by Adam Claasen
CHAPTER 11
Conclusions
When those young boys from New Zealand and Australia first laid eyes on an aircraft they were smitten. For a handful, like John Gard’ner, Alan Deere and Gordon Olive, their dreams of flight would be realised but under conditions they could never have imagined. For many of the Anzacs, the fulfilment of their aspiration to fly was only made possible by entering into a dangerous pact. Many of the antipodeans would never have been airmen had it not been for the RAF’s mid-1930s expansion in the face of Hitler’s unsettling militarisation of Germany. Whitehall’s fears of a major European war placed Dominion men in the cockpits of advanced aircraft in Britain. In other words, Anzac airmen, wittingly or unwittingly, had entered into a bargain that, while offering them the possibility of fulfilling their dreams, placed them at the sharp end of the spear when war broke out.
From the farms and cities of the Pacific Dominions, these young men came to be included among a select few who determined the course of the Second World War and the future of twentieth-century Europe. The Battle of Britain was, as George Orwell reflected in a 1942 radio broadcast, as important as the Battle of Trafalgar. Just as Admiral Lord Nelson’s defeat of Napoleon’s forces had repelled the perfidious French-Spanish enemy from England’s shores, so had the men of Hugh Dowding’s Fighter Command thwarted Hitler’s malignant plans for Western Europe. One light of democracy and decency had not been extinguished. And although it took another five years to win the war, it was at any rate certain that ‘Britain could not be conquered in one blow’.[1] Since the outbreak of war, Germany had ridden roughshod over Europe: it had subjugated Poland; invaded Denmark and Norway; and overrun the Low Countries and France. The Battle of Britain demonstrated, for the first time, that Hitler could be checked.
Down through the years Hitler’s commitment to an actual invasion has been questioned and others have suggested that the threat posed by the Royal Navy would have thwarted Operation Sea Lion. The problem with these hypothetical arguments is that they were never tested because the men of Fighter Command did deny Hitler his prerequisite for an invasion: aerial superiority. With that, Germany was faced with the two-front war it had hoped to avoid. The action of July–October 1940, and its attendant British resistance, siphoned off German resources on a massive scale: the construction and manning of the Atlantic Wall; laying siege to Albion via the Battle of Atlantic; contesting British dominance in the Mediterranean; and, eventually, defending the cities of the Third Reich against massed raids by Allied bombers. Cumulatively, these theatres sapped Germany of men and material that might well have been better deployed where the war in Europe would ultimately be decided: the Eastern Front.
Fighter Command’s victory also made D-Day possible. Although the entry of the United States into the war was dependent on events in the Pacific, the continued resistance of Britain meant that Washington was able to pursue a ‘Europe First’ policy that would not have been possible otherwise. The British Isles was a vast staging post for the Allied build-up that culminated in the Normandy landings. The 1944 assault on the Atlantic Wall gave the Allies the foothold they needed to liberate France, push into Germany, and finally join up with the Red Army advancing from the east. Without D-Day, the Soviets might well have won the war on the Continent alone, and the consequences of a communist-dominated Europe would have been dire for the peoples of Western Europe. The jackboots of Nazism would merely have been replaced by the hobnailed boots of Stalinist communism, with its attendant economic collectivism, secret police and political repression. The Battle of Britain led to the securing of democracy in Western Europe in the post-war decades.
All the more remarkable is the fact that so much hinged on the fighting skills and sacrifice of such a diminutive force. The nearly four-month-long Battle of Britain taken alone appears insignificant compared with other campaigns in the European war. The air battle from mid-July to late October probably accounted for the lives of no more than 5000 military combatants.[2] By some estimates, the Russian Front consumed over five times as many lives every single day over a three-year period, leaving more than 30 million soldiers and civilians dead in its wake. Yet the Battle of Britain was significant out of all proportion to its limited duration and relatively small number of participants. Churchill’s praise for his airmen—‘never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few’—became increasingly prescient in the Cold War decades that followed the Second World War.
