So it was that when Deichmann reached the dimly lit underground command post, Oberstleutnant Herbert Rieckhoff, Kesselring’s operations officer, said, ‘Ah, Herr Oberst, I expect you have heard. The attacks have been called off because of bad weather.’
‘My dear Rieckhoff,’ Deichmann replied, ‘are you mad? It’s a glorious day. Come up and take a look.’
Together they clambered up to Kesselring’s look-out post, a parapet dug out from the cliffs, and saw the sun-drenched Channel. Despite this, Rieckhoff disagreed with Deichmann’s decision. The operations had been cancelled; it was not their place to go against the orders of their superior. He therefore insisted on countermanding Deichmann’s decision. But as he reached for the telephone, Deichmann grasped his wrist. ‘It would be madness,’ Deichmann told him, ‘and besides, it’s too late – they’ve already taken off.’ This was true enough, as they now heard. Suddenly, hundreds of aircraft appeared overhead, wave after wave, bombers, dive-bombers, fighters, all heading across the narrow Channel to England.
Fearing for his future, Rieckhoff tried to contact Kesselring at Carinhall, but was told the Luftflotte commander was not to be disturbed. ‘Orders or no orders,’ Deichmann told him, ‘they are flying all the same.’
The pilots of JG 26 had already been flying the kind of three-way fighter escort outlined by Göring that morning, and up above the Stukas now heading for Hawkinge and Lympne were Dolfo Galland and his III Gruppe. It was around 11.30 a.m. as they flew over the Kent coast. From their position, some 5,500 metres high, England looked a tiny island. The entire shape of the leg of Kent could clearly be seen, as could the winding Thames estuary and the round bulge of East Anglia. To Dolfo’s left, the south coast of England stretched away to the Isle of Wight. Towns were dotted across a balmy, peaceful-looking countryside marked with dark spreads of wood and forest and seemingly never-ending patchwork of golden and green fields. Behind, the distance between Britain and France looked so small one could almost leap across. It was tantalizing; invasion did not seem so very difficult from 18,000 feet.
Down below, Spitfires from 54 Squadron were in formation preparing to dive down on to the Stuka formation. Seeing this, Dolfo quickly dived down on to them, forcing them to quickly abandon their attack on the Stukas in a desperate fight for survival. With his wingman, Joachim Müncheberg, somehow managing to stick with him, Dolfo followed a Spitfire as it took a wide right curving dive. Closing in on the Spitfire’s tail, he pressed himself forward to counteract the force of negative gravity, then opened fire, seeing his bullets knock out chunks of the aircraft. The Spitfire fell away, spiralling to the ground.
Pulling back towards the vulnerable Ju 87s as they were re-forming after their attack, he glanced down and saw smoke billowing up from the airfield. He called his three Staffeln together and they covered the retreat of the Stukas; then he led them back up to 15,000 feet ready for another brief attack on the British fighters. His decision paid off. Almost immediately, he spotted Spitfires re-forming after the mêlée, dived down on one, and without being seen opened fire at close range. Bits of the air-frame once again began scattering across the sky before the machine burst into flames. Pulling clear, he now saw a Spitfire attacking one of his pilots, and dived towards it, peppering it with bullets. The Spitfire reared into a steep climb, out of Dolfo’s reach. Glancing around him, he realized it was time to head back. With his ammo almost out and fuel low, he needed to get home fast. Reaching the French coast, Dolfo took out one of his preferred Mexican cheroots and lit it with the lighter he had had specially installed, along with an ashtray, in his Messerschmitt. A smoke after a fight like that was just the thing.
It was around noon, and Cocky Dundas and the pilots of 616 Squadron had been stood down from readiness and headed to lunch at Leconfield’s mess as usual. Barely had they sat down, however, before the tannoy crackled with the order for them to scramble immediately. At first they thought the controller must have taken leave of his senses – they had never been scrambled before at thirty minutes’ notice; in fact, they had hardly ever been scrambled at all, it had been so quiet up there on the east coast.
However, the order was repeated with greater urgency and then a telephone rang and, a moment later, a steward entered the dining room and told them they were to head to dispersal immediately. Downing tools and pushing back chairs, they ran out to their cars and sped off round the perimeter track only to see their groundcrew already running towards their Spitfires in a rush to have them running and ready.
