by Adam Claasen
Once aircraft passed over the Chain Home, aircraft were visually tracked by the Royal Observer Corps, numbering some 30,000 personnel. Information from radar and the observers was phoned through to Dowding’s Filter Room at Fighter Command’s Bentley Priory HQ and then to the relevant operational commands of the four regional Groups. These Groups were in turn divided into sectors. By way of illustration, Park’s south-east 11 Group contained seven sectors controlled from, and including, Tangmere: Kenley, Biggin Hill, Hornchurch, North Weald, Debden and Northolt. These sector airfields were in charge of smaller outlying airfields. A sector would generally contain two to three squadrons but on occasion as many as six. The decision on how these squadrons would be tactically utilised was not made by Dowding but by the relevant group commander, who determined what targets were to be attacked and by what units in his inventory. The local sectors vectored pilots to the intruders and home again by the use of radio. Plotting the movement of enemy and friendly aircraft at each level—Fighter Command HQ, Groups and the Sectors—was carried out on large map tables on which wooden blocks representing enemy formations were shuffled around with croupier’s rakes in the hands of the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force. Operational decisions were made by the officers on a balcony above the table.
The advantages of the system were considerable and made possible the successes of the RAF pilots during the Battle of Britain. First, men and machines could be more effectively utilised. Without the Dowding System, Fighter Command’s only means of protecting Britain would have been the employment of costly and impractical standing patrols. Dowding’s scheme allowed for pilots and machines to be employed at the right moment and with the greatest impact. Second, the system enabled the centre to oversee the whole enterprise but gave control of the fighting units to local commanders. This overcame the impossibility of Fighter Command HQ controlling all the various elements at one time and allowed for tactical flexibility at the point of contact. Third, adaptability was inherent in the system. For example, as it became clear that a sector was about to come under assault, the local sector commander could bypass the Filter Room at Bentley Prior to communicate directly with the observer network in order more rapidly to determine the location of the intruders.
It was also possible for a Group to call on fighters from another Group, and fighters taking off from one sector’s airfield might find themselves landing in another sector’s airfields as the need arose. What all this meant, in the words of one Battle of Britain biographer, was that the ‘Spitfires always seemed to turn up at the right place and at the right time’.[6] ‘From the very beginning,’ noted Major Adolf Galland, a leading pilot and commander in the German campaign,
the British had an extraordinary advantage, never to be balanced out at any time during the whole war, which was their radar and fighter control network and organisation. It was for us a very bitter surprise. We had nothing like it. We could do no other than knock frontally against the outstanding, well-organised and resolute direct defence of the British Isles.[7]
Battle Joined
The initial assault put the southernmost radar stations out of action for some six hours. They were not, however, destroyed. The skeletal wood-and-wire construction dispersed the bombs’ blast and facilitated quick repair. Nevertheless the damage created a gap in the Dowding System and it meant that the attacks on the convoys by Ju 87s a little after 10.00a.m. were carried out without interference.[8] It was nearly a full hour before 65 Squadron operating out of Manston was alerted to the need to get into the air. As the airfield closest to the French coast, it would become a constant target of German efforts. Olive and the men of the squadron were some of the first to feel the effects of the new German initiative.
Soon after midday the pilots were woken out of their half sleep by the urgent order to scramble and within a few minutes Olive was jumping into his Spitfire:
I took my flying helmet off the control column where I always left it attached to its wires and tubes and pulled it on. An airman had jumped up on the wing and handed me the straps of my parachute over my shoulder and I clicked them into the main coupling box; next the webbing belts of the safety harness were secured—I turned on the petrol cocks, switched on and pressed the starter button.[9]
With that the 12-cylinder Merlin spluttered into raucous life. Olive led a six-aircraft flight as he taxied to take off into the wind. The day was sunny and warm and the departure routine no different from hundreds he had undertaken over the preceding months. In the small space before opening the Spitfire up and roaring down the runway, the Australian awaited the takeoff order to crackle through the radio. The machines began to roll forward, only to be interrupted by explosives smashing the aircraft hangars.
