Siegfried Bethke had led his Staffel over to Warmwell, but a barrel burst in one of his cannons, badly damaging his wing so he had been forced to turn for home. The first Gruppe had claimed three kills that day, two going to Helmut Wick. The next day, during a large raid on Portsmouth, he claimed another two, bringing his score to twenty-two and making him one of the leading aces in the battle. Two days later, Wick was awarded the Knight’s Cross, usually awarded when a pilot had twenty victories to his name. Ritterkreuz winners definitely acquired kudos and respect that set them apart. Fêted relentlessly by Goebbels’s propagandists, they became media darlings and were household names throughout the Reich, featuring in magazines and newsreels and across the airwaves. Wick was summoned to Carinhall to receive his medal in person from Göring, another media opportunity that did not go begging.
Julius Neumann insists that working as a unit and carrying out the orders given them were uppermost in the pilots’ minds, but because so much emphasis within the Reich was placed on individual heroism, it was not surprising that a number of fighter pilots strove to win the kind of fame and accolades won by the Experten. Anyone flaunting such ambition was, of course, ribbed for it. A pilot might be accused of having a sore throat. ‘The Knight’s Cross ties around the throat,’ explains Hans-Ekkehard Bob, ‘so saying someone has a sore throat means they are desperate to win one.’ Such men were also called a Dödel. ‘It’s a joke,’ says Hans. ‘A Dödel is a rude name for a penis – like a dick.’ Or they might be accused of being Kanalkrank – ‘Channel sick’, the urge to get across to England to shoot down more aircraft. That there were no fewer than three nicknames for such ambition rather underlines its prevalence. Most German pilots looked the part too; and knew it. This originated at the very top: Göring was determined his men should have wonderful uniforms, and so they did. Fighter pilots, especially, could call upon an astonishing number of different jackets, tunics, trousers and hats. Some were highly practical, such as the special Fliegerhose trousers that had large pockets for maps and leg bandoliers for flare cartridges. There were also lightweight and heavyweight leather jackets, heavily lined cotton jackets, dress trousers, pantaloons, overalls, special sunglasses and several types of everyday tunic, all of which were beautifully and intricately tailored. They looked fantastic, but they did not need half these items. It was an extravagant waste at a time when the German economy could ill afford to be expending needless costs on elaborate uniforms.
In contrast, the RAF pilots had one uniform – a blue tunic and trousers. One set which they wore every day and the other for smart occasions. If they wanted a warm jacket, then they had a sheepskin Irvin. Apart from flying boots and gloves, that was it.
There was ambition in the RAF too, but striving to improve personal scores was deeply frowned upon. ‘We weren’t interested in scores,’ says Bee Beamont. ‘What you were doing was knocking up a record for the squadron. We were a team.’ Any kind of boasting was deplored, and anyone who did was immediately accused of ‘shooting a line’. Unofficially, a pilot became an ‘ace’ when he had five confirmed kills. It was an important marker and usually earned a pilot the Distinguished Flying Cross, but a DFC could be earned without a pilot having reached five kills. Certainly there was no cult of the individual. A few were known to the wider public – Douglas Bader, the legless pilot, for example – but rather than focusing on individuals, fighter pilots as a whole were considered rather special. It was customary for them not to do up the top button of their tunics – a touch of dash that set them apart – and because of the need to constantly turn their heads, a relaxed view to uniform was taken. Most pilots did away with their neckties and opted for soft, silk scarves instead or roll-neck sweaters. Pete Brothers, for example, had a dark blue polka-dot scarf given to him by his wife, which doubled up as something of a mascot. But although scarves and the like were adopted for practical purposes, it added to the glamorous image, as most pilots were well aware. Tony Bartley, for one, enjoyed this special status very much. ‘We were heroes to the people,’ he says, ‘and we were greeted as such and treated as such and bought drinks.’
