Equally, I have referred to German air units in the German terminology, partly to help distinguish them from British units, but also because their units were not quite the same as those in the RAF. The largest Luftwaffe force was the air fleet, or Luftflotte, and within each Luftflotte were Fliegerkorps (air corps). Beneath that there could even be Fliegerdivisionen. However, the principal air unit was the Geschwader, which contained three Gruppen; each Gruppe then had three Staffeln. Thus 2/JG 2 was the second Staffel of the first group of Jagdgeschwader 2. A Jagdgeschwader was a fighter unit, a Kampfgeschwader a bomber unit. Staffeln were always labelled with Arabic numbers, Gruppen by Roman numerals. Thus III/KG 4, for example, was the third Gruppe of Kampfgeschwader 4. A fighter Staffel would have a theoretical establishment of twelve aircraft, but usually an operational number of nine. A bomber Staffel would have a theoretical establishment of nine, and an operational number of one or two less.
The RAF did not have an organization based on army structure, but rather was separated into commands, which from Britain were divided into Fighter, Bomber, and Coastal Commands. The principal unit within these commands was the squadron. Fighter squadrons had a theoretical establishment (IE or immediate establishment) of sixteen aircraft, of which at least twelve would be operational. They also had an IE of twenty pilots.
Note on the Text
So as not to cause any confusion, I have used German ranks, rather than English translations. I have also called German units by their German names, largely because when writing about something from the German perspective, it seemed odd not to do so. Thus I have called German motor torpedo boats S-boats – as in Schnellboote – rather than E-boats, as the British termed them.
Equally, I have referred to German air units in the German terminology, partly to help distinguish them from British units, but also because their units were not quite the same as those in the RAF. The largest Luftwaffe force was the air fleet, or Luftflotte, and within each Luftflotte were Fliegerkorps (air corps). Beneath that there could even be Fliegerdivisionen. However, the principal air unit was the Geschwader, which contained three Gruppen; each Gruppe then had three Staffeln. Thus 2/JG 2 was the second Staffel of the first group of Jagdgeschwader 2. A Jagdgeschwader was a fighter unit, a Kampfgeschwader a bomber unit. Staffeln were always labelled with Arabic numbers, Gruppen by Roman numerals. Thus III/KG 4, for example, was the third Gruppe of Kampfgeschwader 4. A fighter Staffel would have a theoretical establishment of twelve aircraft, but usually an operational number of nine. A bomber Staffel would have a theoretical establishment of nine, and an operational number of one or two less.
The RAF did not have an organization based on army structure, but rather was separated into commands, which from Britain were divided into Fighter, Bomber, and Coastal Commands. The principal unit within these commands was the squadron. Fighter squadrons had a theoretical establishment (IE or immediate establishment) of sixteen aircraft, of which at least twelve would be operational. They also had an IE of twenty pilots.
Introduction
‘THE BATTLE OF BRITAIN began for me in the Autumn of 1939,’ wrote Air Chief Marshal Sir Hugh Dowding in his despatch; after all, that was when Britain and Germany went to war. In the end, however, he opted ‘rather arbitrarily’ for 10 July 1940 as its starting point, the day the Germans first attacked southern England with a large formation of some seventy aircraft. Dowding was referring to RAF Fighter Command’s role that summer and his despatch set the benchmark for how the great aerial clash over Britain has been viewed ever since.
Yet his Spitfires and Hurricanes first properly tussled with the Luftwaffe in May that year, over France, while the intense battle between the two sides was far more all-encompassing than an account of the clash in the air suggests. At every level, from the corridors of power to the man in the street, and from the Field Marshal to the private, or from the skies above to the grey swell of the sea, those summer months of 1940 were a period of extraordinary human drama, of shifting fortunes, of tragedy and triumph – a time when the world changed for ever. For Britain, her very survival was at stake; for Germany, the quick defeat of Britain held the key to her future. For both sides, the stakes could not have been higher.