To the Australian’s complete shock he realised German raiders were laying down a heavy blanket of bombs on the base. Within moments he was in a field of earthen ‘geysers’ spewing dirt and massive sods of grass. More buildings disappeared as bombs crept towards to the fighters. Shockwaves buffeted the light-framed Spitfires, rocking Olive in his cockpit. When two bombs landed nearby, he and the Spitfire were hit by the blast like a ‘huge invisible hammer’. Racing down the runway, he glanced over his shoulder to catch sight of nearly 200 bombers attacking in formation at barely 500 feet—close enough to see the distinctive black crosses polluting the sky.
The real danger, he realised, was the prospect of being swamped by the rapidly advancing sticks of bombs. A tsunami of ordnance was gaining on the last aircraft. To his left the other flight was engulfed in a wall of bombs. As they emerged from the smoke and airborne debris, remarkably only one aircraft was incapacitated. Mercifully the ground gave way to flight; Olive was airborne. Behind him he saw another Spitfire claw loose from the smoke. Travelling at twice Olive’s speed, two blunt-nosed Me 109s overshot his flight as they climbed out of the carnage. He was amazed to see his wing men still in tow unscathed. The bombers were by now some distance ahead, making for the gathering cloud cover that would thwart any attempts to get even with the raiders, though two Me 109s that chanced into the flight path of the squadron were shot down.[10]
Returning to the airfield gave all the pilots a bird’s-eye view of their narrow escape. Dipping the Spitfire’s elliptical wings, Olive circled Manston. He saw what would prove to be over 600 craters disfiguring the airfield, and the detritus of various buildings cast far and wide. Most sobering were the two lines of craters bisecting the length of the runway, a deadly furrow under which he had almost been ploughed.
‘From start to finish,’ he recalled, ‘the bomb lines were over a mile and a half long. Just one of those bombs, had it dropped in front of us, could have destroyed our entire team.’[11] ‘Miracles’ could happen, Olive concluded. A pockmarked Manston was out of action and the raids on Lympne and Hawkinge were similarly effective.
Further attacks augmented the assault on the radar towers, convoys and airfields. Kesselring and Sperrle’s plans called for a renewed assault on the naval base at Portland, with Portsmouth’s naval port and industries, a bombing run against the important Spitfire factory at Woolston and attacks on the Isle of Wight’s Ventnor radar station thrown in for good measure. Among the airmen Park’s 11 Group dispatched to meet the intruders were the New Zealanders McGregor and Wycliff Williams, 266 Squadron, and John Gibson, 501 Squadron. The indefatigable McGregor was set to even the score after losing one of his flight commanders and four pilots only the day before.[12] With the sun near its midday apex the elder statesman of the squadron ordered his men to attack the swiftly fleeing machines. McGregor latched on to an Me 110 approximately 20 miles south of the Isle of Wight at 4000 feet. Dismissive of the pilot’s attempts to evade his fire, the Kiwi pilot released a series of short bursts from his Hurricane: ‘After the third burst the enemy aircraft dived steeply into the sea. No one got out.’[13] In spite of his efforts the squadron lost two more pilots and the radar station was knocked out.
‘Wick’ Williams’ previously uneventful war took a decided
ly eventful turn. Williams, who hailed from Dunedin, and his Tangmere-based squadron were faced with a force advancing on Portsmouth. The thirty or so Ju 88 bombers were intercepted and he found himself in a whirling dogfight. ‘Wick’ had latched on to an enemy machine when ‘two Spitfires and one Hurricane came from the starboard side between [the] target’ and himself.[14] The twenty-year-old grappled with the controls, breaking off the engagement to avoid imminent collision. Catching his breath, he observed a single Ju 88. Climbing to 11,500 feet he delivered a stern attack. ‘I saw my tracer bullets contacting ... [with the] fuselage, [and] almost at once,’ the relieved South Islander noted, ‘silencing the rear gunner from whom tracer bullets had been coming towards me.’ He fired again and red flames leapt from the engine. The undercarriage was prematurely released by the damage inflicted and he saw the glow of fire burning brightly in the empty cavity. Fighting for its life, the bomber exacted its revenge, and machinegun fire punctured Williams’ oil system and the windscreen was covered in a poor imitation of black icing.
