sides gaining and losing, but this time it was the Germans who were tied up. Try as they might, they could not force the breakthrough, though the French were suffering irreparable damage in the meantime.
Both sides had huge numbers of casualties, in men and machines, and neither could claim victory. This was a highly confused situation. After counter-attacks by the French Moroccans on the night of the 15th and the British Second Infantry Division on the 16th, the Germans and the French both implemented a strategic withdrawal. This part of the Blitzkrieg was halted, temporarily, but it would prove to be long enough to frustrate the encircling strategy of the Wehrmacht, the Sickle Plan, and eventually allow the great evacuation at Dunkirk.
Come the morning of 17 May, the AASF had at Barratt’s disposal a dozen Hurricanes, six Blenheims and forty-five Battles in various states of readiness, but he wasn’t going to send any more Battles in daylight. He could not hope to achieve anything but suicide with six Blenheims against two Divisions of panzers and three of infantry, including their numerous and efficient anti-aircraft units, reinforced by flocks of Luftwaffe fighters, so he didn’t try. His only AASF losses that morning were four Fairey Battles left behind on the ground, as 88 and 142 Squadrons withdrew further into France. There would be more losses in the afternoon and evening, when Blenheims of the army’s Air Component made reconnaissance flights and bombed columns of troops, but that was later. Before that, at dawn in Watton, 2 Group’s greatest disaster of the war – so far – was about to begin.
With a historic view, we might ask what were Barratt’s hopes for twelve Blenheims flying from England against those same German forces at Gembloux? The daylight was just as bright wherever you came from and whatever inadequate aircraft you were in. He knew what had happened to his AASF Blenheims – thirty of them lost, and thirty more down of 2 Group flying from England – but that’s what he ordered, the only operation of the morning, twelve Blenheims of 82 Squadron to attack the German Sixth Army. Having withdrawn from the battle of the Gembloux Gap, while their French opponents were retreating over the border towards Lille, this formidable force was hurt enough not to want another day of battle on the ground but was not otherwise engaged. Their anti-aircraft gunners had had very little to do during the battle, against an almost non-existent air threat from the French, while the Luftwaffe had enjoyed complete air superiority. There had been 500-plus fighters at the disposal of German commanders on 10 May. If the number had been at all depleted, that was more than made up by reinforcements on the 15th.
There was no organised Allied defence now in central Belgium. The Front, as it were, had disappeared and the Germans could more or less walk across after a day or two’s rest, but Allied confusion and poor information led to a panic about a breakthrough, needing an urgent response. From whom, Barratt might have asked, and with what?
Breakthrough? It was a resolved matter. The main thrust towards Gembloux, a working town of around 5,000 inhabitants, had come from the Namur direction, from the south east, and along that road were now deployed two Divisions, one motorised, one infantry, with all the attendant weaponry to defend against air attack. Many of the inhabitants had gone, fleeing west. The German troops, tanks and ack-ack had taken over and moved west, too, beyond Gembloux, north of Charleroi.
Over in Norfolk, twelve Blenheim crews were told at 04.00 that they were on an hour’s notice and, almost simultaneously, that the notice was here, to fly to a certain crossing, a bottleneck – a defile in military terms – on the Namur–Gembloux road. It is said that they were promised fighter escorts, surely a necessity on such a raid. Some of the men at the briefing knew from experience that such promises were sometimes kept.
All of them were RAF regulars from before the war. There were several twenty-year-olds among the WOp/AGs, but some of the older pilots and observers had seen great changes in a very few years: George Watson, for example, Flight Lieutenant, twenty-six, pilot, married to June; his observer Frank Wootten also twenty-six; and WOp/AG Alf Sims, twenty-five and with a wife called May – quite an elderly crew really, compared to the usual profile later in the war. In their flying careers they had seen bomber aircraft double and triple their air speed, and biplane fighters like the Hawker Fury, first in the RAF to go over 200mph, superseded by Spitfire and Hurricane at well over 300mph, which was just as well if they were to protect the Blenheims against the Messerschmitt 109.
At 04.15, the twelve were led into the air by Paddy Delap, with observer Sgt Frank Wyness and, in the turret, P/O Frank Jackson. While they were away, the London Gazette would announce the DFC for Delap, DFM for Wyness and DFM for Cpl Allen Richards, for their sinking of the U-boat. Richards was with F/O Fordham on this one, the first 82 Squadron captain to see flak and to fire on a German aircraft, back in September 1939.