The time has come to look at those critical months afresh. Dowding was possibly stretching the point too far in suggesting the Battle began with the outbreak of war. But it was with the launch of the western campaign that Britain began to face the worst crisis in her history, while for Germany 10 May 1940 marked, inextricably, her crossing of the Rubicon. The point of no return.
In these five critical months, the battle encompassed warfare on land and at sea as well as in the air, whilst the British and German governments fought their own political and propaganda battles as well as one for intelligence, all of which had a profound impact on the unfurling events. In isolation, these differing aspects only present part of the story. Together, new and surprising perspectives emerge.
Truly, the Battle of Britain is an incredible story, and even more so when the full picture is revealed. Rarely has there been a more thrilling episode in history.
1
First Flight
SUNDAY, 5 MAY 1940, a little after two that afternoon. A warm, sunny day over much of Britain, but above Drem aerodrome, a busy grass airfield some twenty miles east of Edinburgh, a deep blue sky was pockmarked with bright white cumulus drifting lazily across the Scottish headland on a gentle breeze. Perfect flying weather, in fact, which was just as well because Pilot Officer David Crook could barely contain his excitement any longer.
Dispersed around one end of the airfield, beside the concrete perimeter track, were the twelve Spitfires of 609 (West Riding) Squadron. Elsewhere, further along around the airfield’s edge, were more Spitfires, as well as various other aircraft, including a number of Harvard and Magister trainers. Clutching his leather flying helmet and parachute, David followed his friend and flight commander, Pip Barran, from the wooden dispersal hut towards the line of Spitfires. Groundcrew were busy around several of them, including L.1083, a Mk IA, and one of four that had been delivered to the squadron at the end of the previous August.
David had missed their arrival, although he had seen the squadron’s first two Spits land at 609’s pre-war base at Yeadon in Yorkshire on 19 August – just a few days after their last peacetime summer camp had ended. Flying ageing Hawker Hind biplanes had been grand enough fun, but the news that the squadron was to convert to Spitfires had been greeted with euphoria by all concerned. Like any man or boy alive, David had wanted to fly one of these beautiful machines ever since he had first heard about them. With its powerful Rolls-Royce Merlin engine and sleek, curving lines, the Spitfire was an ultra-modern machine of barely imaginable power. Moreover, its heritage could not be bettered; Supermarine, its maker, had won the Schneider Trophy – the award given to the fastest aircraft in the world – a decade or so before for the third consecutive time.
Although an Auxiliary Air Force squadron made up of ‘weekend fliers’, 609 had been mobilized shortly before the outbreak of war. Yet while some of the more experienced pilots had headed straight to Catterick in anticipation of the beginning of hostilities, David and five other Auxiliary pupil pilots had been left behind, first to kick their heels for a month at Yeadon, and then to be sent to complete their flying training.
David had finished his training just a fortnight before, and his leave the previous day. Of the six that had been sent to Flying Training School (FTS), only four were now returning to 609. Two of them, Gordon Mitchell and Michael Appleby, had driven up to Scotland with David the day before, having all met up for lunch in Leeds. They had stopped again for dinner in Alnwick, before finally arriving at Drem in time for reunion drinks in the mess.
It had been good to be back amongst his old friends once more, although there were a number of new faces too, including three regular RAF pilots and four members of the Volunteer Reserve. At first glance they had seemed decent enough, however, and David ha
d been pleased to notice that, despite a new CO, the old atmosphere of 609 was little changed. And Drem seemed like a good spot, with enough hangars and activity to whet the enthusiasm of any keen young pilot, and plenty of golf nearby, as well as tennis and squash courts. Furthermore, Edinburgh, with its mass of pubs and entertainments, was just a short drive away.
Best of all, however, was the prospect of spending many happy hours flying Spitfires. At last! And Pip had been quick to put him out of his misery. A half-hour flight in a Harvard in the morning and then he and the others had been given the all-clear to take the Spitfire up.
