The Battle of Britain

by James Holland

  Churchill had personally rung Park to inform him of the invasion warning, but had not seemed unduly concerned himself. Nor was Park, who was confident Fighter Command could stave off the enemy fighters while Bomber and Coastal Commands attacked any invasion shipping.

  In fact, much to his annoyance, Park had still been in his meeting with Dowding when the bombers had arrived over London so had not been in the Operations Room at Uxbridge. Hurrying there, he had arrived before the raiders passed, conferred with his controllers and then dashed to Northolt, where he kept his Hurricane. Rather like Feldmarschall Milch, Park made sure he flew regularly, seeing the lie of the land for himself, and speaking to as many of his squadrons as possible.

  Flying over London, he had been appalled by the sight of so many fires, but he sensed that the attack on the capital was unlikely to have been a one-off. Rather, he suspected it marked a major switch in Luftwaffe policy, and, if so, it would give him a chance to bring his airfields back to some kind of order. In short, the Luftwaffe might have thrown him a lifeline.

  Churchill had been at Chequers, but at noon on Sunday, 8 September, he left for London taking General Ismay with him, and headed straight to the worst parts of the East End. More than 300 had been killed and more than 1,300 seriously injured, but one of the first places they had been taken to was an air raid shelter that had suffered a direct hit. About forty people had been killed, and now, the afternoon after the night before, the place was still heavy with those searching for trapped people and belongings. As the Prime Minister got out of the car, people rushed around him crying, ‘It was good of you to come, Winnie!’ and ‘We thought you’d come!’ Others shouted out in defiance, ‘We can take it! Give it ’em back!’

  Churchill was profoundly moved; when he had supported plans to attack Berlin, he had been aware of the probable German reaction but was equally firm in his belief that Britain and her people had to be prepared to accept losses in the struggle against Nazi Germany. Now, however, he sobbed quite openly, the tears streaming down his cheeks. As Ismay struggled to get him through the press of people, he heard an elderly lady say, ‘You see, he really cares, he’s crying.’

  As they continued their tour, they saw many Union Jacks flying on piles of rubble that the day before had been houses and homes. Others were little more than skeletons. Fires still burned and before Churchill left much later it was evening and the bombers were returning once more. Ismay tried again and again to get the Prime Minister to leave, but he was in a defiant and obstinate mood and insisted on seeing everything. As Churchill finally agreed to head back to Downing Street, a shower of incendiaries fell just in front of them. It was a long journey, the entourage struggling to get back through the narrow streets, many of which were blocked by houses and buildings having been blown across them.

  At around the same time that Churchill was struggling through the streets of London’s East End, across the sea at the Biscay port of Lorient, the newly refurbished U-48 was slipping from her moorings and heading out on patrol in the Atlantic. The submarine was one of the most famous of all U-boats, with record-breaking numbers of ships to her name. She also had a new skipper, her third in a year, Kapitänleutnant Heinrich Bleichrodt, who, aged thirty, was new to command and had only one combat patrol to his name. He had a lot to prove. So did all Admiral Dönitz’s U-boats. They had to prove that even if SEALION could not be launched, there was still a way of bringing Britain to her knees.

  Also on board was a new 1st Radio Operator, or Funkgefreiter, Rolf Hilse. Just eighteen years old, Rolf had only recently been promoted having been on a course to Pilau – signal school – where he had learned about the latest radio and sonar equipment and how to operate it. Like Hans-Ekkehard Bob, Rolf was from Freiburg in the Black Forest, about as far away from the sea as any point in Germany. His father, however, had been in the navy in the last war, where he had served on the battleship Friedrich der Grosse at the Battle of Jutland. All the same, Rolf might never have joined the navy at all. In August 1939, he had been called up and posted to the 214th Anti-Tank Regiment near Frankfurt. One morning, whilst on parade, all those who were single and under five foot eight inches were asked to step forward. Since Rolf was both, he did as he was told. Only then were they told they just ‘volunteered’ to join the U-boat arm. ‘Nobody was keen,’ says Rolf. ‘We knew what was coming.’

  After training on U-67 and having completed his signals course, he was sent to Lorient towards the end of August along with another new member of the crew. Spotting an officer down at the harbour they asked to be directed to U-48. In fact, the officer was their new captain, Heinrich Bleichrodt, who shook hands and directed them to see the Oberbootsmann, the Ship’s Mate. On board they were allotted bunks and Rolf had a chance to look around his new boat. He was impressed; with the refit, U-48 could have been a brand-new submarine.