The tables had been turned and over the next few heart-stopping minutes Williams oriented himself and brought the Spitfire into a level descent over the Isle of Wight towards Bembridge Airport. With a massive jolt, the machine landed wheels-up and skidded along the runway as flames fingered their way across the engine cowling towards the cockpit’s young occupant. Wrestling himself loose from the harness, he scrambled free from an eager funeral pyre. The Spitfire continued to burn until the fire found the petrol and it promptly exploded. It had been an eventful day for Williams, who only two years previously had been leading the rather staid life of a bank clerk. Two Royal Navy men who had been watching the tussle saw the stricken enemy bomber dive into the sea and Williams claimed his first victory of the war.
Gibson had already been in action that morning, destroying one Ju 87 and damaging another when he was scrambled just after 3.00p.m. to intercept enemy intruders near Lympne. Although born in Brighton, England, Gibson had emigrated with his parents to New Zealand as a four-year-old in 1920. A fine marksman and successful sportsman in the pre-war period, he made contact with the enemy twenty-five minutes after taking to the air, destroying two aircraft.[15] In spite of the best efforts of Gibson and his fellow Fighter Command pilots, the three airfields had taken a good hammering. The New Zealander managed to bring the Hurricane home unscathed, only to park it gracelessly in a bomb crater.
By the end of the day it was clear that the campaign had entered a new phase. For Park the fighting had shown that when radar was operable, the Dowding System worked remarkably well. The speed at which airfields were repaired and the radar stations put back in action demonstrated a high degree of resilience. On the tally-board Fighter Command had come out ahead with thirty-one Luftwaffe machines shot down for the loss of eleven pilots and twenty-one RAF machines.[16] Nevertheless, concern was merited with regards to the intensity of the fight and the demand on Park’s air units. Of his eighteen squadrons, a full thirteen had to be called upon and, of these, most were scrambled more than once. In total, 500 sorties were undertaken by Fighter Command and it was uncertain that this level of operations was sustainable with the resources on hand.
On the other side of the Channel, Göring gave the order for the commencement of the great Adlerangriff the very next day.
Adlertag
The weathermen of the Luftwaffe’s meteorological arm had informed their leader of fine flying conditions, but the morning was overcast and England was wreathed in broken cloud. The main event was therefore pushed back until the afternoon of 13 August. Confusion and an inability to call back some Luftwaffe units resulted in Anzac skirmishes with the enemy before the principal raids of the day. Two Australians, Mayers and Glyde, were involved in the battle.
Mayers had joined the Hurricane-equipped 601 Squadron only ten days earlier. With this posting, the Australian found himself in one of the more colourful RAF units. The so-called ‘millionaires’ squadron’ was well known for collecting pilots from the ‘well-heeled’ ranks of society. This menagerie of the wealthy and famous came about in the 1920s when aristocratic young amateur aviators came together to form a squadron in the Royal Auxiliary Air Force, London—a voluntary active-duty force for supplementing the RAF. Airmen of 601 distinguished themselves by their distaste for the usual discipline of other units. Disdaining the regulation black silk that lined the uniforms of the RAF’s hoi polloi, the ‘millionaires’ favoured a gaudy bright-red silk lining.
Hayter, who was in a sister auxiliary squadron for a period, noted that the well-connected pilots had a gold ‘A’ on each lapel, though pilots like himself were only given a single ‘A’ because they were simply there to ‘bolster the numbers’. Even so, some of the Anzacs were beneficiaries of the squadron’s largesse. ‘In the auxiliary squadron, Walter Churchill was my first CO,’ recalled Hayter, and since ‘we were just poor colonial boys ... he paid our mess bills. And free cigarettes too.’ This was too good to last however, and when a replacement commanding officer appeared, he declared that ‘if you bastards think I’m going to continue paying your mess bills you’ve got another thing coming’. It was, in Hayter’s words, ‘a hell of a shock’.[17]
The pilots’ car collection was the envy of Fighter Command, with glittering examples of the finest automotive grace and power on offer. Long-nosed sports and touring cars were mandatory accessories for the red silk and gold lapel-badge wearers. Many sidestepped fuel restrictions by utilising the 100 octane gasoline from the aircraft bowsers. An illegal activity, but poorly monitored. Some pilots even owned their own aircraft.
