Dogfight
Page 12
On the way down I had several short bursts, and then got three effective, full deflection shots in a [Me] 110. He climbed sharply with black smoke apparently streaming from his fuselage. He rolled on his back and dived vertically down ... I did not have time to watch him, as I was attacked by 110s from behind.’[7]
The interception had broken into individual dogfights with the RAF pilots outnumbered. Tait was almost immediately attacked as he ‘waded into a circle of 110s’, but managed to turn the tables on the enemy pilot and gave him a short burst.[8]
In the breathless minutes of combat Tait did his best to protect his fellow airmen, while 87 and 213 Squadron pilots returned the favour, prying loose enemy machines from his tail. His closest call with the enemy came in the dogfight’s latter stages when he climbed to 9000 feet to join a formation of eleven Hurricanes ‘only to find they were Me 109[s]’. Tait beat a hasty retreat, leaving the Messerschmitts to the Spitfires of 234.
In the battles of August, 234 Squadron was heavily stacked with Anzacs. Nicknamed the ‘The Dragons’ and operating under the motto Ignem Mortemque despuimus (‘we spit fire and death’), the unit was based at Middle Wallop. Its cadre of airmen included the Australians Flight Lieutenant Pat Hughes and Vincent ‘Bush’ Parker. The New Zealanders were Cecil Hight and Lawrence. The fight was furious and costly. The fifty enemy single-engine fighters simply overwhelmed the squadron. Of the Anzacs, only Hughes was able to take down an Me 109 and share in the destruction of another. Hardy and Parker were less successful, struggling to avoid cannon and machine-gun fire. Both pilots were hit and wounded. The mêlée took Hardy well out over the Channel. Low on fuel, his only hope was a safe landing on the wrong side of the Channel. Parker’s engine was mangled by cannon fire and he was forced to bale out over France. While no combat report remains for the Southlander, Lawrence, he did survive the lopsided struggle, which is more than can be said for Hight. The car salesman from Stratford, New Zealand, was fatally struck and the Spitfire crashed in the city of Bournemouth.[9] The Dragons were fortunate not to lose more.
Anzac POW
Parker was one of three Anzacs to be taken into enemy captivity during the Battle of Britain. While little is known about the capture and subsequent imprisonment in October of New Zealanders George Baird and Sergeant Douglas Burton, Parker’s escapades were the stuff of Boys’ Own stories.[10] An English immigrant from Townsville, Queensland, ‘Bush’ Parker briefly resided in New Zealand, training as a magician with well-known entertainer and conjuror of the pre-war period Leslie George Cole, self-titled ‘The Great Levante’. It was here that Parker perfected the sleight of hand and the mysteries of ‘escapology’ that would increasingly frustrate his German captors.[11]
At Stalag Luft I at Barth on the Baltic coast, Parker took part in numerous tunnelling efforts and assisted other airmen in escape attempts. He was particularly renowned for the compasses he manufactured from slivers of steel extracted from razor blades and rubbed against a magnet he had stolen from a camp loudspeaker. These were used in at least one successful ‘home run’.
In the first of his own three attempts, he was recaptured and thrown into ‘the bunker’ for a fourteen-day stint of isolation. His second attempt was a reworking of one that had recently seen a would-be escapee shot as he crawled across the snow-blanketed playing field camouflaged by a white sheet. The field was swept by the eyes and searchlights of two guard-towers and the wire fence was patrolled by armed guards. Parker’s plan was to join in a rugby game and, when a scrum was formed over a furrow in the snow, he would lie in this and be covered with more snow by the players. Clad in ‘two pairs of trousers, two jackets, four pairs of socks and numerous layers of underclothing’, the young Parker waited for an opportunity to make for the fence, cut his way through and make good his escape. ‘Those six hours were an eternity; my legs grew wet, ached and became numb; I couldn’t move...’
As I broke to the surface the breaking of snow sounded like the cracking of artillery. I was still in the searchlight beam and made slow going to the wire as the searchlights swept over me several times. I reached the wire and lay very still, for the patrolling sentry approached; he paused, stopped, then suddenly screamed and ran towards me. He didn’t shoot and I was taken to the cells.