Sprinting to his Spitfire, Cocky grabbed his parachute from the wing and with fumbling fingers fastened the buckle, then jumped up on to the wing and hurriedly clambered into the tight confines of the cockpit. Helmet on, leads in, a thumbs-up to the groundcrew and away. Speeding off in twos and threes, the pilots heard the controller repeatedly telling all available aircraft to head out to sea at top speed and to intercept many bandits heading their way. Giving his Spitfire maximum boost, Cocky set course. For once there was no squadron formation; some were ahead, some behind, and one by one they tore over the coast and out over the sea, climbing as they went.
Cocky was about fifteen miles east of Bridlington when he saw them, to his left and slightly below, the long, thin shapes of German twin-engine Junkers 88s, some seventy in all, flying a loose, scattered formation. And all on their own – not a enemy fighter in sight. Switching on his reflector sight and setting the range for 250 yards, Cocky switched the gun button to ‘fire’, then arced down in a diving turn, curving towards the nearest bomber so that he came in behind. Tracer pulsed towards him and sped past, then Cocky opened up with his eight Brownings and the return fire stopped immediately. Moments later, the Junkers banked and fell away, a gush of black smoke followed by a steady stream from its engines, and then it was diving headlong into the sea.
Now turning to look for another target, he saw his fellows diving down on to the German planes. Below him, a damaged bomber was turning back to sea so he decided to go after it and try to finish it off. This was a mistake; he should have looked for a fresh target, because by the time he caught up and fired the last of his ammunition, he was several more miles out to sea and the sky was suddenly empty.
Sweat ran over his head underneath the tight, hot confines of his leather flying helmet and oxygen mask, but with a feeling of elation he now headed for home. One by one, the squadron straggled back, and everyone seemed to have fired his guns – the tell-tale red patches to keep away the dust had been shot through and streaks of smoke ran across the wings. ‘A very large number of Bosche disturbed our lunch,’ Cocky wrote to his mother the next day, his excitement still palpable, ‘and we bagged a very large proportion of them, along with other squadrons. I had the personal satisfaction of adding to my own private score – one definite with a good big splash in the old traditional “burning fiercely” style, and another with one engine out of action creeping home ten feet above the water. Altogether, quite a refreshing interlude in what was becoming a dull life.’
This had been Luftflotte 5’s first major effort of the battle. Stumpff had only some 230 aircraft in his entire Norwegian-based air fleet, yet assuming all the British fighters would be in the south, he had launched a series of attacks using more than a hundred Junkers 88s, Heinkels and Zerstörers to pulverize a number of airfields in the north-east. All were bomber airfields and only one was actually hit, Driffield, where four hangars were damaged and ten Whitleys destroyed on the ground. It was, however, a poor return. The unescorted bombers had proved rich pickings for Cocky and the other pilots scrambled with time to spare. Fifteen bombers were shot down, several more badly damaged, while the Me 110s had also taken a battering, with seven shot down and two more damaged. For the bomber crews, it had been a terrible shock to see Spitfires, Hurricanes and even Blenheims homing in on them, guns blazing.
While the northern squadrons were having their turkey shoot, the aerial battles were raging all over southern England, too. Never had so many enemy aircraft bee
n seen over Britain’s skies. Deichmann had not been chastised for his decision; in fact, the number of raids had been hastily stepped up, with more airfields and aircraft works the targets. German bombers headed once more to Dover, Lympne and Deal, while Walter Rubensdörffer’s Erpro 210 Zerstörers attacked Martlesham Heath. Later in the afternoon, raids totalling some 300 aircraft hit the south coast between Portsmouth and Weymouth. Bee Beamont and 87 Squadron had been scrambled at around 4.30 p.m., and by the time they were airborne heard the soothing tones of the controller telling them, ‘One hundred and twenty plus approaching Warmwell from the south – good luck, chaps.’ Over Lyme Regis at some 12,000 feet they began to weave about searching the sky above and behind. And then Bee saw them, still out to sea – what looked to him like a gigantic swarm of bees all revolving round each other in a fantastical spiral from about 8,000 to 14,000 feet. If the CO had been worried, he did not say so; instead, he swung the squadron round, opened the throttle and urged his men to pack in behind him.