Anzacs
The New Zealanders and Australians who took part in the campaign made up only a small portion of Dowding’s nearly 3000 airmen. Of these, 574 were Commonwealth and foreign pilots and gunners. Leading this group were the Poles with 145 men, followed closely by 134 New Zealanders. The Australians came in as the fifth-largest contingent with 37 airmen behind the Canadians (112) and Czechs (88), but ahead of the Belgians (28), South Africans (25) and a series of smaller cohorts from around the world. In all, the Anzacs made up a full quarter of the Commonwealth and foreign aircrew numbers. Spread across Fighter Command, the Anzacs were part of an extraordinarily multinational fighting force. It was not uncommon for the Anzacs to find themselves in squadrons that included not only a large number of English, Scottish and Irish pilots or gunners, but also a healthy smattering of Poles, Czechs, South Africans and sometimes the odd Frenchman or even American.[3]
Identifying an Anzac at an airfield would have been difficult but not impossible. Though they were part of an international fighting force, they maintained a sense of national identity in numerous ways. The most obvious was the Australian allegiance to the dark-blue RAAF uniform. Although on formal occasions Australian pilots were required to dress in their RAF attire, the pilots who, like Olive, had been trained at Point Cook, Victoria, were entitled to wear the Australian kit for normal duties. The desire to don the RAAF blue was so strong that even pilots who technically were not entitled to often did so. William Millington was not an RAAF graduate but clothed himself in the dark blue regardless. Uniforms were worn until threadbare and then, where possible, replaced by another RAAF set, often purchased at the on-station estate auction of a recently deceased Australian airman.[4]
The Kiwis invariably wore the RAF uniform but on occasion differentiated themselves from their peers with suitable Kiwiana markings on their machines. Deere named three successive Spitfires ‘Kiwi’ until it occurred to him that, given his string of accidents, he was courting bad luck. ‘Kiwi 3’ was the last incarnation in the series and thereafter his Spitfires went moniker-less. Humphreys painted a Maori tiki on the side of his Hurricane and Lawrence the Maori greeting ‘Kia ora’. It is highly unlikely any Luftwaffe pilots understood the phrase, let alone the irony of a friendly salutation announcing the imminent arrival of a hail of decidedly unfriendly machine-gun bullets. It is unclear if Australian pilots painted national emblems or wrote Aussie colloquialisms on their engine cowlings during the Battle of Britain, but it is possible, as in the preceding French campaign John Cock and Desmond Sheen festooned their fighters with Australiana, the latter painting a boomerang on his machine.[5]
Aside from these external badges of nationalism, what also differentiated the Anzacs from many of their British peers was their healthy disrespect for the RAF’s lingering class system. Initially, resistance to the so-called colonials was weakened by the fact that British officers were never quite certain as to where in the social order the boys from the Dominions should be slotted. Moreover, it was difficult to ignore the considerable athletic prowess of many colonials. As Deere found out first-hand, it was hard to dismiss you when you had just thrashed a selection of the best that the English public schools had to offer. In time, the Anzacs’ flying abilities more than compensated for their far-flung origins. It was impossible to look down on a pilot, even one as unathletic as Colin Gray, when he was one of the campaign’s highest-scoring pilots. Moreover, the gradual loss of a unit’s founding members diluted the class-bound tendencies of even the most elite squadrons.
In the end what mattered was the fighting ability of the pilots and the necessity of working together. ‘There was a bit of banter between the Canadians and Aussies or the New Zealanders,’ recalled Lawrence, ‘but ... we were always a great team.’[6]
While the Anzacs recognised and abided by the conventions that separated the commissioned officers from sergeants in the squadrons, they were in no way overawed by this and of course, as happened with most pilots, the segregation by rank on the ground dissolved once airborne. With a good deal of Anzac pluck, Emeny broke with convention and was able to secure himself and his colleagues their sergeants’ stripes. One noncommissioned officer said of Carbury: ‘Brian had no time for ... senseless class distinction and fraternised with the NCOs and other ranks, probably to the consternation of his seniors—it certainly surprised me.’[7] A general egalitarian ethos extended to the cooks that provisioned them and the ground crew that serviced their machines. When Deere saved a seat right near the front of the Windmill Girls’ on-base show for his mechanic, he was expressing a general view held by the Anzacs that their own success was based in good part on the efforts of armourers and fitters as much as on those of the pilots themselves. As Irving Smith recalled, the ‘ground crews of all ranks were absolutely marvellous. They worked all hours, ever cheerful, willing and very competent indeed.’