The wheels of the petrol bowser had left their impression in the grass and the smell of high-octane aviation fuel was still strong as David and Pip reached L.1083. The two groundcrew – the plane’s fitter and rigger – were still finishing preparing the aircraft for flight as Pip led David around the Spitfire for the external checks, stepping carefully over the lead from the accumulator trolley that fed into the cowling. With his helmet now on, and his parachute strapped and dangling slightly from his backside, David then climbed on to the root of the port wing and, at Pip’s instruction, hoisted himself over the half-door and down into the cockpit. Clambering on to the wing beside him, Pip then talked him through any unfamiliar aspects of the plane, reminded him of the settings, and then, with a cheery smile, jumped down and left him to it.
David kept the rounded canopy pushed back behind his seat as he clipped his radio leads on to his helmet. The cockpit was narrow – just three feet wide – but even for a man of decent height and build like David it did not feel cramped: he could move his arms easily enough, while his feet rested comfortably on the pale green metal pedals. The smell was distinctive – as it was in all aircraft; a mixture of oil, metal, hydraulic fluid, sweat, rubber and fuel. Not unpleasant at all; reassuring, rather.
Elevator set, rudder fully pushed to the right. Flaps up, artificial horizon set. With his left hand, David set the throttle next to his knee to the start-up position, switched on the radio button and then, with his right hand, turned the engine start isolation switch to ‘on’. He unscrewed the priming plunger locknut and began priming the engine. Magneto switches on. Fuel selector on. Glancing out, he saw the groundcrew, then he leaned forward slightly to the bottom centre of the panel and with the index and middle fingers of his right hand simultaneously pressed the engine start and booster coil buttons. As the engine began to turn he vigorously worked the priming pump until, after a few seconds, and with a lick of flame and a belch of smoke from the exhaust stubs, the mighty Merlin roared into life. He carried out his magneto checks, then gave a nod to the groundcrew, who now pulled the chocks clear. A voice from control – he was clear to roll.
The noise was incredible. The airframe was shaking, the engine growling angrily, so that even though the sound was muffled by his tightly fitting flying helmet and earpieces, it was still a throbbing roar. In front of him, blocking his forward view entirely, was the engine cowling, pointing imperiously skywards, the propeller a faint whirr. Glancing out, he saw the groundcrew unplug the lead from the accumulator trolley and pull it clear. Then hearing the static-distorted voice of the ground controller give him the all-clear, he acknowledged, released the brakes and felt the Spitfire roll forward.
Zig-zagging slowly so that he could see what was ahead of him, he successfully manoeuvred the beast to the end of the grass runway and then paused one more time to check that everything was OK. Engine temperature was already 100 degrees – it had risen alarmingly quickly. He glanced again at the dials, tightened the primer locknut, and then opened the throttle.
The effect took his breath away. The engine powered up with a smooth roar and the Spitfire leapt forward like a bullet, the fuselage almost trying to twist from the huge torque from the Merlin. Easing the stick forward slightly as he’d been told to do, he felt the fuselage rise and the cowling lower so that at last he could see ahead of him. Then, before David barely knew what was happening, the Spitfire was hurtling at ninety miles per hour and then the shuddering along the ground stopped and he felt the plane slip seamlessly into the air. He had never known such power; it was like driving a Grand Prix racing car having just stepped out of an ageing Morris and for a moment he felt as though the machine was completely running away with him.
As he continued to climb, he managed to collect his scattered wits, raised the undercarriage, made sure the temperatures and pressure were stabilized, and then turned the propeller to coarse pitch. Glancing backwards, he was astonished to see the airfield already far, far behind him. It was hard not to smile.
After cruising over the Lothians for a few minutes, however, David began to realize that his Spitfire was perhaps not quite as formidable as he had first thought during the first breathless moments, so with his confidence rising he decided to take the plane back for a bumps and circuit. This he managed without too much difficulty, touching back down and then promptly taking off again and feeling altogether more comfortable.
Climbing high into the clouds in this remarkable new toy he swirled and pirouetted through the early-summer sky, performing gentle dives that saw his air speed indicator rise to as much as 400 miles per hour. It was fabulously thrilling, a brief time of unbridled joy. As he was very quickly discovering, it did not take long to become accustomed to the Spitfire’s great power and speed, and once this adjustment had been made, it was an extraordinarily easy machine to fly and a quite superb aircraft for performing aerobatics.