They had a simple route – out over Felixstowe, across the Belgian coast between Ostend and Zeebrugge, check pinpoint at the town of Fleurus, then the last few miles to the target. Felixstowe was a quiet little holiday resort in those days; the weather was nice enough on the day to tempt a few onto the beach, or along the prom and the pier.
If the boys expected to rendezvous with fighters somewhere along the line, they were disappointed. There were no Hurricanes, no Spitfires. Perhaps there had been a slight cock-up in the communications department. Clear skies forecast over Belgium; they could already see that the forecast was spot on. Never mind, the blast of war was blowing in their ears, sinews were stiffened, blood summoned up, and it was six o’clock on a glorious morning, approaching the target with a few minutes to go, when they saw the first evidence of the enemy, a burst of flak a couple of miles away, low, no threat.
Moments later they flew right into a new ack-ack barrage, one of high intensity and great accuracy, fired from an emplacement near Nivelles, about 20 miles west of Gembloux. Immediately, one of the first shells hit UX/T, Bob McConnell’s machine, right in the bomb-bay among the 40-pounders, the anti-personnel bombs, and set the aircraft on fire. Operations Record Book Appendix report: ‘At 06.03 hours, A.A. fire began on our level. It was very accurate, the first shell hitting No. 2 in the No. 1 formation, making him go down.’
The pilot turned south and away from that small box of sky filled with horror but the damage was done. They were losing height, flames everywhere, explosion far more likely than a crash landing. They had managed about 10 miles in a shallow dive, smoke pouring forth, and were just north of Charleroi, away from the fighters and not quite finished yet.
ORB: ‘Ack-ack was encountered before reaching the objective and the Squadron opened up and took evasive action.’
While McConnell was realising that his war appeared to be over, the rest of the formation split up, as they were drilled to do under this sort of anti-aircraft fire, when there was no apparent space between the shells screaming up, and climbed from 7,500 feet to 9,000. There was still a target to attack and they were almost on it. Just at that moment, the conductor of ack-ack batteries waved his baton and the shooting stopped. Why? Because he didn’t want to hit any of his own aircraft.
To the east on the far side of Gembloux, a flock of Messerschmitt 109s was ready to pounce, ready to come down like wolves on the fold. ‘For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass’d.’ Lord Byron was describing Assyrians in chariots but the image applies.
Delap saw them coming and ordered his men to close up into formation and head south, a right-angle turn, but there was no time. The Germans attacked with the sun behind them and with practised precision, in groups of three in line astern. Each deadly team aimed for one of the rearmost Blenheims and the fighter pilots took turns to hit it with cannon and machine gun as they soared past.
Delap’s machine was hit but carrie
d on. Among the first to go down, exploding in a mass of flames, was Alex Gofton’s UX/R. He’d been at Monthermé with the same crew, observer Fred Miller, married man, and young Tom, Corporal Cummins, twenty years old, in the turret. No trace of them or their aircraft would ever be discovered.
UX/D was captained by Reg Newbatt, twenty-two, mentioned in despatches for photography under fire over Sylt. Both crew members were older but none of the three, all sergeants, was married. Joe Crawley, observer, was from St Helens, and Bert Knowles, twenty-five, was from Liverpool. Nothing of them or their aircraft was ever found – at least, nothing identifiable. Unknown airman in unmarked grave was sometimes the fate of flyers like these.
In this first wave of fighter attacks, one of the survivors, LAC M C Cleary, Jock Morrison’s WOp/AG, reckoned he saw three or four Blenheims go down in flames. We now know there were four and they were Gofton, Newbatt, Toft and Christensen. Glaswegian P/O Severin Christensen, only twenty-one, and his crew – Alf Phillips and Peter Ettershank – and aircraft UX/Y disappeared entirely from the face of the earth.
Pilot Officer Ken Toft scrambled out of his aircraft as it made its fatal dive and he would be taken prisoner; but Arthur Crouch, married to Lilian, and Raymonde Morris, a Romford boy – if they were not already dead, they were certainly killed in the mid-air explosion and there was nothing left of them to be found.
After their first swoop, the fighters climbed away to sort themselves back into their sections, which gave the remaining seven Blenheim crews a brief respite. They headed south-west as fast as they could go, perhaps hoping that the Messerschmitts had run out of ammo, or perhaps praying for a miracle.
The Squadron That Died Twice Page 5