The 10 Group pilots did not know it, but the big raid on Warmwell on 25 August was the last of its kind over Dorset. The two principal Luftflotten did not have enough aircraft to attack with sufficient numbers in southeast England and the south-west at the same time, especially now that Göring was insisting that each bomber Gruppe should be escorted by an entire fighter Geschwader. Consequently, most of Jafü 3’s fighters were transferred to the Pas de Calais, while von Richthofen’s VIII Fliegerkorps, which contained most of the Stukas, was withdrawn from the battle, to be kept back until the invasion. Still, concentration of force is just as valid a principle in offensive air operations as it is on the ground. Bringing to bear most of their forces against 11 Group was undoubtedly a sensible policy. General Loerzer, in II Fliegerkorps, also came up with a cunning plan to confuse the British early-warning system, by sending over numerous formations, some simply to patrol the Channel and others to occasionally deliver feint attacks. All would appear on the British radar screens and all would have to be dealt with, but not all would then develop into real raids. It was simple and effective and immediately put a considerable added strain on 11 Group.
In fact, Park had already started to worry that his fighters were not making enough successful interceptions when compared with the number of sorties flown. This was because of cloud and inaccuracies of plotting, but he felt his squadrons were stretched so thin they could ill afford such mistakes. It also worried him that single squadrons were often engaging large formations because the other fighters scrambled had not arrived in time or at all. He now ordered fighter leaders to make a visual report of size, height and direction of any enemy formation they spotted, which could be immediately relayed to other fighters already airborne.
The next day, 27 August, he issued another instruction to his Group controllers. It had been agreed that should heavy enemy raids be heading for 11 Group airfields within easy reach of 10 and 12 Group squadrons, then these neighbouring units could be called upon to help. Park felt that 10 Group had been co-operating magnificently. ‘Up to date, 12 Group, on the other hand,’ he wrote, his frustration all too apparent, ‘have not shown the same desire to co-operate by despatching their Squadrons to the places requested.’ The result, he stated, was that on two occasions in recent days, they had not patrolled the airfields as asked and that these stations had been heavily bombed as a result. This being so, Park now instructed his sector controllers to make any future requests for reinforcements direct to the Controller at Fighter Command HQ.
It was a direct criticism of AVM Trafford Leigh-Mallory, the commander of 12 Group, although Park cared less about upsetting colleagues than ensuring the safety of his squadrons and their airfields. The two men had never got on well, and Park certainly did not have a high opinion of Leigh-Mallory’s understanding of modern fighter tactics. One of the reasons for 12 Group’s no-show was Leigh-Mallory’s desire to bring a maximum strength of fighters to bear against the approaching enemy formations. Rather than sending a squadron or even a flight against the attackers, Leigh-Mallory believed it was better to try and meet such raids with two or three squadrons, operating at wing strength. To bring these squadrons into one formation, however, took time – too much time, as had been proved already. The raiders had been and gone before Leigh-Mallory could get his formations together over Park’s airfields.
As the Germans had discovered during the campaign in the west, personality spats between commanders were not helpful, and the emergence of Park and Leigh-Mallory’s tactical disagreement at a time when Fighter Command was more under the cosh than at any other time was unfortunate to say the least.
On 28 August, 32 Squadron bid farewell to Biggin Hill. It had been based there for nearly eight years. Already, the place looked a wreck, with craters all over the place. Pete Brothers’ ‘B’ Flight office had had its roof smashed in and all of the pilots were in ne
ed of a rest; they had been in the thick of the action since the middle of May. Pete had been at Biggin since first joining the squadron. ‘Bye, bye, Biggin, after 4 years,’ he scribbled in his logbook. They were sent north, to Acklington in Northumberland, well out of the fray now that Luftflotte 5 had all but withdrawn from the day battle. Pete was greatly relieved. ‘I thought, this is nice,’ says Pete. ‘I am going to enjoy this.’
