Ulrich Steinhilper was leading the entire Gruppe that day although such were their losses they were just thirteen planes from the three Staffeln. As they neared London, as many as forty Spitfires and Hurricanes were tearing towards them from seemingly nowhere. Deciding that the best form of defence was attack, he ordered the Gruppe to turn and climb. Ulrich could feel the stick against his leg as he brought his Yellow 2 into a hard aileron turn. Negative-g was pressing him into his seat, and his arms were heavy and his head felt as though it were crushing down on his neck as he increased the turn and climb, but his slats were snapping out automatically as his speed slowed, giving him an even tighter turn. With his vision greying, it would have been far easier to cut and run but with the British fighters diving down upon them at high speed he knew there was no way they could now cut inside their tight upward spiral. The Spitfires now hurtled past and then pulled up trying to climb back up for another attack, but still Ulrich ordered his men to keep climbing in their tight upward turn. Occasionally a Spitfire would cross their sights but they were so close to stalling that firing their guns might have caused them to drop out of the sky. It took them ten minutes of intensely stressful flying to climb some 10,000 feet, but eventually Ulrich was able to order them to roll out at the top of their climb and set course for home, which was effectively downhill all the way. By holding their nerve and keeping their discipline, not one of them had been lost.
Amongst those British fighters entering this latest fight were the Spitfires of 616 Squadron, now part of Bader’s Duxford Wing. Cocky Dundas had rejoined the squadron on 13 September, by which time they had already been withdrawn from Kenley after two harrowing weeks and sent to Kirton in Lindsey in Lincolnshire. Five days later, however, they were ordered south to Fowlmere, a satellite of Duxford, to join the 12 Group big wing, although they were to fly back to Kirton each evening.
Cocky had been understandably wracked with fear at the prospect of combat flying once again, but on the first sortie with the wing he had been astonished to hear Douglas Bader calmly call down to the ground controller to arrange a game of squash. Cocky could not believe that someone with tin legs, leading five squadrons, could have been thinking about anything other than the job in hand. Yet the conversation had a very calming effect on him; he noticed his nerves finally begin to settle.
Now, on 27 September, Bader was leading them again. 11 Group squadrons had already set amongst the enemy formations by the time Bader brought them in high, still flying a tight, solid wedge. ‘We came together with the Messerschmitts in a monstrous explosion of planes,’ noted Cocky, ‘and there developed immediately a dogfight of exceptional size and fury.’ Collision seemed likely at any moment. Cocky turned and twisted, sweating with both exertion and excitement and sick with fear. Then – that strange phenomenon that never failed to surprise him – the sky was suddenly clear again, and Cocky dived down and headed back to base.
While Cocky was fighting for his life over the Thames estuary, his brother John was attacking a simultaneous raid towards Bristol. John’s prowess as a fighter pilot was growing. With more than ten confirmed victories to his name, he had shot down one a day for the past three days, and now got another as 609 Squadron intercepted the enemy over Swanage. For David Crook it was a traumatic engagement. They had dived down on a formation of bomb-carrying Me 110s, which, seeing their attackers, had flung themselves into a defensive circle. David was flying just behind Mick Miller and watched as his friend flew head on into one of the Zerstörers. ‘There was a terrific explosion and a sheet of flame and black smoke seemed to hang in the air like a ball of fire,’ wrote David. ‘Many little shattered fragments fluttered down, and that was all.’ The two had been friends for over a year, and had been at FTS together.
There was fine weather on the last day of September and the Luftwaffe made the most of it to deliver a number of heavy and concentrated raids towards both London and the south. Siegfried Bethke flew two missions over England that day, the first a free hunt over Dorset and Hampshire. The Germans were intercepted by 609 Squadron, who had been sent up to 27,000 feet and were able to dive down on them with the sun behind. Spotting them only at the last moment, the 109s dived, but with the momentum of his dive David was able to catch up with his target, hurtling down at speeds approaching 600 mph and dropping some 23,000 feet in a matter of seconds. With an intense pain in his ears and the sea hurtling towards him, he managed to pull out at about 1,000 feet, latch on to his quarry and open fire at close range. ‘The effect of a Spitfire’s eight guns has to be seen to be believed,’ he wrote. ‘Hundreds of bullets poured into him and he rocked violently, then turned over on his back, burst into flames and dived straight down into the sea.’