What we had not accounted for was the fact that I would steam—my warm and wet body was condensing in the cool night air. The guard told me afterwards that he couldn’t make out where the ‘smoke’ was coming from.[12]
His final attempt was a bold impersonation of one of the camp’s ‘ferrets’, Unteroffizer Piltz, whose main vocation was the sniffing-out of prisoner tunnels and escape plans. Clad in dirty overalls, wearing a security personnel-style cap and sporting a ‘torch’ cobbled together out of painted Red Cross tins, he successfully navigated his way through two barriers of sentries. Unfortunately, Parker was met in the woods by the very person he was impersonating: Piltz.[13] The young Australian was promptly arrested and awarded fourteen more days of punishment in the cells for his audacious efforts.
Parker was transferred briefly to Stalag Luft III at Sagan, scene of two famous escapes later dramatised for the movie-going public as The Great Escape and The Wooden Horse, before entering, in May 1942, his final residence at the Second World War’s most famous POW camp Oflag IV-C, popularly known as Colditz Castle.
In surviving photographs from Colditz, Parker smiles impishly—looking much younger than his twenty-two years. He joined a stellar cast of inmates at what the Germans designated a ‘special camp’. Although sprinkled with men with family ties to Allied governments and the British Royal Family, the great majority of the inmates were hardcore recidivist escapers from other camps. Perched on a cliff overlooking the town, the sixteenth-century castle was considered escape-proof by the Germans—apparently an ideal holding pen for prisoners who needed to go cold-turkey on their escape addiction. The inmates had other ideas, and with such a concentration of incurables, Colditz saw more successful escapes by officers than any other German prison.
As an inmate, Parker made at least two unsuccessful bids for freedom and aided and abetted many others thanks to his ability to pick the ‘unpickable’ locks of the castle.[14] Coat hooks, iron bed framing and coal shovels were transformed into keys of various shapes and sizes. Combining a magician’s sleight of hand and his eventual collection of over 100 keys, the Australian proved a handful for the Germans. A fellow inmate recalled how Parker on one occasion handled with great aplomb a surprise search by the Germans.
...one day the guards rushed in and made us stand against the wall, five feet apart. I was horrified to see Bush had a handful of small tools, and all he had to cover them with was a towel. As he was being searched he kept moving the towel to hide the tools from one hand to the other. To everyone’s amazement, the Germans didn’t seem to notice; they finished searching him and went on to the next prisoner. It took exceptional composure to behave as Bush had.[15]
Parker was able to gain access to some of the most valued areas of Colditz, including the parcels’ office and the attics. The former furnished the prisoners of war with everything from maps to radio equipment, while the latter enabled them to listen undisturbed to Allied broadcasts and construct the famous but never used Colditz glider. Although a skilled, if relatively inexperienced, combat pilot, Parker was blessed with considerable nonaviation-related talents that severely tested the patience of his German captors. By the end of the war he had probably caused the enemy more headaches as a prisoner than if he had been flying.
Closing the Greatest Day
The early evening brought with it the final day’s action for the Anzacs Francis Cale, John Pain, Irving Smith and the deadly pairing of Deere and Gray. Cale’s 266 Squadron was ordered to patrol over Dover and at 6.30p.m. encountered bombers and Me 109s to the south-east. The eight Spitfires were able to separate some Ju 88s from the fighters and engage the quarried prey. The exuberant Cale, educated at Guilford Grammar School, Perth, was caught by an Me 109
and shot down, baling out at low altitude.[16] His body was recovered from the River Medway the following day.
At 7.00p.m. 32 Squadron encountered Do 17s and Me 109s at 19,000 feet. The Scotland-born Queenslander Pain was jumped by six Me 109s. The fresh-faced nineteen-year-old pilot was in his first real action, flying a machine he had only become acquainted with over the previous four weeks.