  Now, with dusk turning to night, U-48 was heading back to sea. Two minesweeper escorts led them out of the harbour and out into the Bay of Biscay, but after an hour and three-quarters, they turned back. ‘They flashed their lights,’ says Rolf, ‘and wished us good luck and good hunting.’

  The bombers returned to London the next day, Monday, 9 September. Amongst those attacking the capital was Peter Stahl. He had been forced to sit around kicking his heels waiting for his Junkers to be repaired, but although it was still not ready, he had been given the oldest ‘sledge’ in the Gruppe and told to fly in that. Taking off from Chièvre, they climbed through cloud, the machines scattering somewhat. His canopy was icing badly but when they emerged into the sun he realized he was leading the Gruppe and so remained in that position. They then formed up with the other bomber units over Lille until there were at least 200 bombers, and then later, as they reached the French coast, the fighters joined them too. Peter found that flying an individual plane amongst such a large formation gave him a sense of security. ‘Wherever one looks are our aircraft,’ he noted, ‘all around, a marvellous sight.’

  As they crossed the Channel, the formation began to sort itself out. Fighters zig-zagged beside and above them, and then, as they passed over the British coast, flak rose up to greet them. Visibility was good and soon he spotted great pillars of smoke rising 5,000 metres into the sky, which he took to be coming from London. Soon they had reached the outer belt of London flak. The British gunners, he thought, were shooting unpleasantly well and the formation became restless. Peter found it hard to hold his position and he had to concentrate hard just to avoid colliding with another aircraft. He felt unprepared for this; no-one had warned him of the difficulties of flying in a large formation with flak bursting all around them. It was a terrifying experience.

  Somehow, he had reached the city unscathed. The first bombs were already falling and then it was his turn to press the red release button. Bombs away, and the Junkers made its usual jump of relief. Below, Peter saw the curving Thames and the city spread out like a giant map. They watched the bombs explode as they made a wide banking turn. ‘It must be terrible down there,’ he scribbled. ‘We can see many conflagrations caused by previous bombing raids. The effect of our own attack is an enormous cloud of smoke and dust that shoots up into the sky like a broad moving strip.’

  The impressively co-ordinated formation had now disintegrated, and Peter was glad he was in a Ju 88, with speed and acceleration enough to be able to easily change position and altitude. But suddenly British fighters were amongst them. ‘Hein,’ he told his gunner, ‘keep your eyes open, they are Tommies.’ Tracer criss-crossed the sky, but while the bombers lumbered on, Peter was conscious of fighters locked in combat, twisting and turning around them. Hein suddenly opened fire with his machine gun, which made Peter jump and then, moments later, shouted, ‘They have turned away!’ Below, some parachutes drifted downwards and ahead of him, Peter saw a Heinkel 111 diving, trailing smoke. Soon after, he overtook another, flying with one engine dead.

  Having escaped into the clear, Peter pulled out a sandwich which he had kept in his kne
e pocket and which he always found helped to calm him down. He had barely taken a bite, however, when Leo, his navigator, tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to an oil slick running over his starboard engine. A glance at the dials revealed the truth: he had already lost eighty litres of oil, leaving just ten. A bullet, or simply an old engine? He wasn’t sure, but he now had no choice but to shut the starboard engine down to avoid it seizing.

  They staggered on. Ten-tenths cloud cover helped conceal them, but once again icing up of the canopy was causing Peter problems. Now dependent on his instruments, he gently dived down through the cloud. As it darkened, he knew he was near the base, and they emerged only 400 metres from the ground. Immediately they spotted an airfield – Amiens, which would do – so Peter restarted the starboard engine, hoping there was just enough oil to enable him to land. To their great relief, all went well. ‘We touch down,’ he wrote, ‘the wheels rumble over the airfield until we come to a stop and I can switch off the engines. Our first trip to London is over.’

  Later that night, the Luftwaffe hit the City and West End. The next day the planes were back again; Portsmouth and Southampton were also hit. Once again, London was bombed at night.