Mayers’ squadron’s other claim to fame was its unusually high number of American pilots, including the famous ‘Billy’ Fiske. The son of a New England banking magnate, he had won two Olympic gold medals: the first at the 1928 Winter Olympics, at the tender age of sixteen, as part of the United States’ five-man bobsled team; the second as a member of the four-man team in 1932. Like most Americans in the Battle of Britain, Fiske misled British authorities by claiming Canadian citizenship. The handsome Sydney-born pilot Mayers was not an altogether unnatural fit in this glittering array, with his high forehead topped with swept-back blond locks and a background that included a considerable amount of time spent in London prior to the war and a University of Cambridge degree in his back pocket. As managing director of a London-based firm, he was more suited to this company than might ordinarily be expected. Moreover, as the campaign stretched into September and the squadron’s losses mounted, its lustre diminished as more decidedly middle-class citizenry entered its ranks.
By Adlertag, Mayers could look back on only a handful of days in action, but thanks to his training in the Cambridge University Air Squadron he was better equipped than many who entered the battle midstream.[18] He began 13 August with an early-morning scramble from Tangmere, knocked out a Ju 88 and heavily damaged another. Just after midday, the Sydneysider was once again ordered up as part of A Flight against thirty Me 110s south of Portland. His first attack on the formation was a six-second burst as he closed from 400 to 150 yards, but it ‘appeared to be ineffectual’. In the second attack,
I picked out one Me 110 and fired a long burst from dead astern, opening at about 300 yards ... I saw one rudder and part of the elevator or fin break away as the machine dived away in a left spin apparently out of control. I dived a little to the right ... in order to watch the enemy aircraft go down. It had just gone through the clouds at 9000 [feet] when my Hurricane was hit by what felt like a tornado. I felt pain in my right buttock and leg, felt the engine stop, heard hissing noises and smelt fumes.[19]
Mayers’ first reaction was to yank back on the control column, but the fighter was now only a lifeless metallic carcass. ‘The next thing I remember,’ wrote the Australian the next day, was ‘falling through the air at light speed, and feeling my helmet [being] ... torn off.’ He had baled out at 19,000 feet and, suffering from oxygen deprivation, clawed his way back to consciousness in the course o
f a 12,000 foot free-fall, finally able to open the parachute at 7000 feet. He survived the wayward peppering of an Me 110 and landed in the chilly waters three miles off Portland.
He was hopeful of rescue, since in his descent he had spotted a Motor Torpedo Boat (MTB) a mile distant. The vessel was moving in to pick up a downed Luftwaffe pilot not 200 yards from where Mayers was bobbing up and down. His confidence dissipated over the next twenty minutes as it became evident he had not been seen. His saviour arrived in the form of a baronet: Flight Lieutenant Sir Archibald Hope. The aristocrat was Mayers’ flight commander and had returned to locate the wayward Australian. From his cockpit,
He waved at me and spent some considerable time trying to inform the MTB of my whereabouts by flying backward and forwards between the boat and myself. Even when the MTB came in my direction it very nearly went too far to the south, missing me. I am quite sure that if it had not been for F/Lt Hope the MTB would not have found me.[20]
Mayers was right; the vessel’s commanding officer, having rescued the desperate and exasperated airman, lamented the fact that the small vessel only gave him a relatively limited range of sight.
The medical staff at the Portland Naval Hospital X-rayed him and treated his shrapnel injuries, which proved to be superficial. A flight in a Fairey Battle delivered him to Tangmere nine hours after his adventures had begun. In his lengthy after-action report, he suggested that pilots ‘carry marker flares’ and that organised air searches be required after an airman is shot down over the sea. His experience had confirmed once again the potential lethality of being shot down over the Channel.