Among their fellow airmen of all nationalities the New Zealanders and Australians were recognised as worthy brothers-in-arms and, on occasion, exceptional air-power practitioners. The Battle of Britain was one of the few times when Anzacs made a contribution to the success of an entire campaign not just with men in the air or on the ground, as in North Africa, but also at the highest level of command. New Zealanders and Australian pilots and gunners were well regarded, but the most significant contribution was made by just one man, the commander of 11 Group: Keith Park.
Keith Park: The Defender of London
Incredibly, in the backwash of the campaign Park and his boss, Dowding, were shifted sideways. The dispute between Leigh-Mallory and Park, and Dowding’s mismanagement of the quarrel, resulted in a full-scale reshuffle of Fighter Command. Dowding was portrayed as being out of touch and Park unwilling to adopt the so-called offensive stance of his 12 Group colleagues. In November 1940, ‘Stuffy’ was replaced by Big-Wing advocate Sholto Douglas. The former Fighter Command boss was relegated to investigating service wastage.
Park was relieved of 11 Group, which was passed on to Leigh-Mallory, and the Anzac was eventually given a Mediterranean command. In the defence of the most heavily bombed location of the Second World War, the island of Malta, Park once again demonstrated his air-power prowess. At first glance the transfer appeared mean-spirited and revealed a lack of appreciation of the Kiwi’s truly awe-inspiring achievements. Park was undoubtedly New Zealand’s greatest war-time commander and an Anzac whose influence on twentieth-century history is challenged by few contemporaries. As a Great War ace and accomplished pre-war commander, Park was well equipped to face Kesselring and Sperrle. He did of course have the Dowding System on his side and the recent development of radar, but even so he could have squandered his resources or misapplied them to battle, as his erstwhile 12 Group adversary Leigh-Mallory did.
Park had a deft touch with his subordinates. As Hayter simply stated, Park ‘listened to the blokes that were actually doing the job’.[8] Flying constantly between bases in his Hurricane, clothed in his white overalls, the tall Kiwi was keen to glean information from the frontline pilots as they returned from their dogfights over England. ‘He saw the pilots after patrols,’ recalled Kinder, ‘when they had seen their best friends go down in flames. He would have a cigarette and a drink with them, and he was, in return, looked on as one of the boys.’[9] His flying logbook is testament to his hands-on leadership and determination to command from the front.
Historians and military strategists overwhelmingly agree with the New Zealander’s assessment of the campaign and his use of men and material. ‘Park’s performance was extraordinary,’ argued Stephen Bungay, one of the battle’s historians. ‘Throughout the long months of the strain, Park hardly put a foot wrong, making all the major tactical decisions, attending to relevant details, visiting pilots and airfields himself, and fighting an internal political battle.’[10] As well-regarded Second World War ace Johnnie Johnson succinctly noted, Park was ‘the only man who could have lost the war in a day or even an afternoon.’[11] Had he deployed his machines as Leigh-Mallory and Bader were advocating, the campaign might well have been irrecoverable. ‘If any man won the Battle of Britain, he did,’ said Lord Tedder, Marshal of the RAF. ‘I do not believe it is realised how much that one man, with his leadership, his calm judgement and his skill, did to save, not only this country, but the world.’[12] In the history of aerial fighter warfare few could claim to be his peer and perhaps none is superior.
Park’s airmen in 11 Group and those at his flanks who fought the aerial battle were up against a sizeable and experienced adversary. Luftwaffe airmen had successfully operated in Spain during the Spanish Civil War and then in the invasion of Poland, the Scandinavian campaign and in the triumph over the Low Countries and France. Confident and experienced, they were ordered to bring the RAF to its knees. For their part, they were disadvantaged by Göring’s penchant for changing targets throughout the campaign, and because their aircraft were more suited to close air support than an independent long-range aerial offensive. Faulty intelligence bedevilled planning throughout, as did the loss of so many German airmen shot down over Britain. The failure to discern the importance of the sector stations and the role radar played all aided Dowding’s pilots, Anzac or otherwise. Nevertheless, as good as the Dowding System was, in the end it remained dependent on the individual and collective skill and courage of airmen. In this, the Allied pilots and gunners, including the Anzacs, stymied the Luftwaffe’s attempt to defeat Fighter Command, but at a considerable cost.