His saving grace was that he was a natural aviator and genuine flying prodigy. A pilot at the age of fifteen years and winner of a highly contested flying scholarship in his latter teenage years, Pain used his full evasive manoeuvre repertoire and, with a measure of good fortune, not only avoided being cut to shreds but turned on his attackers. As the fighters flew past him, almost netting him in strings of tracer fire, Pain eased his aircraft in behind the last Me 109. As it turned in front of him, he fired: ‘Saw smoke coming from the enemy. Gave him another short burst and smoke increased.’[17] In the end he accounted for a Ju 88 and was able to claim a probable on the fighter. In his log-book he simply jotted ‘Nasty Blitz on Croydon attacked by six Me 109’s.’[18]
One of the last interceptions was to be flown by 54 Squadron. Both New Zealanders hoped it would be uneventful and Gray was heard to exclaim he was ‘dying for a beer, a good meal and bed’, when news of the raid broke.[19] Forming up over the French coast was the day’s last big raid. The clanging warning bell heralding the order to scramble chased away thoughts of beer and bed. Deere and Gray pushed their Spitfires to maximum speed and made a dash for the coast with seven other fighters in attendance. Through the radio chatter the controller vectored the pilots onto the intruders, which were about to make landfall close to Dover at 20,000 feet. The pilots of the squadron added 5000 feet to the estimation just to be sure and gained an advantage over the enemy. The enemy bombers were clustered together with fifty-odd fighters layered overhead. Surprise was complete and the Spitfires fell among the Me 109s.
Engaging the enemy at the same time was Smith. The good-natured industrial painter from Auckland was flying with 151 Squadron’s Hurricanes en route for a very large formation of fighters. He had only joined the Squadron four weeks earlier and was now in the thick of the fighting and about to cap off a remarkable baptism of fire. Based at North Weald, the squadron had seen heavy action over the Thames Estuary in July and was now operating further south near Dover. Like many of Park’s squadrons in this phase of the battle, Smith’s squadron carried out most of its operations from a forward satellite airfield. In this instance it was the all-grass Rochford, on the coast north of the Thames Estuary.
After barely four hours’ sleep at North Weald sector airfield, Smith and his fellow airmen would be awoken around 2.30a.m. and after washing down an egg or two with a cup of tea would be airborne by 4.00a.m., making their way to Rochford. Here they cohabited with two Spitfire squadrons and, like Gibson at Hawkinge, the men had only light tents as accommodation and made do with scrounged seating and tables from the local town. All three squadrons utilised only one field phone, so that when it rang there was the habitual start and then the anxious pause before the waiting pilots discovered who was being scrambled. At dusk the Hurricanes could be back at North Weald for servicing. Getting a decent meal could be a hit-and-miss affair. At Rochford, food was delivered to the pilots in boxes and it was possible in a heavy day’s action to miss these and remain unfed until returning to North Weald, and even there the cooks, accustomed to a set regime, had to be cajoled into conjuring up a boiled egg.
Conditions could vary considerably from airfield to airfield, due in good part to the quality of the station commander. Some were extremely diligent in looking after their airmen’s needs, but others less so. Miller and Curchin found 609 Squadron was not well looked after at Warmwell, Dorset, where the accommodation was so run-down that the bulk of the airmen preferred to sleep in the dispersal tent lacking running water and toilets. Pilots were forced to sleep in dust-laden blankets. Meals were problematic too. Civilian cooks refused to rise early enough to feed the pilots before they departed, and the entirely unsympathetic station commander, frustrated that the airmen were not appearing in a timely manner for meals, ordered the mess to be locked outside of the dictated meal times. As the Australians’ incredulous squadron leader later sarcastically fumed, ‘All our efforts to get the Luftwaffe to respect ... meal times having failed, deadlock occurred.’[20] Even after the 609 pilots intercepted a raid on the Warmwell facilities that doubtless not only saved hangars and aircraft but also unhelpful mess personnel, the station commander remained unmoved and, consequently, pilots went without hot meals. In the end, RAF staff stepped in with copious boxes of provisions which the hungry pilots turned into dubious al fresco delights.
At Hornchurch, conditions were far more to the liking of pilots. The benefits of a good and loyal cook were appreciated by the airmen; 54 Squadron was fed and watered by Sam, whom Deere described as a ‘tyrannical house master’ but a very popular mess chef. On one occasion in the campaign the unit’s pilots had returned late and the famished airmen made a beeline for the officers’ mess. A senior pilot was surprised the head cook was still on duty and had not left the late-night offerings to his lesser minions. ‘Sir, you know that I never go off duty,’ retorted Sam, ‘until my pilots have returned from operations and are properly fed.’ The homely comforts of bacon and eggs or, as on this occasion, roast beef accompanied by brussels sprouts, served up by their caring mess cook were roundly appreciated by the fatigued pilots.