  Air Vice-Marshal Park’s hunch had been right. A clear pattern was now emerging and on 11 September he issued another instruction order to his controllers. The enemy, he pointed out, had stopped the practice of carrying out two or three separate attacks by up to 300 aircraft a day, and instead was now concentrating three or four hundred planes in two or three waves following in quick succession, the entire engagement lasting between forty-five minutes and an hour.

  Before, he had been forced to meet the large numbers of disparate raids with whatever he could scramble, fighting over a wide area, but now he recognized that it should be possible to meet the enemy at maximum strength, employing squadrons not in large wing formations, but in pairs, each independent of the other but operating in tandem, and rendezvousing over a base decided upon by the Group controller. Sector controllers were to inform the Group controller the moment a pair of squadrons had rendezvoused. The Group controller would then lead those two squadrons to a raid, leaving the remaining squadrons in a sector to the sector controller. Spitfires were to attack the high fighters, Hurricanes the bombers and close escort. Learning from the Germans, Park also told his squadrons to dispense with the vic, and to fly in a more loose, line-abreast formation of four instead. In issuing these new orders, Park was demonstrating just how adaptable he was, revealing a commander who was prepared to make decisive operational and tactical changes according to how the battle evolved. Surprisingly few shared this attribute.

  However much Park and Dowding may have viewed the change of German effort as a respite for their airfields, it did not feel that way to the men flying to meet these colossal German raids. On 7 September, 92 Squadron was posted to Biggin Hill, now one of the world’s most bombed airfields. Tony Bartley had been on leave and returned to Pembrey to find everyone gone, and with them his V8 car. It was too late to head to Biggin that night so he stayed at Pembrey, too excited to sleep. It never occurred to him that he might be killed.

  He was flown up the following morning, 13 September, in an Anson. Circling over Biggin he saw a bomb-scarred mess – roughly patched craters on the grass and tarmac runway, and ruined, blackened buildings. The ferry pilots landed and rolled over towards some Spitfires, which, Tony realized, belonged to 92 Squadron. Without even turning off the engines, the pilot bustled him out of the Anson, which then sped off again as quickly as possible.

  Several of the pilots greeted him cheerfully, including his friend Brian Kingcombe. ‘We shoot Huns all day, dear boy,’ Brian told him, ‘and get bestially drunk at night.’ The station stores had been hit so they had all begun helping themselves to whatever they wanted. Brian had taken two of everything for a rainy day and advised Tony to do the same.

  Just then, ack-ack guns opened fire as a lone Ju 88 emerged through cloud and disappeared to the south, on this occasion ignoring Biggin.

  ‘What does one do on these occasions?’ Tony asked. Being at an airfield coming under regular attack was a new experience.

  ‘Just put on a tin hat and strike a hostile attitude,’ Brian suggested.

  His car, Tony now discovered had been wrapped round a tree a couple of days earlier by Norman Hargreaves. He’d been drunk but had been let off with a one-pound fine.

  ‘I’ll fix him for this,’ Tony told Brian.

  ‘Been fixed already, poor chap,’ Brian replied, ‘on the dawn patrol yesterday.’ In fact, there had been quite a few changes already. Another pilot had been killed the day before and a further one shot down. On the 9th, Allan Wright had been badly shot up but had spluttered back, and two others had been shot down and wounded. Bob Stanford Tuck had been posted to command 257 Squadron, and Allan had taken over Tuck’s flight. The new CO, Squadron Leader Philip Sanders, was also out of action, having set fire to himself accidentally with his cigarette lighter. A quick lunch in the crew room at dispersal was interrupted by another lone raider. Everyone dived for cover apart from Brian. ‘This gives me the most terrible indigestion,’ he muttered.

  They were stood down later, having not flown, so Tony found his new digs. The mess had been bombed out, so they were in army buildings a bit further down the road. Tony raided the stores as suggested, taking various items including a spare parachute, and making sure he chatted up a WAAF packer first to make sure she did a good job. Dinner was in the old army mess and, as they ate, the German bombers roared overhead on their way to London.

  After dinner, they decided to go to the White Hart pub at Brasted, a couple of miles down the hill. Allan was the only one not to join them, preferring, quite sensibly, to remain sober as far as possible and to get his sleep. The rest headed off in the squadron truck, everyone yelling in unison, ‘Ninety-Two Fighter Squadron!’ at the tops of their voices in response to the sentry’s challenge. Through the gate, they drove at breakneck speed down the narrow roads to Brasted.