Tally Sheets
In all 1023 Fighter Command machines were lost in the campaign.[13] For its troubles the Luftwaffe lost 1887 aircraft of all types. The loss ratio was close to 1.8:1 in favour of the RAF. As many Luftwaffe commanders recognised at the time, the only way to wipe out Fighter Command as a defensive force was to achieve a much higher kill rate than their adversary. Clearly they missed the mark by a considerable margin. Only on a handful of days in late August were they able to achieve a degree of parity.
In the arena of fighter-on-fighter combat, the figures tip slightly in favour of the Luftwaffe. Overall, the German pilots were able to obtain a 1.2:1 ratio against the RAF. An unsurprising result given the fact that the German Me 109 airmen had only one target, Dowding’s fighters, whilst the Fighter Command boys were divided between knocking out Göring’s bombers and fighters. In particular, Hurricanes striking at bombers were susceptible to the marauding ‘snappers’ lurking above. Nevertheless, this was much lower that the 5:1 target posted by some Luftwaffe commanders at the outset of the campaign. Successes by Me 109 pilots were nowhere near enough to bring Fighter Command to its knees, let alone Churchill to the negotiating table. New Zealander John Mackenzie in a post-war analysis asked, ‘Now what was the measure of Germany’s achievement during the four months of almost continuous attack?’
They sank a number of ships, they damaged docks and airfields, they scored hits on military installations and factories, they destroyed thousands of homes, they killed and wounded thousands of innocent people. But what they failed to do was destroy the fighter squadrons of the Royal Air Force and the morale of the British people. This failure meant defeat, defeat of the proud Luftwaffe.[14]
The campaign hollowed out the Luftwaffe of some of its best airmen. The Germans lost a total of 2698 aircrew to Fighter Command’s 544.[15] The disparity is a reflection of the fact that Allied pilots were attacking multicrewed bombers as well as single-engine fighters, while the Luftwaffe pilots were for the most part assaulting single-crew Spitfires and Hurricanes, with a handful of two-man Defiants
thrown into the mix.[16] In other words, Death’s scythe simply had greater opportunities to take the lives of Luftwaffe crews than of RAF pilots. Göring’s force never recovered from the loss of so many experienced aviators. Initial German success in the invasion of Russia papered over the deficit, but in the years that followed the impact of the 1940 losses became increasingly apparent.
Antipodean Airmen
By all accounts, the men from New Zealand and Australia more than played their part in this achievement, though as with the general situation across Fighter Command, the actual knocking out of enemy machines was concentrated in the hands of only a few of ‘The Few’. Over the entire Battle of Britain, it is estimated that the greater bulk of the claims were made by a relatively small number of airmen in Fighter Command. By one estimate, about forty per cent of victories were attributable to only five per cent of the pilots.[17] The reasons for this are manifold. In some cases, urgent replacement pilots were quickly ushered from the battlefield soon after arrival either through injury or death at the hands of more experienced Luftwaffe airmen. Their names appear in the Battle’s lists, but their involvement ended prematurely. New Zealander Michael Shand, on only his second sortie, was knocked from the sky. He had never fired a Spitfire’s guns before being hit.
Many Anzacs also found themselves in the handful of Fighter Command squadrons equipped with Defiants or Blenheims and were therefore unlikely to amass impressive kill sheets. Defiant pilots and gunners had a better chance of being shot down themselves than of destroying an enemy machine. The youngest Anzac to die in the Battle of Britain was Kiwi Sergeant Lauritz Rasmussen. In September, only a week after sewing on his air-gunner’s badge, Rasmussen and his Defiant pilot in 264 Squadron were killed. He was only eighteen years old.