As they drew closer, Bee saw there were about fifty or more Stukas with Me 110s above and Me 109s above them. The CO shouted, ‘Tally ho!’, the attack signal, and then they were diving into the fray. In a brief, manic and confused action, Bee nearly hit a Stuka, then noticed he was under attack by Me 110s, managed to shoot one of those down instead, and then another one. In minutes the organized air armada had become a mass of swirling aircraft more like a swarm of angry bees than ever, tracer zipping and crossing the sky, sometimes an aircraft plunging down towards the sea, thick smoke trailing behind, an occasional parachute drifting down through the mad, frantic air fighting.
Hurricanes and Spitfires had just fifteen seconds’ worth of ammunition and in a dogfight it soon ran out. With his guns empty, Bee rolled the already badly strained Hurricane into a diving 400 mph aileron turn and headed into cloud, emerging out over Chesil Beach. With the sudden release of tension, he now felt very hot and looking down saw his uniform was dark with sweat. Sliding back the canopy, cool air breathed over him. Glancing at his watch he was astonished to see he had been in the air a mere thirty-five minutes.
Bombers reached as far as Middle Wallop again, 609 Squadron getting airborne in the nick of time and attacking the mixed formation of Ju 88s and Me 110s. Curiously, the bombers caused less damage collectively than the lone aircraft had done the day before. Hurtling after them, David Crook managed to shoot down a Blenheim, mistaking it for a Ju 88. Fortunately the crew survived, although the rear-gunner got a bullet in his backside. ‘The Blenheims had sometimes got in our way before,’ noted David, ‘and we had often remarked jokingly, “If one of the blasted Blenheims gets in our way again we’ll jolly well put a bullet through his bottom.” And now it had come to pass, and everybody was very amused (except possibly the rear-gunner).’
Despite the vast numbers of aircraft in action over southern England that glorious summer’s afternoon, it was still possible not to see a thing. The day before, 249 Squadron had been sent south, to Boscombe Down, the RAF’s Aircraft and Armament Experimental Establishment near Salisbury, and now a fighter base as well. Tom Neil had been boyishly excited at the prospect of finally entering the fighting, although by the time they got there and had paused for thought, different emotions had been swirling around. ‘Everything was new, uncertain and a bit confusing,’ he noted. ‘But thrilling.’
With around twenty-four pilots and twenty Hurricanes, not everyone could fly every sortie and it was not until later in the afternoon that Tom finally found himself airborne. Climbing to 15,000 feet, and heading towards the Portland coast, Tom and his section were then vectored from one part of the sky to the other. It was beautifully clear and Tom felt he could see for ever. All of England seemed stretched out before him: the jagged coastline, the Isle of Wight, Portland Bill and Chesil Beach. It seemed impossible on such a day that he could not see a single other aircraft, but the skies were strangely empty. ‘After further wanderings and long periods of silence from control,’ noted Tom, ‘we returned with nothing to show for our trouble other than eyes bloodshot from the glare and necks positively aching from swivelling about.’
Dolfo Galland and his men were in action again during the last major attacks of this extraordinary day, protecting raids aiming for Kenley and Biggin Hill – for once, fighter airfields. So too were Hans-Ekkehard Bob and the pilots of II/JG 52. No fewer than seventeen RAF squadrons were scrambled to intercept this raid, and it soon dispersed, the fighter cover quickly embroiled in another tangle of manic air fighting. As it neared Biggin, Hans’s Schwarm was suddenly attacked by a lone Spitfire, although the pilot never opened fire; his guns must have jammed at the crucial moment. At any rate, Hans followed it in what became a hard-fought chase, the Spitfire weaving and turning relentlessly in an effort to shake off his pursuer. But Hans managed to keep on his tail, and eventually pulled close enough to open fire. With smoke gushing from the Spitfire, Hans watched the pilot bail out down into the Channel below.
The combination of British fighters and evening haze now lying like a blanket over England had knocked the attacks off course, however. Rather than hitting Biggin, the raiders attacked the satellite airfield of West Malling, while Walter Rubensdörffer and his elite Zerstörer pilots also had trouble finding Kenley. Walter had struggled to tell whether they were even over sea or land. Leading his Gruppe down to under 10,000 feet, he realized to his horror that they were over England but no longer with any fighter escort. The Me 109s had gone. A moment later, however, he spotted an airfield and, assuming it must be Kenley, prepared to attack.