  In the pub were two identical and striking twins, who were quickly introduced to Tony as the MacNeal sisters. They seemed to know all the pilots and in no time pints were being poured and liberally handed out.

  ‘Who’s paying for all this?’ Tony asked.

  ‘Don’t know. Who cares as long as I’m not,’ replied Brian. ‘The natives are very friendly.’

  After they had downed a number of pints the landlord called time. One of the twins suggested they head to the Red House. Everyone seemed to be keen on that idea. Tony was game, although he hadn’t the faintest idea what the Red House was. They piled back into the truck and after a short drive pulled up in front of a fine old manor house. At the door, the twins were already waiting for them. Tony was shown into the drawing room and given a very large whisky. Someone put on the radiogram and another pilot grabbed one of the twins and began to dance.

  Several hours and bottles of whisky later, Tony thought perhaps they should be heading back. Geoff Wellum had been sick, all of them were drunk. Tony could not help wondering how on earth they were going to make dawn readiness.

  He was woken by his batman at 4.30 a.m. with a cup of tea. In the corridor, he bumped into ‘Wimpy’ Wade, who had put his uniform on over his pyjamas. Outside, it was cold and still dark. Somehow, the pilots managed to converge in the barrack block wearing an assortment of jackets, pyjamas, roll-neck sweaters and scarves. Silently, they clambered into the truck and rumbled up to dispersal. Spitfires stood silently silhouetted against the thin dawn sky. In the middle of the dispersal hut was a stove which had already been lit by the duty ops telephone operator. Around the walls were the pilots’ day cots, iron single beds.

  Tony put on his Mae West then went over to his own aircraft and chatted to his fitter, Wallace, who was already checking her over. Each pilot had a fitter and rigger to look after his plane. Complete trust in these men was essential and usually justifiably earned. Wallace assured him his Spit was running like a bird
.

  He wandered back to dispersal, where he spent the next few hours waiting to be scrambled, trying to catch up on his sleep and hoping his hangover would wear off. He was eventually scrambled three times that day, but it was in the last sortie that the squadron intercepted the large enemy raids heading for London. Two more of their pilots were shot down and wounded, but that night, having been stood down, they had dinner and then once again headed to the White Hart.

  Every squadron had its own culture, usually dictated by the character of the squadron leader and two flight commanders, but since there were few fighter pilots over the age of twenty-seven, it was understandable that these young men should want to relax by drinking in the evening. Some pilots never drank a drop, others, like Allan Wright, were sufficiently of their own mind not to be swayed by any kind of peer pressure, and would only join in when they felt like it. It was true that 92 Squadron were particularly fond of playing hard in the evening, but they were not the only ones by any means. Bee Beamont and the 87 Squadron pilots would be down the pub most nights, as would those in 32 Squadron. ‘We used to booze dreadfully,’ says Pete Brothers. One day they were stood down because of low cloud and rain, so they went to the mess and got pissed. By early afternoon, however, the sun had come out and they were suddenly called to readiness and then scrambled. ‘I shall never forget taking off and thinking, “That button … turn it that way … switch on gunsights …” We were all absolutely tanked. Mind you, when you saw black crosses, you were instantly sober.’

  There was always Benzedrine, which some medical officers would hand out more liberally than others. In 92 Squadron, Bob Holland was notorious for taking the drug in order to get himself going in the morning, although most pilots with sore heads found that a few deep inhalations of oxygen were enough to clear the head. For Pete Brothers, as for others, the boozing was done because it was fun and they were young and because they could. But it also helped them not to dwell on things too much. The camaraderie of wartime is something that cannot be understood by someone who has not experienced it. A squadron – or Staffel – was a very close, tight-knit bunch of young men. Most preferred to put the losses out of their mind, but it was not always that easy, especially when it was particularly close friends or even family. On 12 September, Arthur Hughes learned that his brother, Dave, a Hurricane pilot with 238 Squadron, was missing. Two days earlier, Arthur had been given an overseas posting, to help a Free French squadron in West Africa. In the knowledge that he had miraculously survived the current battle, he had been looking forward to his sister’s wedding that coming weekend. He knew this meant his ‘dear brother’ was dead. ‘Poor Kathleen, poor parents,’ he scribbled. His brother would have been twenty-three in two weeks’ time. ‘This is the end of my youth, and who knows what the future will bring?’