But 32 Squadron had escaped from Biggin before the worst of the raids reached it. The Luftwaffe was still hitting Coastal Command stations, but more 11 Group airfields were coming under increasing attack. Biggin was smashed twice on 30 August, when massive damage was done to buildings and equipment. The workshops, transport yard, stores, barrack stores, armoury, met office and station office were all rendered useless. Gas and water supplies were severed as were a number of telephone lines. On top of that thirty-nine people were killed and a further twenty-six injured. The next day, the Germans were back, causing further and extensive damage to hangars and buildings, including the operations block, Officers’ Mess and Officers’ Married Quarters. The same day, Croydon and Hornchurch were also heavily attacked. In the fighting, it was Fighter Command’s worst day, with forty-one aircraft destroyed and nine pilots killed. The Luftwaffe lost thirty-nine aircraft; for once, more British planes were downed than German. In one week, Fighter Command had lost sixty-four pilots dead and a further eighty-one wounded. Six of those had come from 616 Squadron; Cocky Dundas had been well out of it on 26 August, when two of the pilots had been killed and four more badly wounded.
It was perhaps not surprising, therefore, if Park was feeling a little tetchy at times. The sudden increased attacks on fighter airfields since 24 August were beginning to be keenly felt. It was true that Dowding had set aside materials to help fill in craters, but Park felt that the Air Ministry had not made enough provisions for the supply of labour. His complaints to this effect seemed to be going unheeded so he began recruiting whole battalions of soldiers to help with the work. He was severely criticized by the Air Ministry for taking matters into his own hands, but fortunately, he found a useful ally in the Prime Minister. Churchill had visited Manston on 28 August and was appalled to discover that although four days had passed since it was last attacked, most of the craters remained unfilled and the airfield remained largely unserviceable. ‘I must protest emphatically,’ he told Newall and Sinclair, ‘against this feeble method of repairing damage.’ He demanded more men be employed and that all craters from henceforth be filled within twenty-four hours. Had he known that a number of men had refused to work at Manston for fear of being hit, he would have been even more appalled.
But at least some much needed experienced pilots were now being brought into the battle for the first time. The Poles of 303 Squadron had been tearing their hair out with frustration at Dowding’s unwillingness to let them enter the battle. Instead, they had been patrolling their sector in north-west London and endlessly practising simulated attacks against old Blenheims.
On 30 August, however, their chance finally came. Patrolling at 10,000 feet at around 4.15 p.m., Flying Officer Ludwik Paskiewicz suddenly spotted a large formation of bombers and fighters above them. But although he warned his flight commander, Boozy Kellett did not bother to respond; their job was not to go chasing after the enemy. Impatience getting the better of him, Paszkiewicz decided to break formation and chasing after a Zerstörer closed almost to collision and opened fire. The Me 110 burst into flames and spun down to the ground, where it exploded in a ball of flames. Returning to Northolt, he performed a victory roll over the airfield and landed.
He was immediately summoned to see Group Captain Vincent. Having been emphatically reprimanded, he was then congratulated for scoring the squadron’s first kill. Later, Kellett rang Fighter Command and recommended the squadron be made operational. Dowding and Park agreed – after all, they desperately needed determined, motivated and skilled pilots such as these. Almost exactly a year after their country had been invaded, the Kociuszko Squadron entered the battle.
AVM Park’s 11 Group might have now found itself under intense pressure, but so too were the German Jagdflieger. On 28 August, Siegfried Bethke and JG 2 moved to the Belgian border, close to Dunkirk, the first and second Gruppen basing themselves at Mardyck, while III/JG 2 went to Octeville. Siegfried flew no fewer than three operational sorties on 30 August. The British fighter pilots might not have been the finest shots, but they earned the respect of the Luftwaffe for their flying prowess. ‘Those brothers are good,’ noted Siegfried Bethke. ‘Nice tactics.’ The next day, he flew another three, two more on 1 September and another two the following day. They were shooting down Spitfires and Hurricanes but they were losing aircraft and pilots too, the latter at a greater rate than Fighter Command. By the end of August, Fighter Command had around 1,100 pilots; the Luftwaffe had just 735 operational fighter pilots.
On 2 September, Siegfried was awarded the Iron Cross First Class, but was envious of Wick’s Knight’s Cross. ‘I will never get that far,’ he complained to his diary. ‘At least not against the English fighters. We can almost never surprise them. They are always inferior in number because we never fly in a force less than a Gruppe. However, a Gruppe should be fifty planes. I only have five planes here; the other Staffeln only have six to seven machines at the moment.’