He then spotted another 109 heading back out to sea, so chased after it, managing to catch him surprisingly easily. Another short, sharp burst, and the Messerschmitt swerved slightly, the canopy burst off and nearly hit David, and then the 109 dived, flattening out on the sea, smoke trailing behind. For the first time in the war, David found himself feeling rather sorry for a German pilot. He knew he could catch him up easily, and that if he attacked him at that height the pilot would die. But if he let him go, he would be back over England another day. ‘The last few moments must have been absolute hell for him,’ noted David. ‘I could almost feel his desperation as he made this last attempt to get away.’ Catching up, David fired his remaining ammunition and watched him plunge into the sea.
Hans-Ekkehard Bob had already flown twice that day, and on both occasions he had made it back to Guines with his tanks running on empty. In the afternoon the Geschwader was ordered to escort Ju 88s of KG 77, but after rendezvousing over Cap Gris Nez they could see that southern England was now covered with cloud. Unfortunately, the leading bomber erred with his navigation, crossing the Channel in a wide bow which made the escorting fighters use more of their precious fuel than was necessary. Over Brighton, they were intercepted by Spitfires and Hurricanes, by which time the Messerschmitts were already low on fuel. Extricating themselves, the 109s of JG 54 now made a dash for home, led by the Geschwaderkommodore, Hannes Trautloft. Ahead, they had a worryingly long flight over cloud and after a few minutes one of the pilots shouted, ‘My red lamp is on!’, which meant he had just ten minutes’ flying time left. Trautloft immediately snapped back that they were to keep radio silence; the last thing they needed was the RAF alerted to their critical situation.
The cloud dispersed, but all they could see was water. Hans began to worry that they were flying in the wrong direction. One agonizing minute after another followed but then at last Hans caught sight of the coast. Unable to hold back, he called out, ‘Cape Horn ahead!’
‘Who was that?’ demanded Trautloft. But Hans kept quiet.
David Crook got a third Me 109 later that afternoon, although, since he lost it in cloud, he could not claim it as a definite. It had been a good day for the squadron; 609 had come a long way since the dark days of early July. That night David and a number of the pilots went into Winchester to celebrate. They were alive and able to enjoy a good dinner and plenty of drink – someone even stood them a bottle of champagne and toasted their health. ‘It was one of the best days I ever had in the squadron,’ noted David. ‘And thus ended that eventful month, September 1940.’
47
Exhaustion
ON 19 SEPTEMBER, Churchill had suggested Chamberlain leave London for the country. The former PM’s operation had not gone as well as hoped, and he was now a very sick man indeed, although the cancer had not yet been confirmed. He had, however, been valiantly soldiering on, but with the advent of the raids he was finding both his treatment and periods of rest were being interrupted by the Luftwaffe. Utterly exhausted, he agreed and left London for what would be the last time. Having made it home, he then collapsed and spent the next couple of days in bed. Realizing his illness was most probably terminal and accepting that he could no longer be of any use, he offered his resignation. Churchill refused it. ‘Let us go on t
ogether through the storm,’ he told him. ‘These are great days.’
Historic days, certainly. There was still much to worry the Prime Minister and his colleagues. The Italians had invaded Egypt and the British colony of Kenya, while one of Churchill’s first offensive strikes, a British-backed Free French invasion of Dakar in French West Africa led by Général de Gaulle, had failed. Then, on 27 September, Japan signed a tripartite pact with Germany and Italy. Although she had not yet declared war, the move further threatened British interests in the Far East.