Flying out of Rochford, in his third and final operation at 7.00p.m., Smith latched on to an enemy fighter. His fire was accurate and he followed the wounded machine down to 5000 feet, at which point he broke away observing the Me 109 heading down in a vertical spin.[21] A single victory would have been an achievement in anyone’s books, but Smith had already been in two other combat operations, in one of which he had destroyed an Me 109 and damaged another. A total ‘bag’ of two victories and a wounding was a considerable feat for such an inexperienced pilot officer. Smith was, however, in no mood to celebrate and scrawled in his after-action report that the squadron had lost three pilots in the last engagement.
Meanwhile, Deere’s initial attack was truncated when he came under fire from a German pilot. Evasive action shrugged off the attacker and he was soon on the tail of two enemy fighters fleeing east to France. The Luftwaffe pilots had capitalised on the Me 109s’ speed in the dive and stretched out a frustrating lead. Determined, the New Zealander nudged his Spitfire into one of the Me 109’s blind spots just below the tail. Edging closer in the downward run he was about to open fire at 5000 feet when light cloud cover intervened, prolonging the chase. Eventually shedding the cloud cover and basking in the full sunlight, Deere belatedly realised with horror that he was now crossing the French coast. Thinking he was safe within the confines of France, one of the airmen rolled gently left to land at the local airfield. He was blissfully unaware that he had been shadowed all the way home and Deere’s short depression of the firing button was immediately effective and the aircraft dived to its death. The second machine was also hit with glycol and smoke belching from the engine, but Deere was unable to finish his handiwork. The odds were not in his favour as he found himself in an area thick with prowling German fighters. Almost immediately five turned in to snare the wayward Kiwi. ‘You bloody fool,’ he muttered.[22]
He was now consumed with two tasks: avoiding the fighters and edging closer to the English coast. The fly in the ointment was the fact the enemy’s speed and direction would see them intercept Deere long before he reached the white cliffs of Dover. Two of the fighters soon bore down on the sprinting New Zealander, forcing him to take evasive action in a series of vicious turns. ‘I knew that before long they would bring their guns to bear ... with each succeeding attack I became more tired, and they more skilful.’ Machine-gun fire homed in on the Anzac, shattering the canopy and disintegrating the instrument panel. Only the armadillo-like armour plate at his back saved him. ‘Again and again�
� they came at the fatiguing Deere, and ‘again and again I turned into the attack, but still the bullets ... found their target’. The damaged Merlin engine broke into a death rattle that shook the light-framed fighter. Oil slithered over the windscreen and he turned for Dover violently snaking the Spitfire from side to side to present as difficult a target as possible. The coast loomed large now and, unlike Deere, the Luftwaffe airmen astutely reckoned that the chase had already taken them too close to a potential ambush and they promptly broke off the enterprise, pointing their Me 109s towards France.
At 1500 feet over England the engine caught fire and Deere was forced to turn the Spitfire on its back to facilitate a gravity-aided escape. Unfortunately, the machine was reluctant to allow Deere’s emancipation and the nose dropped, angling the Spitfire into a vertical free fall. As if grappled by an unseen hand he was pushed against the fuselage directly behind the cockpit, pinned like an insect in an entomologist’s display case. Tensing his muscles he purchased enough distance between his spine and the fighter for the wind to pluck him away. His wrist roughly struck the tail as he pulled the ripcord at a perilously low altitude. ‘I just felt the jerk of my parachute opening when my fall was broken by some tall trees.’
Miraculously his ‘only injury was a sprained wrist’.[23] Worse for wear was the plum tree. The farmer gave the New Zealander a regular tongue-lashing. The fruit-laden tree was the only one unharvested—deliberately saved for a future plucking. Deere cast the entire crop.[24] An ambulance delivered him to East Grinstead hospital. X-rays revealed no broken bones but the pain was sufficient for Deere to receive suitable sedatives and sleep the night away at the hospital. The next day, brandishing a plastered wrist, he slipped back into Hornchurch to find that Gray had been awarded a DFC, news the latter had received alongside a good meal washed down with a beer.