As the Zerstörers began their dive, Hurricanes from 111 Squadron began to pounce down after them, putting Walter and his men completely off their stride. As they roared over the airfield, many of their bombs fell wide, hitting not hangars or aircraft, but factories around the perimeter – for this was not Kenley at all, but Croydon, London’s primary civilian aerodrome and strictly off limits to German attack.
Walter and his men were now in deep trouble. As the Zerstörers and now bomb-free Me 109s pulled out of their dives, they had to somehow escape from the British fighters opening fire behind them. Walter also knew that he was now getting low on fuel. Somehow, he had to get away. Banking hard he turned and headed south, but there was a Hurricane on his tail and, no matter how hard he tried, Walter could not shake him off. Heading south, Walter dropped lower and lower, hoping to hedge-hop, but still the Hurricane was there and his bullets were now beginning to hit home.
Watching this last battle were Daidie Penna and her mother, who had just finished their tea and went out to watch the spectacle as the swirling mass of German and British planes rolled ten miles south-east from Croydon and passed right over Tadworth. Daidie enjoyed watching the aircraft come over, which in the last few days had become a regular feature of the day. To begin with they could not see anything, but then the planes emerged from behind the trees. Daidie was struck by the haphazard way in which they were flying. It was hardly surprising: she was watching the remnants of Erpro 210 desperately struggling home. One was flying very erratically, smoke gushing behind it.
‘See that? Looks a bit odd,’ she said to her mother.
‘It’s only his exhaust.’
At that moment there was a heavy explosion, followed by a number of Hurricanes diving down upon them. This was a flight of 32 Squadron, hastily scrambled from Biggin. The siren now went off in Dorking, and, rather reluctantly, Daidie called her children and led them indoors. She found it rather frustrating sitting inside with the roar of aircraft and chatter of machine guns going on around them, and wanted to go back out and watch.
Meanwhile, Walter Rubensdörrfer was losing his own personal battle. England was becoming larger again the lower he flew. Over the fields and oast houses of Kent, he limped on, but then a bullet punctured a fuel tank and flames began rippling along his wing and fuselage. He needed to find somewhere to land, and very quickly, but it was easier said than done, especially now the controls were like lead in his
hands. The flames were growing, molten pieces of aluminium dripping from his stricken Zerstörer.
It was now too late. Suddenly the aircraft was falling, swooping down in a trail of smoke and fire. At around 7 p.m., Walter Rubensdörffer ploughed his aircraft into a tree-studded bank at Bletchinglye Farm, near Rotherfield. Both he and his crewman were killed instantly.
‘Today there took place the greatest and most successful air battle of all,’ scribbled Jock Colville. At No. 10, the Prime Minister had been fed with regular updates, and with the numbers of downed enemy aircraft apparently rising by the minute he finally decided to drive over to the nerve-centre itself, Fighter Command HQ at Bentley Priory, with General Ismay in tow. When they got there, every single available aircraft in 11 Group was airborne, with nothing at all left in reserve. Ismay felt sick with fear. As he watched in silence, the plotters and controllers as calm and measured as ever, his panic passed and the fighting died down. Afterwards, as they drove back, Churchill turned to Ismay and said, ‘Don’t speak to me; I have never been so moved.’ Five minutes later, he muttered, ‘Never in the field of human conflict has so much been owed by so many to so few.’
On returning to Downing Street, Churchill told Jock to ring Chamberlain, who was in the country recovering from a recent operation for his cancer.
‘The Lord President was very grateful to you,’ Jock told Churchill afterwards.
‘So he ought to be,’ the PM replied. ‘This is one of the greatest days in history.’
39
The Hardest Day
ON 14 AUGUST, Generaloberst Halder had received a report from Luftwaffe headquarters on the air fighting to date. It all seemed to be going well as far as he could see. Fighter losses were 1:5 in the Luftwaffe’s favour; eight major air bases had been virtually destroyed. ‘We have no difficulty in making good our losses,’ he noted. ‘British will probably not be able to replace theirs.’ The only concern really was the weather, which continued to look unpredictable.
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