Yet, in other respects, the pact offered hope. Each member of the Tripartite Pact had promised to aid one another with all political, economic and military means, should one of them be attacked by a ‘power not involved in the European war’. This was clearly directed at America. The United States was becoming ever more wedded to the Allied cause, just as Churchill had hoped she would. And there was further cause for cheer from the United States. On 16 September, Congress had passed the Selective Training and Service Act, the first peacetime draft in her history. National Guard units – the US’s territorials – had also been called up. Americans were also responding to Britain’s defiance. A number of American volunteers were now flying for the RAF – there were three in 609 Squadron alone – while broadcasts from men like Ed Murrow were eagerly listened to. For some months, the Ministry of Information had been advised by various Americans to get more pictures in the US press. Back in August, Raymond Lee had urged Duff Cooper to do just this, but the Minister had told him that he could not get the pictures released from the service departments. On 23 September, however, Cecil Beaton’s photograph of the three-year-old Eileen Dunne had been the front cover of Life magazine and was accompanied by a spread of his pictures of bomb damage. It all helped. American public opinion was changing; slowly but surely, the isolationists were losing ground.
Certainly, the message coming from Americans in London was that Britain was going to survive. Raymond Lee had said so in his reports, and so too did Ed Murrow and every other US journalist in town. On 23 September, Brigadier-General George Strong gave an interview in which he said that if the Germans invaded they would have a nasty surprise. Strong was Chief of the Army War Plans Division and had accompanied Admiral Ghormley on his visit to Britain – hence his views counted and were widely reported both sides of the Atlantic. Even Ambassador Kennedy had been forced to admit that the RAF seemed to be winning. On 17 September he had called on Chamberlain. ‘I still think this war won’t accomplish anything,’ Kennedy told him. ‘We are supposed to be fighting for liberty and the result will be to turn the last of the Democrats into Socialist, Communist or Totalitarian states.’ He had learned nothing during his time in Britain, doggedly sticking to the same mantra – one driven by self-interest and excessive stubbornness. It was no wonder that both Churchill and Roosevelt barely acknowledged him any more. ‘Kennedy,’ noted Raymond Lee, ‘has the speculator’s smartness but also his sharp-shooting and facile insensitivity to the great forces which are now playing like heat lightning over the map of the world.’ How right he was, as usual.
On his travels around the coastal defences, Lee had discovered that most soldiers seemed anxious to have a crack at the Germans. John Wilson certainly fell into that camp, and his eagerness to play his part in defending Britain against the enemy had been one of the reasons why he had joined up. Originally planning to take up a place at Oriel College, Oxford, he had since been written to and told that there was no point while the war was on, so on 11 September he had persuaded his mother to drive him to Maidstone and there signed up, joining a Young Soldiers Battalion. ‘We were blistered on to another battalion called the 8th Home Defence Battalion,’ says John. ‘They were frightful old chaps – all about fifty, and a terribly motley crew.’ It was hard not to feel disappointed; there had been more excitement taking pot-shots from the roof at home.
Douglas Mann, meanwhile, had returned to Marlborough College in Wiltshire to start the autumn term. Summer was over. The leaves in the trees were beginning to turn and the days shortening, which meant later starts and earlier finishes for the pilots of Fighter Command. Both sides were exhausted. The big air battles of 27 and 30 September had been costly. In the last four days of the month, Fighter Command had lost seventy-four aircraft and forty pilots, the Luftwaffe 180 aircrew and a further 125 aircraft, of which seventy-six had been Messerschmitt 109s and 110s.
Tony Bartley had missed the 30 September battle with severe toothache, but Allan Wright had flown twice that day. He shot down a 109 in his first sortie and another in the second but then was surprised and hit by two others. Even an experienced ace like Allan could get caught out by the aircraft he had not seen. Managing to chase them off, however, he limped back towards England, both his Spitfire and leg in a bad way. With half his rudder and elevator shot away, it had been quite a feat to get home, but he somehow managed to land at Shoreham. ‘When I took my boot off,’ he says, ‘it was half filled with blood.’ Taken off to hospital, he would not fly again for two months.