Other fighter units were suffering the same problem. British fighter squadrons were losing experienced men, but so far there was never a shortage of aircraft. The Luftwaffe fighter units, however, were losing experienced pilots and suffering a shortage of aircraft. On 1 September, Hans-Ekkehard Bob’s 9th Staffel had just five aircraft fit for duty, and only six the next day. ‘There were definitely not enough machines,’ says Hans, ‘and as the battle progressed there were even fewer.’
Twenty-year-old Gefreiter Rudi Miese had joined 4/JG 2 on 24 August along with two other pilots. Rudi had assumed they would be flying against the Tommies right away, but he was much mistaken. Despite the ever-lowering number of fighter pilots, there were still not enough aircraft to go round, and in II/JG 2 the new boys were not going to be given mounts ahead of one of the combat-tested and experienced pilots. Nonetheless, it was a severe blow to Rudi, made worse when the rest of the Gruppe were posted to Mordyck and he and the two other new boys were told to remain in Beaumont-le-Roger. Some new barrack blocks needed building and it was decided that with the shortage of aircraft they would be better off helping with that task than sitting around not flying at Mordyck.
But just as the new pilots arriving at Fighter Command squadrons were horribly green, so too were the fresh intake to reach German fighter units. Rudi was typical of the new breed of wartime-trained pilots being sent to the front. Having been accepted into the Luftwaffe in December 1938, Rudi had not then begun his basic training until April 1939, but even then, because of the shortage of flying training schools, he had been sent to a civilian Reichssportfliegerschule near Bielefeld. He thoroughly enjoyed it, especially the relaxed civilian environment, but having completed a basic training that included around sixty bumps and circuits by the end of August, he was told that, for the time being, there were no more places available at the official Luftwaffe training schools. Instead, he and the others on his course were packed off to do basic military training instead. Not until the beginning of January was he sent to do his A/B training. Then, on 14 May, having been awarded his wings, Rudi was finally sent to complete his fighter pilot training. After eight weeks, in which he flew the Me 109 for the first time and did some clay pigeon shooting, he was sent to the Ergänzungsjagdgruppe – the equivalent of the British OTU – in Merseburg, where he flew the Me 109, practising bumps and starts, and carried out a tiny amount of air-to-ground gunnery on fixed targets. It was no better than the RAF gunnery training.
Certainly, Dolfo Galland, new Geschwaderkommodore at JG 26, was concerned at the level of training of the new pilots he was getting. As in England, most were undercooked but, such were the demands on his
Geschwader, he did not feel he had the aircraft or time to bring their training up to speed. Nor did he want to send them over to England in the hope that they would live long enough to learn on the hoof. When Feldmarschall Milch visited him on 22 August, Dolfo pleaded for at least thirty more experienced officer pilots. Milch promised to do what he could, but a gift of a box of Brazil cigars was the best that he could do in the immediate term, and a week later the pilot and aircraft shortages were worse than ever. On 31 August, Dolfo only just managed to get enough aircraft in the air for two missions and one free hunt over England. Later in the day, he was rung up by Jafü 2 asking for a previously unscheduled further operation. It meant sending all three Gruppen over for a fourth mission in one day. This was a lot – more than could be reasonably expected. Fighter Command pilots were by now automatically given forty-eight hours’ leave every two weeks, and, of course, were rotated out of the front line. Very few German units were withdrawn for rest and refit – not now, at any rate, and there was certainly no system of weekly or fortnightly leave. German pilots were expected to simply keep going. Moreover, British pilots were mostly flying over their own country. The culture within Fighter Command was such that getting away from it all once stood down for the day was actively encouraged. They could head to a pub, where they would be greeted as heroes. The German pilots were operating on foreign turf, however. Most got on well enough with the French and Belgians, but it was not the same. Siegfried Bethke noticed that the Belgian people employed in the kitchen and elsewhere around Mordyck were noticeably quiet. He wondered what they thought of it all. ‘Before, there were lots of English here,’ he mused, ‘and then all those Stuka attacks nearby, huge fires and destruction, and now the Germans who take off from here fly towards London.’
The Battle of Britain Page 64