After an hour he landed back at Drem, rolling the Spitfire across the grass to its dispersal around the perimeter. Having shut down the engine, he pushed back the canopy once more. He felt quite light-headed with exhilaration; his life irrevocably changed. ‘Practically everybody who has flown a Spitfire thinks it is the most marvellous aircraft ever built,’ he noted, ‘and I am no exception to the rule.’
Not for nothing was the RAF known as the best flying club in the world. By the beginning of the war, flying was still a comparatively new phenomenon, and those fortunate enough to get their chance to take to the air found largely empty skies in which the world seemed to be their oyster. For David, a 25-year-old sport-loving Yorkshireman, the Auxiliary Air Force had meant that he could work in the family sports goods manufacturing business in Huddersfield by week and fly at the weekend with lots of like-minded friends. Although being in the air force had, with the onset of war, become a full-time occupation, David was enjoying himself enormously, despite having to leave his young wife at home. At FTS he had made even more friends, was finding flying as rewarding and exhilarating as ever, and now, at the beginning of May, had finally been given the chance of a lifetime: to fly the already fabled Spitfire. The war – and the prospect of one day fighting for his life in a bitter aerial conflict – was barely given a thought.
2
The Eve of Battle
DAVID CROOK FLEW L.1083 twice more on 6 May, and again on the 7th and 8th. On Thursday, 9 May, he practised both aerial attacks and formation flying, then was given the afternoon off, so with several of his friends from the squadron he went into Edinburgh for a ‘grand evening’ including a slap-up dinner and an uproarious variety performance at the Empire. Life in 609 Squadron could hardly have been more enjoyable.
As David had been carrying out his ninth and tenth Spitfire flights on that May Thursday, the world must have seemed a very calm and peaceful place. Through the light puffs of cloud, he would have seen Scotland stretching away from him, Edinburgh nestling against the Firth of Forth and then, to the north, the rolling coast and, inland, the mountains of Perthshire. The country looked a much smaller place from even 6,000 feet. He would also have seen the North Sea, deep, dark and forbidding, with ships, small lines of white wake following behind, dotting the vast expanse of water as they ferried freight around the British Isles. Fishermen, too, continued to head out to sea, making their way carefully through the channels between the extensive minefields that had been laid all along the Scottish and English east coast
.
It would have been a scene that after four days back with the squadron would have already felt utterly familiar. It was almost as though the country were not at war at all. Yet, far across the sea, on mainland Europe, these were the last hours of calm. Some 900 miles away, in Berlin, Adolf Hitler, the Führer of the German Reich, was in his study dictating a proclamation to his forces gathering on the Western Front. The new Reich Chancellery that stretched all the way along Voss-strasse in the heart of the German capital had been designed by Hitler’s architect, Albert Speer. Despite being more than 1,400 feet long and containing not only vast rooms and galleries but a massive underground bunker system, the new headquarters of the Reich had been completed in less than a year by 4,500 workers operating in shifts around the clock, for seven days a week. The Führer’s study was naturally at the new building’s heart, with five towering six-metre-high French windows looking out on to a tree-lined courtyard beyond. There was a large marble map table by the centre window, and a portrait of Bismarck – one of his heroes – above the fireplace, beneath which were a long sofa and a number of armchairs. At the other end of the room was Hitler’s specially designed writing desk. Otherwise there was very little. Just space. Hitler’s outsize study was 27 metres long and 14.5 wide.
X-Day – as the Germans called the start of Hitler’s long-anticipated offensive in the West – had been set on 1 May for five days’ time. Four days later, he postponed it until 7 May and then, finally, at the request of Feldmarschall Göring, his deputy and the commander of the Luftwaffe, he postponed it again for a further three days. But that would be it. No more postponements; the fateful hour would be dawn on Friday, 10 May.
The Battle of Britain Page 2