Tony Bartley recovered from his toothache but when he went back up in the air again, something snapped, and suddenly he was really, truly afraid. That night he drank half a bottle of brandy at the White Hart and finished it off at the Red House, where he was eventually put to bed by the MacNeal twins, and, with his head spinning, began weeping uncontrollably with fatigue and grief for his dead friends. The next day, he was grounded and two days after that, having been awarded a DFC, was ordered to take seven days’ leave.
John Dundas was now on leave too. ‘It’s really good to be alive up here,’ he wrote to Margaret Rawlings. ‘And I feel I’ve earned it. We went for Jerry hammer and tongs four days running before I left Middle Wallop.’ Luftwaffe pilots were given leave, but usually only after a number of months in the front line. By the second week of October, Siegfried Bethke was one of only four pilots remaining from those far-off days of May, and one of those was home on leave. Several of the new pilots he had sent back for being ‘too soft’. One of the other originals was struggling with Kanalkrankheit – the combat fatigue version. ‘Rothkirch is not adding up,’ he noted – he had flown just eight missions in two months. ‘He’s always “sick”. A pathetic figure.’ A few days later, Hauptmann Helmut Wick returned from Berlin, where he had been awarded the Eichenlaub – ‘Oak Leaves’ – to his Knight’s Cross, an award given for forty victories. Hitler himself had placed it around his neck. Wick reported back all that he had been told. Both Hitler and Göring, he said, still hoped the Luftwaffe would completely destroy the British fighters in a few days of good weather. Siegfried thought that impossible. ‘It is also hoped,’ he noted, recording much of what Wick had told him, ‘that through the blockade, there will be serious disruptions to supplies in England. Unfortunately, not enough submarines off the west coast of England.’
At Coquelles, as losses mounted, the evening debates were becoming increasingly tense. It was not helping these young pilots to endlessly discuss tactics at night. With leave so infrequent, they needed to use the time off from operations to try and put the fighting to one side and relax – but there was little chance for that, it seemed. The biggest complaints came from the NCO pilots, who felt strongly that too many of the commanders were glory hunters only interested in getting medals. It did not seem fair to them that awards should only be handed out for aerial victories, when it often took more bravery to sit at the back of the formation, keeping watch over the glory boys’ backsides. Ulrich had quite a lot of sympathy – he had never thought much of the special treatment given to men like Dolfo Galland.
Of greater concern to him as a senior member of the Staffel was the loss of pilots as well as the shortage of aircraft. At the beginning of the western campaign, their Gruppe had had thirty-six experienced pilots with at least three years in the Luftwaffe under their belts. Now they were getting new boys straight from fighter school, and unlike in Fighter Command, there was no structure in place by which they could be given further
training before being thrown into the front line. He and Kühle did their best to take care of these fledglings until they had acquired a bit more experience but this was not always possible.
At the end of September, a new NCO pilot arrived with minimal flying time and only a tiny amount of air-to-ground gunnery. He had never flown using oxygen and had no idea how to use his radio. Ulrich gave him around ten hours of extra ‘tuition’, taking him and some of the other new boys out across the Channel to shoot at shadows or at the old lighthouse at Dungeness. But they could not be kept off operations for ever so Ulrich took his particular charge and made him his wingman. Climbing out over the Channel, the Gefreiter struggled to keep up and it was clear he had no idea how to manage his propeller pitch control. Eventually, Kühle ordered him home, but instead of heading for France, the new boy made for Dover. Ulrich raced after him, catching up just before they reached the balloon barrage. Only by violently rocking his wings did Ulrich manage to make him understand, and then he led him back. It was one of only two missions he missed all through the battle. ‘They were supposed to be replacements,’ noted Ulrich, ‘but in the event they were more of a problem for us than reinforcement for the Staffel’.
This simply put greater pressure on the more experienced ones. There were increasingly more cases of Kanalkrankheit in the 2nd Staffel too. Ulrich had noticed that Oberfeldwebel Grosse, a Condor Legion veteran, had begun to fly back home more and more frequently with ‘engine trouble’. ‘It seemed you could just wear out like any other machine,’ noted Ulrich. ‘And that is where things were going wrong; we just weren’t getting a break.’
The Battle of Britain Page 72
